Review of The Hour of 13

. . . "London," where people are constantly knifed, bombed or run over on bridges, where mobs of terrorists wearing identical mustache-and-goatee masks love to stash explosives under the governing chambers, where people drive around in cut-off vans in order to lob mortar shells up at the Executive Row-house, where subway trains sometimes go off like strings of firecrackers, where detached celebrity noggins are traditionally left outside to rot on pikes, where plagues and fires frequently clean the collective house and where Crown Princes often are suspected of carving up the working gals of the Red Light Districts. Tabbed with keeping order here are washed-out golfers who retire to "Scotland Yard," augmented by the original inspiration for the hapless, hopeless Keystone Cops, nicknamed the "Bobby's." Since these sorry lots are totally ineffectual when it comes to both crime detection and crime prevention, altruistic outsiders such as Sherlock Holmes, Ms. Marple and that Belgian dude with the hard-to-spell name feel compelled to help keep a smidgen of order by solving a few of London's more notorious crimes during their Amateur Hours. THE HOUR OF 13's Nick Revel is just another sleuth goof running circles around the official authorities out of his sense of Civic Duty.