Selections by Pat Harrington
This week’s Culture Vulture brings together music, memory, and sharp cultural clashes. The standout is the BBC Two and BBC archive series looking at banned songs — with “More Dangerous Songs” and “Britain’s Most Dangerous Songs” reminding us that lyrics can threaten as much as speeches. Alongside that we have searching documentaries, striking dramas, and films that range from the raw power of Raging Bull to the provocation of Joker.
Saturday 27th September
9 Bodies in a Mexican Morgue – BBC One, 9:25 p.m.
The series opens with a stark tableau: nine corpses laid out in a morgue, each one a cipher in a locked-room mystery. It’s a grisly premise, but the storytelling leans into atmosphere rather than spectacle. The camera lingers on details—a scuffed shoe, a half-closed eye—as if inviting us to read the bodies like texts. There’s a quiet horror in the stillness, and a tension that builds not from gore but from the slow unravelling of motive and method.
As the investigation unfolds, the morgue becomes more than a setting—it’s a crucible for character. Detectives, pathologists, and grieving families converge, each bringing their own secrets and suspicions. The series resists easy binaries of good and evil, instead offering a mosaic of flawed humanity. We’re asked to consider not just who committed the crime, but why these particular lives ended here, together, in silence.
Stylistically, the show borrows from Nordic noir and Latin American crime drama, blending procedural grit with emotional depth. The pacing is deliberate, the dialogue sparse but loaded. There’s a sense that every word matters, every glance carries weight. It’s a show that trusts its audience to sit with discomfort and ambiguity—a rare thing in prime-time crime television.
More than a whodunnit, this is a meditation on justice and grief. The morgue, with its sterile lights and cold slabs, becomes a place of reckoning. And as the series progresses, we begin to see that the real mystery isn’t just who killed whom—but what kind of society allows these deaths to happen unnoticed, unclaimed, unresolved.
Banned in the 80s: Moments That Shook Music – BBC Two, 9:25 p.m.
The 1980s were more than synths and shoulder pads—they were a battleground for sound, censorship, and social change. This documentary revisits the decade not through its chart-toppers, but through the moments that rattled the establishment. From punk provocateurs to pop stars who dared to speak politically, the programme traces how music became a lightning rod for moral panic, media outrage, and institutional pushback. It’s not just a retrospective—it’s a reckoning.
Expect archival footage that crackles with tension: grainy news clips, protest marches, and the faces of artists who refused to soften their message. The documentary doesn’t flinch from controversy—it leans into it. Whether it’s Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s “Relax” being pulled from airwaves or the BBC’s uneasy relationship with political lyrics, we’re reminded that rebellion often comes wrapped in melody. These weren’t just songs—they were statements, and sometimes, threats.
What emerges is a portrait of a decade in flux. Thatcherism, AIDS activism, race relations, and youth identity all find their echo in the music of the time. The programme asks not just what was banned, but why—and who got to decide. It’s a study in cultural gatekeeping, where the line between protection and suppression blurs. And it invites us to consider whether today’s music landscape is freer—or simply more covert in its compromises.
For viewers who lived through the era, there’s nostalgia tinged with unease. For younger audiences, it’s a reminder that freedom of expression has always been contested terrain. The documentary doesn’t offer easy answers, but it does offer context—and in doing so, it restores urgency to songs that once shook the system. Drama, colour, and rebellion aren’t just aesthetic choices here—they’re the pulse of a decade that dared to sing what others feared to say.
More Dangerous Songs – BBC Two, 10:20 p.m.
Some songs don’t just chart—they challenge. This documentary revisits the tracks that provoked outrage, earned bans, and were branded “dangerous” by institutions that feared their reach. It’s a study in lyrical subversion, where melody meets menace—not through violence, but through ideas. Whether the subject was sex, race, war, or class, these songs dared to speak plainly in a world that preferred euphemism or silence.
The programme traces the origins of these provocations, spotlighting the artists who wrote them and the contexts that made them incendiary. We hear from musicians, critics, and cultural historians who unpack why certain lyrics triggered such disproportionate response. Often, the fear wasn’t of the song itself—but of the audience it might empower. Music becomes a proxy for deeper anxieties: about youth, dissent, and the shifting boundaries of public morality.
Archival footage and interviews reveal how censorship operated—not just through official bans, but through subtler forms of suppression. Radio blacklists, retail refusals, and moral campaigns shaped what could be heard and by whom. The documentary doesn’t just catalogue controversy—it interrogates it. Who decides what’s “dangerous”? And what does it say about a society when rhythm and rhyme are treated as threats?
Ultimately, this is a portrait of music as resistance. The songs profiled here didn’t just stir fear—they stirred thought. And in doing so, they expanded the cultural conversation. The clash between music and censorship may feel like a relic of the past, but the echoes are unmistakable. In an age of algorithmic gatekeeping and sanitized playlists, the question remains: are we still afraid of what music can say?
Britain’s Most Dangerous Songs – BBC Two, 11:20 p.m.
This quietly subversive documentary doesn’t shout—it listens. It listens to the lyrics that once rattled the BBC, the songs pulled from playlists not for profanity or violence, but for tone, timing, and perceived threat. From wartime melancholy to anti-establishment satire, the programme traces how British broadcasting shaped—and shrank—the cultural conversation. The bans weren’t always ideological. Sometimes they were bureaucratic, sometimes absurd. But they always revealed something about the anxieties of the age.
The ten tracks profiled span decades and genres, from George Formby’s cheeky double entendres to the Sex Pistols’ “God Save the Queen.” Each was deemed too provocative, too political, or simply too sad. Bing Crosby’s “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” was pulled for undermining morale. ABBA’s “Waterloo” vanished during the Gulf War. Even the Munchkins’ chirpy chorus from The Wizard of Oz was silenced. These weren’t just songs—they were emotional flashpoints, censored not for what they said, but for what they might stir.
Commentators like Paul Morley and Stuart Maconie offer insight with wit and restraint. They don’t romanticise rebellion, nor do they mock caution. Instead, they trace the contours of a cultural landscape where music was both mirror and provocation. The BBC’s decisions—often made behind closed doors—tell us as much about institutional fragility as they do about artistic intent. What’s striking is how many of these “dangerous” songs now seem tame. But that’s the point: danger is contextual, and censorship is always a reflection of power.
For viewers attuned to nuance, this is essential viewing. It’s not a parade of shock value—it’s a meditation on control, taste, and the quiet politics of broadcasting. In an age of algorithmic curation and soft suppression, the legacy of these bans feels newly relevant. What we silence, even gently, shapes what we hear. And what we hear shapes who we become.
Evil Does Not Exist (2023) – BBC Four, 10:05 p.m.
Ryūsuke Hamaguchi’s film opens not with dialogue, but with treetops—tracked slowly from below, as if the forest itself were watching. This is Mizubiki, a rural village near Tokyo, where time moves differently and silence is not emptiness but presence. The film follows Takumi, a widowed father and quiet jack-of-all-trades, whose life is shaped by rhythm: chopping wood, collecting water, caring for his daughter. Into this stillness comes disruption—a glamping development pitched by urban outsiders with glossy brochures and septic tanks too small for the land they hope to occupy.
What unfolds is not a battle, but a slow unravelling. Hamaguchi resists the usual tropes of ecological drama. There are no villains in suits, no triumphant protests. Instead, we get a community meeting where concern is voiced with civility and fatigue. The developers—Takahashi and Mayuzumi—are not caricatures but people, themselves disillusioned by the corporate machinery they serve. Their awkward charm and shifting loyalties add texture to a story that refuses easy binaries. The title, Evil Does Not Exist, is not a declaration—it’s a dare. It asks us to look closer, to see how harm can emerge from good intentions, and how complicity often wears a smile.
The film’s power lies in its restraint. Hamaguchi’s camera lingers on gestures, pauses, and the quiet ache of things unsaid. Composer Eiko Ishibashi’s score, sparse and haunting, deepens the sense of unease. There’s a moment where Takumi explains how a wounded deer might attack—not out of malice, but desperation. It’s a metaphor that hangs over the film, echoing through its final, ambiguous act. The forest is not just backdrop—it’s witness, and perhaps judge.
For viewers attuned to narrative subtlety and moral complexity, this is essential viewing. It’s a film that trusts its audience to sit with discomfort, to resist resolution, and to consider what it means to live ethically in a world where motives blur. Hamaguchi doesn’t offer answers—he offers space. And in that space, nature, economy, and morality collide—not with spectacle, but with quiet force.
Joker (2019) – ITV1, 9:00 p.m. 🌟
Todd Phillips’ Joker is not a comic book film—it’s a character study wrapped in grime and grief. Gotham here is no playground for capes and crusaders; it’s a city in decline, where public services collapse, civility erodes, and the vulnerable are left to rot. Joaquin Phoenix’s Arthur Fleck is one such casualty—a failed clown, a failed comic, and a man whose laughter is a medical condition rather than a punchline. His descent is not sudden—it’s slow, painful, and disturbingly plausible.
Phoenix’s performance is the film’s centre of gravity. His body contorts with anguish, his face flickers between hope and horror, and his laughter—piercing, involuntary—becomes a kind of scream. Arthur is not a hero, nor is he simply a villain. He’s a mirror held up to a society that mocks the marginalised and then recoils when they retaliate. The film doesn’t ask us to excuse his violence, but it does ask us to understand the silence that preceded it. That’s a harder ask—and a more troubling one.
Stylistically, Joker borrows heavily from Scorsese’s Taxi Driver and The King of Comedy, and it wears those influences openly. The city is shot in jaundiced tones, the interiors are claustrophobic, and the television studio becomes a stage for both fantasy and reckoning. Robert De Niro’s presence as talk-show host Murray Franklin is no accident—it’s a nod to cinematic lineage, but also a reminder of how fame and cruelty often share a stage. Arthur’s final transformation is theatrical, grotesque, and eerily quiet. The Joker is born not with a bang, but with a bow.
For viewers attuned to social commentary and narrative discomfort, Joker is essential viewing. It doesn’t offer catharsis—it offers confrontation. The film has been accused of courting chaos, but its real provocation lies in its empathy. It asks what happens when the systems meant to protect us fail, and what stories we tell to justify the fallout. In a culture that often prefers spectacle to substance, Joker dares to linger in the shadows—and it’s in those shadows that the real questions live.
Oasis: Supersonic (2016) – Channel 4, 11:35 p.m.
The Gallagher brothers in full swagger and strife. This documentary captures the rise of Britpop’s loudest voices. Nostalgia, bravado, and chaos in equal measure.
Sunday 28th September
Eva Longoria Searching for Spain – BBC Two, 9:00 p.m.
The opening episode explores Barcelona and Catalonia. Food, politics, and identity blend as Longoria journeys through a divided land. A glossy but still probing travelogue.
Oak Tree: Nature’s Greatest Survivor – BBC Four, 8:30 p.m.
An old oak becomes the star. Its resilience tells a bigger story about ecosystems and history. Quiet, meditative, and strangely moving.
The Mary Whitehouse Story, Part One – BBC Four, 10:00 p.m.
This first instalment of the BBC’s two-part documentary doesn’t ask viewers to like Mary Whitehouse—it asks them to look again. Often reduced to a punchline or a footnote in liberal retrospectives, Whitehouse is reintroduced here not as a relic, but as a force: a Midlands housewife turned national campaigner who, armed with a typewriter and conviction, took on the BBC, the sexual revolution, and what she saw as the moral collapse of British public life. The programme doesn’t flatter, but it doesn’t sneer either. It’s a study in influence, contradiction, and the quiet power of persistence.
Drawing on a vast archive housed at the University of Essex, the documentary traces Whitehouse’s rise from schoolteacher to media scourge. Her campaigns against pornography, permissive programming, and what she called “moral pollution” were often mocked, but they landed. She forced debates in Parliament, rattled broadcasters, and shaped the language of decency for decades. Contributors range from cultural commentators to those who opposed her directly—activists, artists, and even a millionaire pornographer. The result is a portrait not of a saint or a villain, but of a woman who made Britain talk about what it was willing to tolerate.
What’s striking is how contemporary the tensions feel. In an age of polarised speech and algorithmic outrage, Whitehouse’s battles over content, consent, and cultural responsibility echo with new urgency. The documentary doesn’t endorse her views—many are deeply out of step with today’s norms—but it does ask whether the questions she raised have ever truly gone away. What is the role of public broadcasting? Who decides what’s harmful? And how do we balance freedom with responsibility in a media landscape that never sleeps?
For viewers attuned to nuance and historical texture, this is essential viewing. It’s not a rehabilitation—it’s a reckoning. Whitehouse remains controversial, often derided, but undeniably influential. And in peeling back the caricature, the documentary invites us to consider what it means to shape culture not through charisma or capital, but through sheer, unrelenting conviction. Whether you agree with her or not, Mary Whitehouse changed the conversation. This first part reminds us how—and why—it still matters.
The Mary Whitehouse Story, Part Two – BBC Four, 11:00 p.m.
If Part One reintroduced Mary Whitehouse as a force of conviction, Part Two explores the ripple effects—intended and otherwise—of her long campaign to reshape British broadcasting. This chapter moves beyond the caricature of the “moral crusader” and into the realm of legacy: how one woman’s relentless pursuit of decency left its mark not just on television schedules, but on the cultural psyche of a nation. Whether you see her as a prophet or a prude, the documentary makes clear—Whitehouse changed the conversation.
The episode traces her later years, when her influence reached the corridors of power. Her relationship with Margaret Thatcher is explored with nuance, revealing how moral conservatism and political pragmatism often found common ground. Whitehouse’s crusade against pornography and “video nasties” gained traction just as home video exploded, and her warnings—once dismissed as alarmist—began to resonate with policymakers. Yet the documentary is careful to show how her victories were often pyrrhic. The media evolved faster than her campaigns could contain it, and the internet would ultimately render her vision obsolete.
What’s most compelling is the study of unintended consequence. Whitehouse’s insistence on moral boundaries arguably helped shape the regulatory frameworks that still govern British broadcasting. But it also galvanised a generation of artists, activists, and broadcasters who saw her as the embodiment of repression. The programme includes voices from both camps—those who admired her courage, and those who felt silenced by her success. The result is not a eulogy, but a reckoning: a portrait of influence that is neither wholly triumphant nor wholly tragic.
Sweet Charity (1969) – BBC Two, 12:00 p.m.
Bob Fosse’s Sweet Charity is a musical that dances on the edge of heartbreak. Adapted from the Broadway show and rooted in Fellini’s Nights of Cabiria, it trades Rome for New York and tragedy for choreography—but the ache remains. Shirley MacLaine plays Charity Hope Valentine, a taxi dancer with a bruised heart and boundless optimism. She sparkles, yes, but it’s the kind of sparkle that flickers against the dark. Her performance is all vulnerability and verve, a woman who keeps getting knocked down and keeps choosing to believe.
The film opens with betrayal—Charity’s boyfriend robs her and pushes her into a fountain—and never quite lets her recover. She moves through the city’s neon haze, from the sleazy Fandango Ballroom to the penthouse of a movie star, always hoping for something better. The musical numbers are iconic: “Big Spender” is all grit and grind, “If My Friends Could See Me Now” is pure fantasy, and “There’s Got to Be Something Better Than This” becomes a rooftop manifesto. Fosse’s choreography is angular, ironic, and deeply expressive. It’s movement as character, and it never lets us forget the tension between performance and pain.
What sets Sweet Charity apart is its refusal to offer resolution. Charity doesn’t find love, doesn’t escape her job, doesn’t get her happy ending. Instead, she walks off into the park, alone but undiminished. It’s a radical choice for a musical—a genre that so often trades in triumph. Fosse’s direction leans into ambiguity, and MacLaine carries it with grace. Her Charity is not naïve—she’s resilient. And that resilience, in a world that keeps telling her she’s disposable, becomes quietly revolutionary.
Close (2022) – BBC Two, 1:20 a.m.
Lukas Dhont’s Close is a film of silences, glances, and the kind of heartbreak that arrives without warning. Set in rural Belgium, it follows Léo and Rémi, two thirteen-year-old boys whose friendship is so intimate, so unguarded, that others begin to question it. What begins as a portrait of joy—shared beds, whispered jokes, afternoons among flowers—slowly fractures under the weight of social scrutiny
Monday 29th September
Blue Lights – BBC One, 9:00 p.m.
Now in its third season, Blue Lights returns with sharpened focus and deeper emotional stakes. Set in post-conflict Belfast, the series follows response officers Grace, Annie, and Tommy—no longer rookies, but not yet hardened. Two years into the job, they’ve learned the rhythms of the city’s streets, but the moral compromises are mounting. This isn’t a show about heroics—it’s about the quiet toll of service, the weight of decisions made under pressure, and the blurred line between duty and damage.
The writing, from former journalists Declan Lawn and Adam Patterson, remains grounded in lived experience. Their research—months spent speaking with PSNI officers—infuses the drama with authenticity. This season shifts its lens toward middle-class complicity: accountants, lawyers, and professionals who facilitate organised crime behind polished doors. The old criminal order has fractured, and a new globalised network is taking root. The danger is no longer just in alleyways—it’s in boardrooms, private clubs, and quiet suburbs. The officers are forced to navigate not just violence, but veneer.
What elevates Blue Lights is its refusal to flatten character. Grace (Siân Brooke) carries trauma with quiet grace; Tommy (Nathan Braniff) remains idealistic but increasingly frayed; Annie (Katherine Devlin) balances grit with vulnerability. Their relationships—professional, personal, and strained—are drawn with care. The show doesn’t indulge in procedural spectacle. Instead, it lingers on aftermath: the paperwork, the sleepless nights, the missed calls. It’s a drama that understands that the real cost of policing isn’t just physical—it’s emotional, psychological, and cumulative.
Secrets of the Brain – BBC Two, 9:00 p.m.
The first of two parts digs into how our minds work. Scientists, patients, and stories that unsettle. A reminder of how fragile and complex the brain is.
The Orson Welles Story – BBC Four, 10:00 p.m.
The boy genius of cinema, restless and brilliant. This documentary pulls together clips and memories to map a career of brilliance and exile. A portrait as grand as the man himself.
Raging Bull (1980) – BBC Two, 11:00 p.m. 🌟
Martin Scorsese’s Raging Bull is not a boxing film—it’s a character study carved in sweat, blood, and silence. Shot in stark black and white, it follows Jake LaMotta, a middleweight champion whose rage fuels his rise in the ring and ruins everything outside it. Robert De Niro’s performance is transformative—not just physically, though he famously gained 60 pounds to portray LaMotta’s decline—but emotionally, spiritually. His Jake is ferocious, paranoid, and heartbreakingly human. The punches land, but it’s the pauses between them that bruise deepest.
The fight scenes are choreographed like rituals—stylised, claustrophobic, and almost surreal. Scorsese’s camera doesn’t just observe; it invades. We see the ring from above, below, inside the fighter’s skull. Sound design layers grunts, screams, and animalistic echoes, turning each bout into a kind of exorcism. But the real violence happens at home. Jake’s jealousy corrodes his marriage to Vickie (Cathy Moriarty), poisons his bond with brother Joey (Joe Pesci), and isolates him from the world he’s trying to conquer. The ring offers rules. Life does not.
What makes Raging Bull endure is its refusal to flatter. LaMotta is not redeemed, not softened, not explained. He’s a man who mistakes punishment for proof, who seeks validation through domination, and who ends up alone—rehearsing lines in a mirror, trying to convince himself he was somebody. The film’s final scenes, quiet and devastating, show a man who has lost everything but his pride. “You never knocked me down, Ray,” he says after a brutal loss. It’s not triumph—it’s survival.
For viewers attuned to emotional complexity and cinematic craft, Raging Bull remains essential. It’s a film about masculinity, self-destruction, and the cost of myth-making. Scorsese doesn’t offer catharsis—he offers confrontation. And in De Niro’s haunted eyes, we see not just a boxer, but a man who mistook pain for purpose. Brutal in the ring, tragic outside it—LaMotta’s story is a cautionary tale, and Raging Bull is its unforgettable telling.
Tuesday 30th September
The Old Man and the Gun (2018) – Film4, 7:30 p.m.
The Old Man and the Gun is essential viewing. It’s a true-crime tale, yes, but one that trades tension for tenderness. Redford doesn’t rage against the dying of the light—he smiles, tips his hat, and walks off with quiet dignity. With his recent passing at 89, that final walk now feels like a farewell not just to a character, but to a cinematic era. Redford will be missed—not only for the roles he inhabited, but for the integrity, restraint, and quiet charisma he brought to each one. This film, announced as his last, now stands as a gentle coda to a career that shaped generations. In a landscape often obsessed with noise, Redford reminded us that grace leaves the deepest impression.
Wednesday 1st November
The Burnt Orange Heresy (2019) – Channel 4, 1:25 a.m.
Giuseppe Capotondi’s The Burnt Orange Heresy is a sleek, sun-drenched thriller that trades bloodshed for manipulation and bullets for brushstrokes. Set against the opulence of Lake Como, it follows James Figueras (Claes Bang), a charismatic but compromised art critic whose hunger for relevance leads him into a web of deceit. He’s hired by the enigmatic Joseph Cassidy (Mick Jagger, all silk and menace) to steal a painting from reclusive artist Jerome Debney (Donald Sutherland). What begins as a professional opportunity quickly curdles into moral collapse.
The film is less concerned with the heist than with the psychology behind it. Figueras is a man who weaponises interpretation—he doesn’t just critique art, he rewrites its meaning to suit his ambitions. Elizabeth Debicki’s Berenice, a tourist with emotional depth and quiet integrity, becomes both witness and casualty to his unraveling. Their relationship is charged but fragile, built on charm and half-truths. Debicki plays her with luminous restraint, a woman drawn to beauty but repelled by its commodification. Her presence anchors the film’s emotional core.
Capotondi directs with cool precision, allowing the tension to simmer beneath polished surfaces. The villa’s marble floors, the curated lighting, the slow pour of wine—all become part of the performance. The dialogue is sharp, often elliptical, and the silences speak louder than the schemes. Jagger’s Cassidy is a standout: a collector who understands that power lies not in possession, but in perception. His scenes crackle with a kind of decadent threat, reminding us that in the art world, charm is often a mask for control.
What makes The Burnt Orange Heresy compelling is its refusal to moralise. It doesn’t ask us to pity Figueras or condemn him—it simply shows the cost of his choices. The theft, when it comes, is almost incidental. The real crime is the erasure of truth, the manipulation of narrative, the betrayal of intimacy. Debney, the artist at the centre of it all, is a ghost of integrity, a man who paints nothing because everything has already been corrupted. His final act—quiet, devastating—reframes the entire film.
For viewers attuned to narrative restraint and cultural critique, this is essential viewing. It’s a film about art, yes, but also about the stories we tell to justify ambition, and the people we sacrifice along the way. Sleek and cynical, it lingers not because of its twists, but because of its textures—emotional, aesthetic, and moral. In a world where meaning is up for sale, The Burnt Orange Heresy asks what’s left when the canvas is blank and the critic has nothing left to spin.
Thursday 2nd November
Lucy Worsley Investigates: The Witch Hunts – BBC Two, 9:00 p.m.
Worsley brings empathy and detail to a dark chapter. Trials and superstition destroyed lives. A reminder of cruelty in the name of belief.
This Cultural Life: Gillian Anderson – BBC Four, 10:30 p.m.
The actor reflects on her career and craft. Anderson’s choices show courage and range. An hour of insight and charm.
Viceroy’s House – BBC Four, 11:00 p.m.
Gurinder Chadha’s Viceroy’s House opens not with revolution, but with ritual. The grand Delhi residence—built to project imperial permanence—becomes the stage for Britain’s final act in India. Lord Mountbatten (Hugh Bonneville), appointed as the last Viceroy, arrives with his wife Edwina (Gillian Anderson) and daughter Pamela, tasked with overseeing the transition to independence. But the film is less about policy than proximity. Upstairs, the colonial elite negotiate the future of a continent; downstairs, the Indian staff navigate their own loyalties, fears, and hopes. The building itself becomes a metaphor—ornate, imposing, and increasingly hollow.
Chadha’s direction balances intimacy with scale. The personal story of Jeet (Manish Dayal), a Hindu valet, and Alia (Huma Qureshi), a Muslim interpreter, threads through the political drama, offering a human counterpoint to the high-stakes diplomacy. Their romance—tentative, forbidden, and ultimately tragic—mirrors the partition itself: a bond torn apart by lines drawn on maps. The film doesn’t shy away from the violence that followed independence, but it frames it through emotional consequence rather than spectacle. The heartbreak is quiet, cumulative, and deeply felt.
What distinguishes Viceroy’s House is its insistence on architecture as witness. The residence, designed by Lutyens to embody imperial grandeur, becomes a mausoleum of fading power. Its corridors echo with decisions made behind closed doors—some noble, some cynical. Chadha, drawing on her own family history, interrogates the myth of benevolent withdrawal. The film suggests that partition was not just a hurried compromise, but a calculated act with devastating consequences. The elegance of the setting only sharpens the tragedy.
For viewers attuned to historical nuance and emotional texture, Viceroy’s House is essential viewing. It’s not a documentary, nor is it pure melodrama—it’s a reckoning. The film asks what legacy means when built on borrowed land, and how memory survives when nations are split. In the end, the house remains, but the people move on—some to freedom, some to exile, all changed. And in that quiet shift, Chadha finds her most powerful image: a building that once ruled, now watching history unfold from the margins.
Till (2022) – BBC Two, 11:00 p.m.
A film retelling the tragic lynching of Emmett Till. Danielle Deadwyler’s performance is searing. Anger and sorrow shaped into cinema.
Friday 3rd November
Borderline – BBC One, 9:00 p.m.
The opening episode of Borderline sets its tone with quiet urgency. A body is found on the beach straddling the Irish border, forcing two detectives—Philip Boyd from the PSNI and Aoife Regan from the Garda Síochána—into an uneasy partnership. Their jurisdictions clash, their methods diverge, and their personal histories simmer beneath the surface. What begins as a procedural quickly deepens into a study of character and compromise. The border isn’t just geographical—it’s emotional, political, and deeply personal.
Written by John Forte and directed by Robert Quinn, the series is taut without being frantic. The dialogue is sharp, often elliptical, and the silences carry weight. Boyd (Eoin Macken) is haunted, methodical, and quietly volatile; Regan (Amy De Bhrún) is incisive, guarded, and unafraid to challenge institutional inertia. Their dynamic is not built on banter but on friction—productive, uncomfortable, and often revealing. The supporting cast, including Ivy Brereton and Paul Reid, adds texture to a world where loyalty is tested and truth is rarely clean.
Visually, Borderline leans into atmosphere. The landscapes of County Louth—windswept, watchful, and eerily still—frame the drama with a sense of unresolved history. The border itself becomes a character: a line drawn by politics, lived through trauma, and now patrolled by people trying to make sense of what justice looks like in a fractured space. The series doesn’t indulge in nostalgia or melodrama. Instead, it asks what it means to collaborate across difference, and what gets lost in the process.
How Are You? It’s Alan Partridge – BBC One, 9:30 p.m.
Alan Partridge returns, not with a bang but with a question—one that’s both sincere and spectacularly misjudged. How Are You? is framed as a six-part documentary on Britain’s mental health crisis, but it quickly becomes a portrait of one man’s flailing attempt to understand his own emotional landscape. After a year in Saudi Arabia (a detail mined for both absurdity and accidental insight), Alan is back in Norwich and feeling… off. The happiness he expected hasn’t arrived. Something’s missing. And so begins his journey—part investigation, part ego trip, part accidental therapy.
Steve Coogan, as ever, plays Partridge with surgical precision. The awkwardness is weaponised, the self-importance dialled to eleven, and the sincerity always just slightly out of sync. Alan’s attempts to “connect” with the nation’s mental health struggles are both cringeworthy and oddly touching. He interviews experts, visits wellness retreats, and offers his own theories—most of which involve dubious metaphors and a fondness for outdated statistics. But beneath the bluster is a man genuinely trying to understand why he feels incomplete. The comedy works because it never loses sight of that kernel of truth.
What elevates this series is its willingness to let the satire breathe. The mental health angle isn’t just a backdrop—it’s the emotional engine. Alan’s discomfort with vulnerability, his need to perform empathy, and his inability to sit with silence all mirror broader societal tensions. We live in a culture that demands wellness but punishes weakness, that promotes openness but recoils from mess. Partridge, in his own misguided way, becomes a mirror—not of how to heal, but of how we often fail to even begin. The show doesn’t mock mental health—it mocks the commodification of it, the branding, the shallow gestures.
How Are You? is a comedy that understands the power of restraint, the absurdity of some self-help culture, and the quiet tragedy of a man who wants to be loved but doesn’t know how. Coogan and the Gibbons brothers have crafted something that’s more than cringe—it’s commentary. And in Alan’s fumbling attempts to ask “How are you?” we hear the echo of a nation still struggling to answer.
Rye Lane (2023) – BBC Two, 9:00 p.m. 🌟
Raine Allen-Miller’s Rye Lane is a rom-com that doesn’t just take place in South London—it pulses with it. From the opening scenes in a gender-neutral toilet at a Brixton art show to the winding paths of Rye Lane Market, the film is rooted in the textures, rhythms, and eccentricities of a city that rarely gets to play itself on screen. For those of us who grew up in South London (in my case Kennington), the sight of Brixton and Peckham rendered with such affection and flair feels like a homecoming. These aren’t backdrops—they’re characters, alive with colour, sound, and memory.
The story follows Yas (Vivian Oparah) and Dom (David Jonsson), two twenty-somethings nursing breakups and stumbling into connection over the course of a single day. Their chemistry is immediate but never forced—built on banter, vulnerability, and a shared willingness to be ridiculous. Whether stealing back a vinyl from an ex’s flat or singing “Shoop” at a karaoke bar, their journey is both surreal and grounded. The writing by Nathan Bryon and Tom Melia is sharp, funny, and emotionally honest, capturing the awkwardness of modern dating without cynicism.
Visually, the film is a joy. Olan Collardy’s cinematography turns everyday spaces into dreamscapes—barbershops, chicken shops, and parks are lit with warmth and wit. The camera moves with purpose, often playful, sometimes poetic. Allen-Miller’s direction is confident and generous, allowing South London to shine without smoothing its edges. There are nods to local culture, inside jokes for those who know the streets, and a sense of pride that never tips into parody. It’s a film that knows where it is and why that matters.
Rye Lane is a rom-com, yes, but also a love letter—to a city, to spontaneity, and to the possibility of joy after heartbreak. Seeing Brixton and Peckham on screen, not as shorthand for grit but as spaces of connection and creativity, is quietly radical. And for those of us who’ve walked those pavements, it’s a reminder that stories worth telling are often just around the corner.
Total Recall (1990) – 5Action, 9:00 p.m.
Paul Verhoeven’s Total Recall is a film that never quite tells you what’s real—and that’s its genius. Based on Philip K. Dick’s short story We Can Remember It for You Wholesale, it follows Douglas Quaid (Arnold Schwarzenegger), a construction worker plagued by dreams of Mars and a woman he’s never met. When he visits Rekall, a company that implants artificial memories, things spiral. Is Quaid a sleeper agent rediscovering his past—or just a man trapped in a fantasy he paid for? The film never confirms either, and that ambiguity is its most enduring provocation.
Schwarzenegger, at the height of his physical dominance, plays Quaid with surprising vulnerability. Yes, there are explosions, mutants, and one-liners, but beneath the bravado is a man questioning his own identity. The violence is stylised, often grotesque, and Verhoeven leans into excess with relish. Mars is rendered as a brutal colony, ruled by corporate tyrant Vilos Cohaagen (Ronny Cox), where oxygen is currency and rebellion simmers beneath irradiated soil. The film’s politics—corporate control, environmental degradation, and the commodification of memory—feel eerily prescient.
Visually, Total Recall is a triumph of practical effects. From the three-breasted prostitute to the grotesque reveal of Kuato, the film revels in body horror and surreal design. Jerry Goldsmith’s score adds operatic weight, and the production—filmed on sprawling sets in Mexico City—feels tactile in a way modern CGI rarely achieves. Sharon Stone, as Quaid’s duplicitous wife Lori, delivers menace with poise, while Rachel Ticotin’s Melina offers grit and emotional ballast. The cast is uniformly strong, but it’s the tone—paranoid, pulpy, and philosophically charged—that makes the film linger.
For viewers attuned to narrative complexity and speculative provocation, Total Recall remains essential viewing. It’s a film that asks what happens when memory becomes merchandise, and whether identity can survive manipulation. Verhoeven doesn’t offer answers—he offers spectacle laced with subtext. And in Schwarzenegger’s confused, defiant gaze, we glimpse something rare: a blockbuster that dares to be uncertain. Big muscles, yes—but even bigger ideas.
Once Upon a Time in Hollywood (2019) – Film4, 11:10 p.m.
Quentin Tarantino’s ninth feature is less a narrative than a mood—an elegy wrapped in sunshine and swagger. Once Upon a Time in Hollywood reimagines 1969 Los Angeles as both playground and graveyard, where the golden age of film is slipping into something darker, stranger, and more fragmented. Leonardo DiCaprio plays Rick Dalton, a fading TV actor clinging to relevance, while Brad Pitt’s Cliff Booth—his stunt double, driver, and emotional ballast—moves through the city with quiet menace and magnetic ease. Their friendship is the film’s emotional core: two men out of time, bound by loyalty and the slow erosion of purpose.
Tarantino’s affection for the era is palpable. Every frame is steeped in detail—radio jingles, neon signage, vintage cars, and the hum of a city on the cusp of cultural rupture. Margot Robbie’s Sharon Tate floats through the film like a symbol of innocence, her scenes rendered with tenderness rather than irony. The spectre of the Manson murders looms, but Tarantino rewrites history with a kind of wishful violence—brutal, cathartic, and deliberately jarring. It’s not realism; it’s revisionism, and it asks what stories we tell to soothe the ache of what was lost.
DiCaprio gives one of his most vulnerable performances—Rick is vain, insecure, and painfully aware of his own decline. A scene in a trailer, where he berates himself for forgetting lines, is both comic and quietly devastating. Pitt, meanwhile, plays Cliff with laconic charm and a hint of danger. He’s a man who’s seen too much and says too little. Their scenes together—driving, drinking, watching TV—are filled with the kind of intimacy that rarely makes it to screen. It’s male friendship without bravado, built on shared failure and unspoken care.
For viewers attuned to narrative texture and cultural reflection, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood is essential viewing. It’s a film about endings—of careers, of eras, of illusions—and the strange beauty that lingers in their wake. Tarantino doesn’t just celebrate Hollywood’s past; he mourns it, reshapes it, and asks us to consider what might have been. Nostalgia and menace swirl together in sun-drenched frames, and in the final moments, the fairy tale flickers into something almost tender. It’s a love letter, yes—but one written in fading ink.
Alan Partridge: Alpha Papa (2013) – BBC One, 12:40 a.m.
Alan Partridge’s big-screen debut finds the radio host in unfamiliar territory: a hostage crisis. When North Norfolk Digital is taken over by a media conglomerate and long-time DJ Pat Farrell (Colm Meaney) is sacked, he responds with a shotgun and a siege. Alan, ever the opportunist, is roped in as negotiator—not because he’s qualified, but because he’s available. What follows is a comedy of errors, ego, and accidental heroism, with Steve Coogan delivering a performance that’s both ridiculous and oddly poignant.
The film, directed by Declan Lowney and co-written by Coogan and the Gibbons brothers, balances action and satire with surprising finesse. It never loses sight of Alan’s essential awkwardness—his need to be liked, his fear of irrelevance, and his instinct to self-preserve at all costs. Whether losing his trousers while trying to re-enter the building or hijacking a live broadcast to boost his profile, Alan remains true to form: craven, deluded, and somehow still endearing. The siege becomes less about danger and more about exposure—Alan finally has a national platform, and he’s determined to misuse it.
What makes Alpha Papa work is its refusal to inflate Alan into something he’s not. He doesn’t become a hero, just a man who stumbles through chaos with a microphone and a misplaced sense of importance. The supporting cast—Meaney’s wounded Pat, Tim Key’s Sidekick Simon, and Felicity Montagu’s long-suffering Lynn—ground the farce with emotional texture. There are moments of real tension, but they’re always undercut by Alan’s inability to read the room. The film understands that comedy doesn’t need to sacrifice character—and that action, when filtered through Partridge’s lens, becomes a kind of tragicomedy.
Streaming Choices
Netflix – Genie, Make a Wish (3rd October)
A fantasy rom-com with teeth, this Korean drama pairs Bae Suzy’s emotionally guarded Ka-young with Kim Woo-bin’s devilish genie, Iblis—awakened after a thousand-year slumber and ready to grant three wishes. But Ka-young isn’t interested in magic or miracles, and their dynamic becomes a battle of wills, wit, and buried trauma. The show blends whimsy with darker undercurrents: sibling rivalries, supernatural politics, and a village full of secrets. Writer Kim Eun-sook crafts a world that’s playful but pointed, asking whether wishes reveal character or corrupt it. Expect charm, chaos, and a slow-burn romance that’s more philosophical than saccharine.
Netflix – Steve (3rd October)
Cillian Murphy leads this adaptation of Max Porter’s Shy, now reimagined through the eyes of a reform school headteacher. Set in mid-’90s England, Steve is a pressure-cooker drama about institutional collapse, adolescent rage, and the quiet heroism of under-resourced educators. Murphy’s performance is raw and magnetic, supported by Tracey Ullman and Little Simz in a cast that feels lived-in and urgent. The film doesn’t flinch from systemic failure—school closures, mental health strain, and the emotional toll of care work. It’s a study in compassion under siege, and a rare portrait of masculinity that allows for fragility without sentimentality.
Channel 4 Streaming – Walter Presents: Bardot (3rd October)
This French biopic series dives into the myth and reality of Brigitte Bardot, tracing her rise from ingénue to icon. Expect glamour, scandal, and the uneasy politics of fame. Bardot’s image—sexualised, commodified, and fiercely defended—becomes a lens through which the series explores post-war France, gendered power, and the cost of cultural obsession. The Walter Presents curation ensures high production values and narrative depth, with period detail that’s evocative but never indulgent. For viewers drawn to character studies and media critique, this is more than nostalgia—it’s a reckoning with the machinery of celebrity.
Prime Video – Play Dirty (1st October)
Mark Wahlberg stars as Parker, an old-school thief navigating a brutal heist in Shane Black’s gritty thriller. Based on Donald E. Westlake’s novels, the film trades gadgetry for psychology—Parker doesn’t slide down buildings, he dismantles people. LaKeith Stanfield and Rosa Salazar round out a crew caught between the New York mob, a South American dictator, and a billionaire with secrets. Black’s direction is lean and cynical, with dialogue that crackles and violence that bruises. It’s a caper with conscience, asking what loyalty means when everyone’s playing dirty. Expect noir-inflected tension and a protagonist who solves problems like a plumber—with precision, not pity.
Apple TV+ – The Lost Bus (3rd October)
Paul Greengrass directs this harrowing survival drama based on the 2018 Camp Fire in California. Matthew McConaughey plays a school bus driver thrust into heroism as he and a teacher (America Ferrera) fight to save 22 children from a raging wildfire. The film is visceral, emotionally charged, and grounded in real events. Greengrass’s signature shaky-cam realism captures both the chaos and the quiet courage of ordinary people facing impossible odds. It’s not just a disaster film—it’s a meditation on responsibility, trauma, and the fragile systems we rely on. A white-knuckle ride with a beating heart, and one of Apple’s most affecting originals to date.
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