Archive for Film & DVD Reviews

Culture Vulture: Best TV, Films and Streaming for 17–23 October 2026

St Fagans National Museum of History , Cardiff ,Wales, UK 27 Oct 2024 : Visitor Message board to the Aberfan Disaster 1966

Sixty years ago, on the morning of 21 October 1966, disaster struck the Welsh mining village of Aberfan. A huge mass of coal waste, saturated by heavy rain, collapsed and surged down the mountainside, engulfing houses and Pantglas Junior School. By the time the rescue operations were over, 144 people had died, including 116 children.

It remains one of the most heartbreaking tragedies in modern British history. The children had barely begun their final day of school before the half-term holiday. Many never came home.

Yet what makes Aberfan particularly disturbing is that this was not simply an unavoidable natural disaster. The spoil tips above the village had been allowed to grow despite longstanding concerns about their stability. Watercourses beneath the waste made the location especially dangerous. The National Coal Board had failed in its responsibilities, and the subsequent tribunal exposed a catalogue of negligence.

The grief was compounded by what followed. Families who had suffered unimaginable losses found themselves confronting an establishment reluctant to accept responsibility and, at times, more concerned with protecting institutions than helping those they had failed. Even the question of removing the remaining dangerous tips became another battle.

This week’s television commemorations are particularly important. Aberfan: The Village That Fought Back (BBC Two, Monday, 9pm) examines the community’s fight for justice and the resistance it encountered. Meanwhile, Alex Jones: Un Diwrnod yn Aberfan (BBC iPlayer, from Sunday) offers another opportunity to remember the lives lost and the people left behind.

For me, Aberfan is also a story about class and power. It raises questions about whose warnings are heard, whose lives are valued and what happens when institutions become more concerned with defending themselves than acknowledging their mistakes. Those questions have certainly not disappeared in the intervening sixty years.

This is our principal recommendation of the week. These programmes deserve to be watched, discussed and remembered.

There are two other highlights I would particularly recommend.

The first is The Day the Earth Stood Still (Talking Pictures, Saturday, 4pm). This 1951 science-fiction classic is one of my favourite films. Its message about the dangers of militarism and humanity’s capacity for self-destruction is just as relevant now as it was during the early Cold War. There was a remake in 2008, which I actually rather like, but the original remains comfortably superior. Sometimes the simplest approach is also the most powerful.

Our third highlight is Thursday’s Mercury Prize: Album of the Year (BBC Four, 9.30pm). In an age dominated by streaming playlists and individual tracks, it might seem strange to celebrate the album as a distinct artistic achievement. Yet the album remains alive and well. It allows musicians to develop ideas, establish moods and tell stories in ways that individual songs often cannot. This year’s ceremony, featuring performances by some of the most interesting names in British music, promises to be more of a miniature festival than a conventional awards show.

Elsewhere, Stacey Dooley appears to be taking over the television schedules. Every time I look through the listings, there she is again. Fortunately, she’s very good at what she does, and her documentaries continue to investigate worthwhile and sometimes uncomfortable subjects.

We’re also particularly pleased to see another Storyville documentary. Regular readers will know how much we value this strand, which consistently introduces British audiences to films that might otherwise struggle to find a place on mainstream television.

Among the films, there’s everything from Hitchcock and Agnès Varda to Edgar Wright, a little political satire, some classic horror and several powerful examinations of injustice.

Plenty to enjoy, and plenty to think about.

Saturday 17 October

North by Northwest (1959) — BBC Two, 2.15pm

Alfred Hitchcock’s magnificent espionage thriller stars Cary Grant as Roger Thornhill, an advertising executive mistaken for a secret agent and pursued across America by people who want him dead.

The film combines mistaken identity, romantic intrigue and spectacular set pieces, including the famous crop-duster sequence and the climactic confrontation on Mount Rushmore.

Grant is perfectly cast as the sophisticated innocent whose comfortable existence is turned upside down. Eva Marie Saint provides an intriguing romantic foil, while James Mason is wonderfully sinister.

Hitchcock was a master of suspense, but what makes this film so enjoyable is its elegance and humour. More than sixty years later, it remains a model of popular filmmaking.

The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951) — Talking Pictures TV, 4pm

One of my favourite science-fiction films, and one whose message about peace seems especially appropriate for our troubled times.

Directed by Robert Wise, the story begins when a flying saucer lands in Washington and an extraterrestrial visitor, Klaatu, emerges accompanied by an imposing robot called Gort.

Klaatu has come with a warning. Humanity’s development of increasingly destructive weapons threatens not just Earth but potentially the wider universe. Unless human beings learn to control their aggression, consequences will follow.

Michael Rennie’s restrained performance gives Klaatu a quiet dignity. The film avoids the usual temptation to make aliens into monsters and instead invites us to look critically at ourselves.

Released during the Cold War, it reflects contemporary anxieties about nuclear annihilation, but its underlying concerns have lost none of their force.

The 2008 remake starring Keanu Reeves is quite good and shifts the emphasis towards environmental destruction. Nevertheless, the original is much better. It trusts its ideas, its dialogue and its audience. There are lessons here that humanity has still not fully learned.

Talking Pictures: World Cinema Classics — BBC Four, 9pm

Celia Imrie guides viewers through some of the great achievements of international cinema, considering filmmakers including Akira Kurosawa, Agnès Varda, François Truffaut, Luis Buñuel and Ingmar Bergman.

It’s an impressive collection of directors whose approaches differ considerably but who share a determination to explore what cinema can achieve.

Kurosawa brought extraordinary visual power and moral complexity to Japanese cinema. Varda helped pioneer the French New Wave with her distinctive, humane approach. Truffaut examined childhood, love and the cinema itself. Buñuel used surrealism to attack conventional morality, while Bergman explored faith, death, relationships and the human condition.

An excellent introduction for newcomers and a welcome opportunity for established film enthusiasts to revisit familiar favourites.

American Star (2024) — Film4, 9pm

Ian McShane stars as Wilson, an ageing assassin who travels to Fuerteventura to carry out what should be a straightforward assignment.

Instead, he finds himself drawn into the rhythms of island life and begins forming relationships with people who know nothing of his violent profession.

The film takes an unusually reflective approach to the hitman thriller. Rather than relying upon constant action, it examines loneliness, mortality and the possibility of finding something meaningful in an otherwise bleak existence.

McShane’s commanding screen presence makes him ideally suited to the role. A thoughtful variation on familiar territory.

The Everly Brothers: Harmonies from Heaven — Sky Arts, 9pm; NOW catch-up

Don and Phil Everly possessed one of the most beautiful vocal blends in popular music.

Their harmonies influenced everyone from the Beatles to Simon & Garfunkel, while songs such as Bye Bye Love, Wake Up Little Susie and All I Have to Do Is Dream helped establish the sound of modern popular music.

This documentary explores their musical achievements, family background and frequently troubled relationship.

There’s something poignant about the contrast between those immaculate harmonies and the personal tensions that eventually drove the brothers apart.

A reminder that music can create an impression of perfect unity even when the musicians themselves are struggling to maintain it.

Cléo from 5 to 7 (1962) — BBC Four, 9.45pm

Agnès Varda’s celebrated French New Wave drama follows a young singer wandering through Paris while awaiting the results of a medical examination.

Corinne Marchand plays Cléo, whose apparent confidence gradually gives way to fear and self-examination.

Varda uses the streets, cafés and everyday encounters of Paris to explore mortality, femininity and the experience of being watched and judged.

The film’s treatment of time is particularly interesting. What begins as an ordinary afternoon becomes an intense examination of what it means to be alive.

Beautifully observed, humane and surprisingly accessible, this remains one of the outstanding achievements of French cinema.

Death Race 2000 (1975) — Great Action, 11.25pm

Paul Bartel’s outrageous dystopian action film takes place in a future America where a murderous cross-country motor race has become a major spectator sport.

Drivers score points by killing pedestrians, and the public treats the carnage as entertainment.

David Carradine stars as the mysterious Frankenstein, with Sylvester Stallone among his competitors.

The film is often remembered for its ludicrous violence, bizarre characters and low-budget exploitation thrills. What sometimes gets overlooked is the political satire.

Beneath the deliberately excessive action lies a savage attack on authoritarianism, sensationalist media, celebrity culture and the manipulation of public opinion.

Its vision of a society entertained by cruelty is uncomfortably recognisable. Sometimes satire has to be outrageous to make its point.

Saint Maud (2019) — Film4, 1.15am, early Sunday

Rose Glass’s unsettling psychological horror stars Morfydd Clark as Maud, a young private carer whose intense religious convictions become increasingly dangerous.

Caring for Amanda, a terminally ill former dancer played by Jennifer Ehle, Maud convinces herself that she has a divine mission to save her patient’s soul.

What makes the film so effective is its refusal to offer straightforward explanations. Is Maud experiencing religious revelation, psychological disturbance or some frightening combination of the two?

Clark’s performance is extraordinary, capturing both vulnerability and fanaticism.

This is an intelligent examination of religious obsession, loneliness and the frightening consequences of absolute certainty.

Sunday 18 October

The Addams Family (1991) — ITV2, 4pm

The gloriously macabre Addams family return in Barry Sonnenfeld’s film adaptation of Charles Addams’s famous creations.

Anjelica Huston and Raul Julia are wonderfully cast as Morticia and Gomez, while Christina Ricci almost steals the picture as the magnificently deadpan Wednesday.

The joke, of course, is that this supposedly monstrous family is often more affectionate and loyal than the respectable people surrounding them.

The film revels in gothic imagery, eccentric humour and cheerful disregard for conventional values.

A thoroughly enjoyable comedy that has lost little of its appeal.

The Balkans: Europe’s Forgotten Frontier — BBC Two, 8pm

BBC Europe editor Katya Adler travels through Croatia, Bosnia and Albania, exploring how the region has changed since the violent break-up of Yugoslavia and the wider upheavals of the 1990s.

The wars that followed Yugoslavia’s disintegration left deep political, social and psychological scars. Old tensions have not simply disappeared, while questions of national identity and European integration remain contentious.

Adler is a knowledgeable guide to a region often neglected in British coverage of European affairs.

The Balkans have repeatedly played an important part in European history. Understanding their present requires an appreciation of the complicated past that continues to shape everyday life.

Kevin McCloud’s Classic Car Road Trips — Channel 4, 8pm (1/6)

Kevin McCloud combines an enthusiasm for design with a journey through the history and culture of some of Europe’s most celebrated cars.

His opening trip takes him along the French Riviera, travelling from Cannes towards Monaco in a beautiful 1960s Citroën DS convertible.

The DS was one of the most remarkable cars ever produced. When introduced in 1955, its futuristic appearance and advanced engineering seemed to belong to another age.

Its hydropneumatic suspension and elegant styling helped establish it as an icon of French design.

There are worse ways to spend an hour than travelling through the Riviera in such a magnificent machine, particularly with McCloud explaining the design philosophy behind it.

Living (2022) — Film4, 9pm

Bill Nighy gives one of his finest performances in this deeply moving drama about an emotionally reserved civil servant who discovers that he has a terminal illness.

Set in 1950s London, the film follows a man who has spent much of his life observing routine and convention but now begins questioning what that life has amounted to.

Adapted by Kazuo Ishiguro from Akira Kurosawa’s Ikiru, the film explores mortality, bureaucracy and the possibility of meaningful action.

Nighy brings an extraordinary restraint to the central performance.

It’s a gentle, thoughtful and ultimately uplifting film about the importance of making our limited time count.

Time — BBC One, 9pm (series finale; full series on iPlayer)

We’ve deliberately avoided saying too much about this latest series because we’ve been saving it up for a proper binge-watch.

David Tennant stars as prison officer Bobby Bailey, and Tennant’s involvement is reason enough to attract our attention. He’s one of those actors who can make even a quiet moment compelling.

The prison setting also promises an opportunity to explore questions of institutional power, punishment, responsibility and human vulnerability.

Rather than concentrate on the finale alone, our recommendation is to watch the series from the beginning on BBC iPlayer.

Some dramas are best experienced as a complete work, allowing their characters and tensions to develop without interruption. This looks like one of them.

French Connection II (1975) — Talking Pictures TV, 10.10pm

Gene Hackman returns as the obsessive New York detective Jimmy ‘Popeye’ Doyle in John Frankenheimer’s sequel to William Friedkin’s celebrated crime thriller.

This time Doyle travels to Marseille in pursuit of the heroin trafficker Alain Charnier, played once again by Fernando Rey.

The change of location gives the sequel a distinctive character, while Hackman delivers another uncompromising performance.

It’s a darker, sometimes more psychologically disturbing film than its predecessor, particularly in its treatment of Doyle’s vulnerability.

A worthy sequel to one of the defining American crime films of the 1970s.

Priscilla (2023) — BBC Two, 10.45pm

Sofia Coppola approaches the Elvis Presley story from an unusual perspective, concentrating on the experiences of Priscilla Beaulieu, who met the singer when she was still a teenager.

Cailee Spaeny plays Priscilla, while Jacob Elordi portrays Elvis.

Rather than presenting another celebration of the King’s musical genius, Coppola examines the imbalance of power within the relationship.

The glamour of Graceland gradually gives way to isolation, control and frustration.

It’s an intimate film about a young woman discovering that life alongside one of the world’s most famous entertainers can be deeply restrictive.

Children of Men (2006) — BBC One, 11.40pm

Alfonso Cuarón’s extraordinary dystopian drama imagines a future in which humanity has become infertile and society is collapsing.

Clive Owen plays Theo, a disillusioned former activist drawn into a dangerous mission to protect a young refugee.

The film’s images of authoritarian government, desperate migration, social breakdown and institutional cruelty have acquired an unsettling contemporary relevance.

Cuarón’s direction is remarkable, particularly the extended action sequences that place viewers directly inside the chaos.

Yet beneath the violence lies a profoundly humane argument about compassion and hope.

One of the finest science-fiction films of the twenty-first century.

Ernest Cole: Lost and Found (2024) — Channel 4, midnight, early Monday

Raoul Peck’s documentary tells the story of Ernest Cole, the South African photographer whose images exposed the brutality of apartheid.

Cole documented the everyday humiliations, restrictions and injustices imposed upon Black South Africans by the racist state.

His work was both artistic achievement and political testimony. It made visible a system that depended partly upon controlling what outsiders could see.

His photographs contributed to his exile, and much of his later life was marked by hardship and displacement.

Peck uses Cole’s remarkable archive to explore racial oppression, memory and the terrible personal costs that can accompany the pursuit of truth.

An important documentary about a photographer whose work deserves to be much better known.

Monday 19 October

Aberfan: The Village That Fought Back — BBC Two, 9pm; repeated Tuesday, 11pm

Sixty years after the Aberfan disaster, this documentary examines the struggle that followed the deaths of 144 people, including 116 children.

For the families, the nightmare did not end when the rescue operation finished.

They faced official resistance, evasions and an extraordinary struggle to have the remaining dangerous coal tips removed from above their village.

The disaster tribunal placed responsibility upon the National Coal Board, but securing practical justice proved another matter.

Particularly shameful was the pressure placed upon the Aberfan Disaster Fund to contribute towards the removal of the remaining tips. Money donated in sympathy for bereaved families was treated as a potential source of funding for work that public authorities should have undertaken.

This is not simply a historical account of industrial negligence. It’s about the relationship between ordinary people and powerful institutions, and the lengths those institutions may go to in order to avoid accountability.

The villagers’ persistence deserves recognition alongside the suffering they endured.

Essential viewing, and our most important television recommendation of the week.

Selma (2014) — BBC Two, 11.05pm

Ava DuVernay’s absorbing historical drama examines the 1965 campaign for voting rights in Alabama, culminating in the famous marches from Selma to Montgomery.

David Oyelowo is outstanding as Dr Martin Luther King Jr, capturing both his charisma and the enormous pressures of leadership.

The film avoids presenting the civil rights movement as a simple procession of heroic speeches and inevitable victories.

Instead, it explores the difficult strategic decisions, internal disagreements, state violence and extraordinary courage involved in challenging segregation.

Its depiction of collective action is particularly powerful.

Progress did not arrive because powerful people suddenly became generous. It came because ordinary people organised, protested and refused to accept injustice.

Priyo Maloti (2024) — Channel 4, South Asian film season; time to be confirmed

This Bangladeshi drama, directed by Shankha Dasgupta, stars Mehazabien Chowdhury in her feature-film debut.

She plays Maloti, a young pregnant woman whose life is devastated when her husband dies in a catastrophic fire.

What follows is a struggle to survive financially and emotionally in circumstances where support cannot always be taken for granted.

The film examines grief, insecurity and the vulnerability of those suddenly left to confront hardship alone.

It’s a welcome selection from Channel 4’s South Asian film season, which provides an opportunity to discover cinema beyond the industries and countries that usually dominate British film schedules.

Tuesday 20 October

Hot Fuzz (2007) — Film4, 9pm

Edgar Wright’s wonderfully inventive action-comedy stars Simon Pegg as Nicholas Angel, a London police officer whose extraordinary efficiency embarrasses his colleagues.

Transferred to the apparently peaceful Gloucestershire village of Sandford, he discovers that beneath the picturesque surface something decidedly sinister is happening.

Nick Frost is excellent as his enthusiastic but less disciplined partner, Danny Butterman.

The film affectionately mocks the conventions of Hollywood action movies while delivering a wonderfully sharp satire of small-town respectability, authoritarianism and the desire to preserve appearances at any cost.

Its rapid editing, visual jokes and lovingly constructed action sequences reward repeated viewing.

One of the finest British comedies of its generation.

Stacey Dooley: Down the K-Hole — BBC Three, 9pm; BBC One, 10.40pm

Stacey Dooley at the National TV Awards 2019 at the O2 Arena, London.

Stacey Dooley investigates ketamine use and the growing concern surrounding the drug.

Originally developed as an anaesthetic and now also being researched and used in carefully controlled medical settings, ketamine has become increasingly prominent as a recreational substance.

Its effects can include dissociation and altered perception, while repeated heavy use can cause serious harm, particularly to the bladder and urinary system.

Dooley’s strength as a presenter is her willingness to speak to people without immediately passing judgement. That approach can be especially valuable when examining drug use, where moral condemnation often gets in the way of understanding.

An important subject deserving careful investigation.

Clickbait Clinic with Stacey Dooley: Can Blue Dye Make Me Smarter? — BBC One, 11.40pm

Stacey Dooley is certainly keeping herself busy.

Here she examines the growing enthusiasm for methylene blue, a substance with established medical uses that has also attracted attention for possible effects on brain function.

Some preliminary research has explored potential neurological applications, including areas relevant to Alzheimer’s disease, but that is a long way from demonstrating that healthy people can improve their intelligence by taking it.

The distinction between interesting scientific research and commercial exaggeration is crucial.

The programme should offer a useful examination of how tentative findings can become exaggerated promises in the world of online health trends.

Midnight Run (1988) — Film4, 11.25pm

Robert De Niro and Charles Grodin form one of cinema’s most enjoyable mismatched partnerships in this action-comedy directed by Martin Brest.

De Niro plays Jack Walsh, a bounty hunter tasked with bringing a former Mafia accountant across America.

Grodin plays the accountant, Jonathan Mardukas, whose apparently mild personality conceals a remarkable ability to frustrate his captor.

Their journey becomes increasingly chaotic as criminals, federal agents and competing bounty hunters join the pursuit.

The action is entertaining, but the real pleasure lies in the developing relationship between the two men.

A clever, funny film that knows exactly how to combine comedy with genuine character development.

Storyville: A Want in Her — BBC Four; time to be confirmed

Another documentary from the excellent Storyville strand, which has long been one of our favourites at Counter Culture.

This deeply personal film explores the complexities of caring for someone affected by mental illness and addiction.

Such relationships can involve extraordinary love and loyalty, but also exhaustion, resentment and an overwhelming sense of helplessness.

The challenge for documentary filmmaking is to acknowledge these difficult feelings without reducing the person experiencing illness or addiction to a problem that needs solving.

Storyville has built its reputation by presenting demanding subjects with intelligence, honesty and humanity.

Its documentaries regularly demonstrate why independent filmmaking remains so important.

Wednesday 21 October

Caligula’s Hidden Legacy — PBS America, 7.05pm (1/2)

The Roman emperor Caligula has entered popular imagination as the embodiment of cruelty, extravagance and madness.

But how much do we actually know about him?

Many of the surviving accounts were written by historians hostile to his rule, raising questions about the accuracy of the more sensational stories.

This documentary investigates the historical figure behind the notorious reputation.

Ancient Rome remains endlessly fascinating partly because its politics, ambitions and struggles for power can appear so familiar.

A useful opportunity to distinguish historical evidence from the legends accumulated over centuries.

The World’s End (2013) — Film4, 9pm

Edgar Wright reunites Simon Pegg and Nick Frost for the final instalment of the celebrated Cornetto trilogy.

Five former friends return to their hometown in an attempt to recreate a legendary pub crawl from their youth.

Their reunion is complicated by the behaviour of Gary King, played by Pegg, a man who has never properly accepted that his teenage years are over.

What begins as a comedy about ageing, friendship and nostalgia becomes something rather more extraordinary when the group discovers that the town has changed in unexpected ways.

The science-fiction elements are entertaining, but beneath them lies a surprisingly affecting exploration of disappointment and the difficulty of moving on.

Alongside Tuesday’s Hot Fuzz, this provides an enjoyable opportunity to revisit two very different Edgar Wright comedies.

The Experiment — Channel 4, 10pm

Matt Fraser and Sophie Morgan invite ordinary people to participate in a social experiment within a new care facility.

The programme examines attitudes, behaviour and the relationships that develop when people are placed in an unfamiliar institutional environment.

There’s an interesting parallel with Netflix’s new Stanford Prison Experiment, which also begins with participants placed into assigned roles within a controlled setting.

The situations are different, but both invite us to consider how surroundings, expectations and power structures can influence behaviour.

The crucial question is whether people simply adapt to the roles given to them or retain the ability to challenge the assumptions underlying those roles.

Alison Steadman Remembers The Singing Detective — BBC Four, 10pm

Alison Steadman looks back at Dennis Potter’s extraordinary 1986 television drama, one of the most ambitious works ever produced for British television.

Potter combined psychological investigation, musical fantasy, detective fiction and autobiography to create something genuinely original.

Michael Gambon played Philip Marlow, a writer hospitalised with a debilitating skin condition whose memories and imagination become increasingly entangled.

The drama remains a testament to an era when British television was willing to take enormous creative risks.

The Singing Detective: Lovely Days, Stroke Clues — BBC Four, 10.15pm

An opportunity to revisit Potter’s masterpiece immediately after Alison Steadman’s introduction.

The series moves between Marlow’s hospital experiences, childhood memories and the imaginary detective story he has created.

Popular songs become part of an elaborate psychological landscape, while apparently unrelated incidents gradually reveal deeper connections.

Potter’s work demands attention, but the rewards are considerable.

Few television writers have explored the relationship between memory, illness, guilt and imagination with comparable originality.

Night of the Demon (1957) — Talking Pictures TV, 9.10pm

Jacques Tourneur’s classic supernatural horror follows an American psychologist investigating a mysterious cult led by the sinister Dr Julian Karswell.

Dana Andrews plays the sceptical investigator, while Niall MacGinnis gives a wonderfully unsettling performance as Karswell.

Based on M. R. James’s Casting the Runes, the film creates an atmosphere of growing dread.

Much of its effectiveness comes from the tension between rational explanation and the possibility that supernatural forces really do exist.

There has long been debate about the decision to show the demon itself, rather than leaving everything to the viewer’s imagination.

Whatever one’s view, the film remains one of the finest examples of British supernatural cinema.

Stacey Dooley: Rape on Trial — BBC Three, 11pm (1/2) and 11.50pm (2/2)

Stacey Dooley follows women who have reported being raped by men they know, examining the difficult and often lengthy journey towards trial.

The first programme introduces the women’s experiences and the challenges involved in pursuing their cases.

The second considers the approach of the trials, particularly the way complainants’ credibility may be scrutinised during proceedings.

These are sensitive and difficult subjects. The criminal justice system must protect the rights of defendants while also ensuring that complainants are treated fairly and respectfully.

The programme raises important questions about evidence, credibility, trauma and confidence in the justice process.

Another demanding assignment for Dooley, whose documentary work continues to cover an impressive range of subjects.

Thursday 22 October

Mercury Prize: Album of the Year — BBC Four, 9.30pm

The Mercury Prize returns to Newcastle, celebrating outstanding albums by British and Irish musicians.

Lauren Laverne hosts an evening featuring live performances from Florence + The Machine, Nia Archives, Kojey Radical, Olivia Dean, RAYE, Suede, JADE, Dove Ellis, Knats and Pulp, with the latter representing the charity album HELP(2).

This year’s shortlist also includes Paul McCartney’s The Boys of Dungeon Lane, Olivia Dean’s The Art of Loving and RAYE’s THIS MUSIC MAY CONTAIN HOPE.

Last year’s winner was Sam Fender, another artist with strong connections to the North East.

There’s something pleasing about the continued importance of the album in a musical world increasingly dominated by individual tracks, algorithms and streaming playlists.

Albums allow musicians to develop themes and create a sustained artistic experience. They can be ambitious, personal, experimental and occasionally difficult. That’s part of their appeal.

The Mercury Prize has often helped introduce audiences to performers they might otherwise have overlooked, while recognising established musicians who continue to take risks.

With so many acts performing live, the event promises to be much more than an awards ceremony. It’s effectively a miniature festival celebrating the continuing vitality of contemporary music.

Sweat (2020) — Film4, 1.40am, early Friday

Directed by Magnus von Horn, this Polish-Swedish drama follows Sylwia, a successful fitness instructor and social media influencer.

She has hundreds of thousands of followers, a carefully constructed public image and apparently everything needed for a glamorous modern life.

Yet behind the motivational videos and polished appearances lies a woman experiencing profound loneliness.

Magdalena Koleśnik gives an absorbing performance as Sylwia, whose online confidence conceals insecurity and emotional vulnerability.

The film examines the strange contradictions of social media celebrity, where the appearance of intimacy can coexist with a lack of meaningful personal relationships.

It’s an intelligent and uncomfortable portrait of a world in which being constantly visible does not necessarily mean being understood.

Friday 23 October

Sicily: The Conquered Isle — PBS America, 7.10pm and 8.30pm

Two programmes explore the remarkable history of Sicily, an island whose strategic position in the Mediterranean has made it a crossroads of civilisations.

The first, Crossroads of the Mediterranean, examines its ancient past and the succession of peoples who fought to control it.

Greeks, Romans, Arabs and Normans all left their mark, creating a distinctive cultural inheritance visible in the island’s architecture, traditions and historical monuments.

The second programme, Borderlands, explores Sicily’s role in the nineteenth-century unification of Italy.

The island’s history demonstrates how geography can shape politics and culture over thousands of years.

For anyone interested in European history, this should be rewarding viewing.

Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk (2016) — Great Action, 9pm

Ang Lee’s drama follows a young American soldier who returns temporarily from Iraq after an act of battlefield heroism makes him a national celebrity.

Joe Alwyn plays Billy Lynn, whose experiences of combat contrast sharply with the patriotic spectacle organised around him.

The film examines the way soldiers are transformed into symbols and used to promote reassuring narratives about war.

Behind the ceremonies, applause and carefully staged celebrations lies a young man struggling with memories of violence and the reality of returning to combat.

Its anti-war message emerges from the gulf between public mythology and personal experience.

An interesting and thoughtful film about the exploitation of military heroism.

Disco Night — BBC Four, from 9.45pm; BBC iPlayer

BBC Four devotes the evening to disco, a musical movement that transformed popular culture.

For some, disco still conjures up images of mirror balls, extravagant clothing and dance-floor anthems. Yet its history is considerably more interesting than those familiar images suggest.

Emerging from Black, Latino and gay communities, particularly in American cities, disco became an expression of freedom, identity and collective enjoyment.

It also changed how records were produced, mixed and experienced.

The influence of disco can be heard throughout contemporary dance music, electronic pop and club culture.

A welcome opportunity to celebrate music that has sometimes been dismissed by critics who underestimated both its artistry and its cultural importance.

The Blackening (2022) — BBC Two, 11.30pm

This comedy horror follows a group of Black friends gathering at a remote woodland cabin to celebrate Juneteenth.

For British viewers unfamiliar with the occasion, Juneteenth commemorates 19 June 1865, when enslaved African Americans in Texas learned that emancipation was being enforced following the American Civil War. It has since become a major celebration of freedom and Black American history.

The film takes familiar horror conventions and turns them into a sharp comedy about race, stereotypes and representation.

One of its central jokes concerns the old horror-film convention in which Black characters are frequently among the first victims.

By placing an entirely Black group of friends at the centre of the story, the filmmakers gleefully undermine that convention.

The result is a mixture of horror, comedy and cultural satire.

Disco: Soundtrack of a Revolution — BBC Four, 12.15am, early Saturday

This documentary series explores disco’s origins, cultural significance and lasting influence.

Far from being merely a commercial musical craze, disco provided an important outlet for marginalised communities and helped create new spaces for social and personal expression.

Its history also involves the commercial music industry’s attempts to profit from an underground culture, and the backlash that followed its enormous success.

The opposition to disco sometimes carried racial and homophobic undertones, making its history inseparable from wider social struggles.

A valuable companion to BBC Four’s evening of disco celebrations.

I Was a Teenage Sex Pistol — Sky Arts, 1am, early Saturday

The emergence of the Sex Pistols in the mid-1970s helped transform British popular music and youth culture.

Their brief but explosive career challenged the musical establishment, attacked social conventions and gave expression to the anger and frustration of a generation.

Punk was never simply about musical ability or even musical style. It was also an attitude, a rejection of established hierarchies and an assertion that young people could create their own culture.

This documentary revisits that extraordinary moment and the personalities at its centre.

The Public Image Is Rotten — Sky Arts, 2.50am, early Saturday

John Lydon’s career did not end when the Sex Pistols disintegrated.

With Public Image Ltd, he moved into far more experimental musical territory, combining elements of post-punk, dub, electronic music and avant-garde experimentation.

This documentary examines the band’s turbulent history and Lydon’s determination to resist easy categorisation.

There’s an interesting contrast with BBC Four’s disco celebrations. Disco and punk were often treated as opposing movements, yet both challenged musical conventions and created new cultural possibilities.

Lydon has remained an abrasive and unpredictable figure, but Public Image Ltd’s contribution to the development of post-punk deserves recognition.

A suitably unconventional conclusion to the week’s musical television.


Streaming

Netflix

Fading Grandeur — All six episodes available Friday 23 October

This Spanish comedy drama explores the tensions between appearance and reality, drawing upon the familiar attractions of family relationships, social embarrassment and personal ambition.

Spanish television has developed an impressive reputation for combining comedy and drama, often finding humour in situations that are far from comfortable.

A six-part series should provide enough room to develop its characters without unnecessarily stretching the story.

The New Stanford Prison Experiment — All six episodes available Wednesday 21 October

Does power corrupt?

That is the central question behind this new Netflix social experiment, which places thirty participants inside a real prison and randomly assigns them the roles of guards or prisoners.

The programme deliberately recalls the notorious Stanford Prison Experiment conducted in California in 1971.

Psychologist Philip Zimbardo and his colleagues recruited male college students and placed them in a simulated prison environment. Some were assigned the role of guards, others prisoners.

The study was supposed to last up to two weeks but was abandoned after just six days amid disturbing behaviour and psychological distress.

For many years, it was presented as evidence that ordinary people could rapidly become abusive when placed in positions of unchecked authority.

However, the original experiment has subsequently faced serious criticism. Researchers have questioned the way participants were instructed, the influence of expectations upon their behaviour and the validity of the conclusions drawn from the results.

The new Netflix programme uses a real prison setting, a mixed-gender group of participants and additional ethical safeguards.

It will be interesting to compare the findings with the original study, while remembering that this is also a television production intended to entertain.

Power certainly influences behaviour, but the relationship between authority, obedience and individual responsibility is more complicated than the old Stanford experiment sometimes suggested.

One of the week’s most intriguing streaming choices.

Judge John Deed — All 29 episodes available Saturday 17 October

Martin Shaw stars as Sir John Deed, a High Court judge whose determination to follow his conscience regularly brings him into conflict with the judicial establishment and political authorities.

Originally broadcast by the BBC between 2001 and 2007, the drama combines courtroom cases with political intrigue and personal complications.

Shaw brings considerable authority to the central role, making Deed an engaging if occasionally exasperating character.

The series is also interesting for its depiction of tensions between law, justice and institutional pressure.

Legal professionals may sometimes find themselves questioning the dramatic liberties taken with courtroom procedure, but the programme remains entertaining and frequently thought-provoking.

Channel 4 Streaming

Walter Presents: When the Night Comes — All six episodes available Friday 23 October

In an apparently idyllic seaside town, Stephanie wakes to the horrifying realisation that she has been raped in her own home.

The crime shatters her sense of security and exposes tensions beneath the community’s peaceful exterior.

The six-part drama explores the consequences of sexual violence, the search for truth and the difficulties faced by those attempting to rebuild their lives.

The Walter Presents collection continues to provide British viewers with access to international drama that might otherwise remain relatively unknown.

Its willingness to tackle demanding subjects has made it one of the most worthwhile streaming collections available.

Prime Video

The Last Viking — Available now

Anders Thomas Jensen directs this Danish black comedy starring Nikolaj Lie Kaas and Mads Mikkelsen.

Kaas plays Anker, a bank robber who entrusts stolen money to his brother Manfred before serving fifteen years in prison.

When Anker is finally released, he discovers that Manfred has developed serious psychiatric difficulties, believes himself to be John Lennon and no longer remembers where the money was hidden.

What follows is an increasingly bizarre attempt to recover the missing fortune.

Jensen has a gift for combining dark humour with damaged characters and unexpected emotional depth.

Mikkelsen is particularly well suited to this kind of material, bringing both intensity and comic unpredictability to his performances.

An unusual mixture of crime story, family drama and eccentric comedy.

BBC iPlayer

Smiley’s People — Available now

Sir Alec Guinness returns as George Smiley in this acclaimed BBC adaptation of John le Carré’s Cold War thriller, first broadcast in 1982.

Following the success of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, the series once again immerses viewers in a world of espionage, deception, old loyalties and deeply compromised individuals.

Guinness’s performance is a masterclass in restraint. His Smiley is outwardly unremarkable, but beneath the quiet manner lies an extraordinary intelligence and a formidable capacity for investigation.

Unlike the glamorous spies of popular adventure fiction, le Carré’s characters inhabit a morally ambiguous world in which personal betrayal and political calculation are inseparable.

One of the finest achievements of British television drama, and a perfect companion to this week’s Radio 4 Extra adaptation of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy.

Alex Jones: Un Diwrnod yn Aberfan (One Day in Aberfan) — Available Sunday 18 October

This Welsh-language programme forms part of the commemorations marking sixty years since the Aberfan disaster.

On 21 October 1966, a collapsing colliery spoil tip engulfed Pantglas Junior School and surrounding houses, killing 144 people, including 116 children.

The tragedy remains a defining moment in the history of Welsh mining communities.

Commemorative programmes such as this are particularly important because they preserve personal memories and ensure that the experiences of those affected are not reduced to statistics.

The disaster also raises enduring questions about industrial responsibility, the treatment of working-class communities and the failure of powerful institutions to listen to warnings.

An essential companion to Monday’s BBC Two documentary, Aberfan: The Village That Fought Back.

Paramount+

Treasure Island — Episode 2 available Monday 19 October

The latest adaptation of Robert Louis Stevenson’s classic adventure features David Oyelowo as Long John Silver.

The original novel remains one of the defining works of adventure fiction, introducing generations of readers to pirates, buried treasure, betrayal and the dangerous attraction of the high seas.

Long John Silver is the story’s great achievement: charismatic, resourceful, manipulative and morally ambiguous.

A successful adaptation needs to capture both his charm and the threat concealed beneath it.

Oyelowo is an interesting choice for the role, and the series offers an opportunity to introduce Stevenson’s enduring characters to another generation.

HBO Max

The Narco Hack — All three episodes available Friday 23 October

This three-part documentary tells the extraordinary story of Sky ECC, an encrypted messaging service that became popular among organised crime networks.

The attraction was simple. Subscribers believed that their communications were protected by encryption powerful enough to prevent the authorities from reading their messages.

For criminal organisations, that apparent security made it possible to conduct business with a confidence that would otherwise have been impossible.

In 2021, however, investigators led by French authorities succeeded in compromising the system, exposing communications that provided unprecedented insights into criminal networks.

The documentary examines the technological operation and its consequences.

It’s a fascinating illustration of the increasingly sophisticated struggle between organised crime and law enforcement, as well as the wider questions raised by encrypted communications, privacy and surveillance.


Radio

Sunday 18 October

Childline — BBC Radio 4, 1.30pm

Forty years after Esther Rantzen launched Childline in 1986, this programme examines the organisation’s remarkable history.

Childline was founded upon a simple but enormously important principle: children experiencing abuse, distress or fear needed somewhere they could turn for confidential support.

In the decades that followed, the service helped countless young people who might otherwise have remained unheard.

The programme has acquired additional poignancy following Rantzen’s death in September.

She was an influential broadcaster, but her work establishing Childline may prove to be her most enduring achievement.

It’s a reminder that the value of a public life is not simply measured by celebrity or professional success, but by the practical difference someone makes to others.

A fitting tribute to an important legacy.

The Mysterious Case of Annie Elizabeth — BBC Radio 4, 7.15pm

For history enthusiasts, this intriguing programme investigates the story behind Annie Elizabeth, a variety of apple with an unusually personal name.

Who was Annie Elizabeth, and why did an apple come to bear her name?

It’s the kind of apparently obscure historical question that can lead to unexpected discoveries about the people and communities of the past.

There is something rather appealing about the way ordinary objects can preserve human stories long after the people involved have disappeared.

A gentle but potentially fascinating piece of historical detective work.

Monday 19 October

Book of the Week: Stalin’s Apostles — BBC Radio 4, 11.45am; late repeat 12.30am

An adaptation of Antonia Senior’s book about the Cambridge Five spy ring.

Kim Philby, Guy Burgess, Donald Maclean, Anthony Blunt and John Cairncross became Soviet agents despite occupying positions of considerable privilege within British society.

Their activities exposed the vulnerability of an establishment that relied heavily upon personal connections, class background and assumptions about loyalty.

The story remains fascinating because it involves conflicting allegiances, ideological conviction, personal ambition and extraordinary betrayal.

It also provides an interesting historical companion to our television and streaming selections featuring John le Carré’s fictional world of espionage.

How Houdini Made Magic with Derren Brown — BBC Radio 4, Monday to Friday, 1.45pm

Derren Brown examines the life and extraordinary achievements of Harry Houdini, one of the most celebrated entertainers of the twentieth century.

Houdini became famous for his astonishing escapes from handcuffs, locked containers and seemingly impossible situations.

Yet his achievements were not simply physical feats. They also relied upon psychology, showmanship, misdirection and an understanding of audience expectations.

Perhaps most interestingly, Houdini later became a determined critic of fraudulent spiritualists, exposing techniques used to convince grieving people that mediums could communicate with the dead.

Brown is an ideal guide, possessing both practical knowledge of illusion and a fascination with the psychology of belief.

A promising series about entertainment, deception and the boundary between what we see and what we think we see.

The Essay: John Foxx — Key Moments — BBC Radio 3, 9.45pm

John Foxx, the original frontman of Ultravox, reflects upon five pianos that have played important roles in his life.

Foxx was a significant figure in the emergence of British electronic music, helping establish the foundations of what later became known as synth-pop and new wave.

After leaving Ultravox, he developed a distinctive solo career, combining electronic experimentation with atmospheric, often introspective songwriting.

His reflections upon the piano offer an interesting contrast with his reputation as an electronic music pioneer.

The relationship between traditional musical instruments and modern technology has always been more complicated than the familiar opposition between acoustic and electronic music suggests.

For those interested in the development of modern British popular music, this should be particularly rewarding.

Tuesday 20 October

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy — BBC Radio 4 Extra, 6am, 11am and 5pm

A radio adaptation of John le Carré’s 1974 Cold War thriller.

George Smiley is drawn out of retirement to investigate the possibility that a Soviet mole has infiltrated the highest levels of British intelligence.

The story is a masterpiece of deception, suspicion and psychological investigation.

Its world is far removed from the glamorous adventures of James Bond. Le Carré’s spies are frequently tired, disappointed and morally compromised individuals operating within bureaucratic institutions.

This adaptation was originally broadcast in 1988, nine years after the celebrated BBC television version starring Alec Guinness.

With Smiley’s People also available on BBC iPlayer this week, there is an opportunity to explore two of le Carré’s finest stories in different formats.

His novels remain among the most intelligent examinations of espionage, loyalty and betrayal ever written for a popular audience.


Final Thoughts

There is a particularly strong historical and political thread running through this week’s choices.

Aberfan reminds us of the terrible consequences of institutional negligence and the determination of ordinary people to secure justice. Selma examines the struggle for civil rights, while Ernest Cole: Lost and Found demonstrates the power of photography to expose oppression.

The Day the Earth Stood Still and Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk approach the subjects of war and peace from very different directions. Both invite us to question the comforting narratives that societies construct around violence.

Meanwhile, The New Stanford Prison Experiment and Channel 4’s The Experiment ask questions about power, authority and human behaviour.

Music is particularly well served, from the harmonies of the Everly Brothers to the experimental work of John Foxx, the Mercury Prize, disco and punk.

And there’s plenty of room for entertainment that makes fewer demands: Hitchcock’s magnificent North by Northwest, Edgar Wright’s comedies and the eccentric delights of The Addams Family.

That’s what makes a good week’s viewing. There should be opportunities to learn, to think, to be challenged and, occasionally, simply to enjoy ourselves.

Enjoy the week.

Selections and reviews by Pat Harrington

 

 

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Culture Vulture: 10–16 October 2026

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Not just a Romance: Sense and Sensibility Is Really About Women’s Powerlessness

Georgia Oakley’s luminous adaptation of Sense and Sensibility understands that Jane Austen’s story was never simply a romance. Beneath the elegant costumes and sweeping countryside lies a sharper truth: this is a tale about women trapped by circumstance, denied independence, and forced to negotiate a world where survival often depends on the goodwill of men. What emerges is a deeply felt portrait of sisterhood, resilience and hard-won dignity.

Contains spoilers!

When the death of their father leaves the Dashwood family financially vulnerable, sisters Elinor and Marianne find themselves uprooted from the security of their home and relocated with their mother and younger sister Margaret to the modest Barton Cottage. While practical and reserved Elinor develops feelings for the honourable Edward Ferrars, the passionate Marianne falls headlong for the charming Willoughby, dismissing the steadfast Colonel Brandon. As love, heartbreak, betrayal and social expectation collide, the sisters must learn how to navigate a society where marriage is often less a choice than a necessity.


Every generation gets its Austen adaptation. Some arrive wrapped in reverence, others attempt radical reinvention. Georgia Oakley’s film of Sense and Sensibility (2026) occupies a more interesting middle ground. It understands the enduring appeal of the novel while finding contemporary relevance in its examination of female agency, economic precarity and the tensions between emotion and reason.

What makes the film compelling is that it never treats the Dashwood sisters as decorative inhabitants of a picturesque past. From its opening moments, it reminds us just how fragile women’s lives were in Regency England. Following their father’s death, Elinor, Marianne, Margaret and their mother find themselves effectively dispossessed. A promise of care made on a deathbed evaporates under the pressure of greed, self-interest and social convention. Their half-brother’s weakness, compounded by his wife’s determination to protect her own interests, leaves the women with little security and even less control over their future.

The injustice feels shocking, but Oakley wisely avoids melodrama. Instead, she presents the situation almost matter-of-factly, allowing the audience to grasp how normalised such inequalities were. The Dashwoods are intelligent, capable and resourceful. None of that matters. They cannot inherit. They cannot independently secure their financial future. Their fate rests almost entirely in the hands of men.

In this context, the move to Barton Cottage becomes far more than a change of address. It is a fall in status, a forced retreat from certainty into precariousness. Yet the film finds warmth amid the hardship. Sir John’s generosity provides welcome contrast to the cold calculations that displaced them. Margaret discovers adventure in the surrounding countryside. The family survives because they remain a family.

Oakley, whose Blue Jean demonstrated a keen eye for people negotiating systems designed to constrain them, brings the same sensitivity here. The landscapes are beautiful without feeling like postcards. The countryside breathes. Mud stains shoes. Wind disrupts carefully arranged hair. Nature becomes an extension of character rather than scenery.

Nowhere is this more evident than in Marianne Dashwood.

Esmé Creed-Miles gives a performance that captures both Marianne’s exhilaration and her vulnerability. Marianne is often described as impulsive, romantic and emotional. Here she feels something more complicated. She is a young woman fundamentally unsuited to the narrow role society expects her to occupy.

She wants wholehearted love in a world built around practical arrangements. She wants honesty in a society governed by performance. She wants freedom in a culture that grants women remarkably little.

Her attraction to Willoughby is therefore entirely understandable. George MacKay invests him with exactly the kind of charm required to make both Marianne and the audience briefly believe in him. He appears adventurous, sensitive and spontaneous. Yet beneath the surface lies weakness.

The tragedy of Marianne’s relationship with Willoughby is not simply that she chooses the wrong man. It is that she places faith in a romantic ideal that the world repeatedly refuses to honour. When betrayal inevitably arrives, the pain extends far beyond heartbreak. Marianne is confronted with the reality that passion alone offers no protection.

Colonel Brandon, played with understated dignity by Frank Dillane, represents the opposite. If Willoughby embodies excitement, Brandon embodies dependability. Marianne initially mistakes steadiness for dullness. The film’s emotional maturity comes from recognising that genuine love is not always the loudest love.

In many respects, Brandon is the film’s most modern character. His devotion asks for nothing. His concern is not possessive. He simply wishes for Marianne’s wellbeing.

The contrast could hardly be clearer.

Yet if Marianne provides the drama, Elinor provides the soul.

Daisy Edgar-Jones understands that restraint is not the absence of emotion but the management of it. Elinor spends much of the film carrying burdens that nobody else can see. She supports her family, navigates uncertainty and conceals her own disappointment with remarkable discipline.

Her relationship with Edward Ferrars lacks the fireworks of Marianne and Willoughby’s courtship but possesses something far more substantial. Both are trying to act honourably in difficult circumstances. Both are trapped by expectations not entirely of their own making.

Elinor’s strength lies in survival rather than spectacle.

The performance is beautifully calibrated. Every disappointment lands because Edgar-Jones allows the audience to glimpse the feeling hidden beneath the composure. When emotion finally breaks through, it arrives with devastating force.

Appropriately, much of the film’s power rests in the relationship between the sisters themselves.

In a Radio Times interview (3-9 October, 2026) Creed-Miles observed that “it’s a film about that very distinctive time in your early 20s where you meet somebody or have an experience that shapes and changes you. It’s about what one sister teaches the other.”

That insight goes to the heart of Oakley’s adaptation.

The title suggests opposition, but the film ultimately argues for balance. Elinor’s caution has limitations. Marianne’s passion has consequences. Neither possesses the complete answer. Their growth comes through learning from one another.

Creed-Miles and Edgar-Jones share an easy chemistry that makes this dynamic entirely believable. The affection feels lived-in. They can frustrate one another, misunderstand one another and occasionally exasperate one another, but their bond remains unshakeable.

Asked by Radio Times how closely they resembled their characters, Creed-Miles noted that there were “things about Elinor I wish I had more of,” while Edgar-Jones admitted she had “definitely landed more in the Elinor camp” but still related to Marianne. Those observations are reflected in the performances. Neither actress approaches the character as an archetype. Both locate the overlapping territory between sense and sensibility.

Perhaps that explains why Austen continues to resonate.

Edgar-Jones argued that there is “something in the escapism of being with the women in a time where they didn’t have devices. They played piano, read, wrote letters, drew. That slower pace is something I wish we could go back to.”

There is certainly escapism here. The costumes are exquisite. The production design is immaculate. The rolling English landscapes practically invite audiences to disappear into them. Yet the film’s appeal runs deeper than nostalgia.

Austen’s world may be two centuries removed from our own, but the anxieties remain recognisable. Financial instability. Family obligation. Disappointment. The tension between who we are and who society expects us to be. The desire to find love without sacrificing dignity.

Oakley’s adaptation understands this intuitively.

The result is a film that works simultaneously as a romance, a family drama and a quiet study of systemic inequality. It reminds us that the real obstacle facing the Dashwood sisters is not a lack of romance but a lack of power. Marriage matters because independence is largely unavailable. Every romantic decision therefore carries economic and social consequences.

That awareness gives the story weight.

By the time the closing scenes arrive, the film has earned its emotional resolution. Love exists here, certainly. But Austen’s true subject has always been character. The people who deserve happiness are not the most beautiful or charismatic. They are the people who act with honour when honour costs them something.

That idea remains as compelling now as it was in 1811.

Beautifully acted, thoughtfully directed and emotionally intelligent, Sense and Sensibility succeeds because it sees beyond Austen’s wit and romance to the harder truths beneath. This is not merely a story about finding the right partner. It is a story about surviving disappointment, preserving dignity and discovering that strength can take many forms.

In a world determined to limit them, the Dashwood sisters endure.

That endurance, more than any declaration of love, becomes the film’s greatest triumph.

By Mia Fulga

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The Odyssey: The Long Journey Home from War

Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey isn’t really about monsters, gods or sea voyages. It’s about what happens when a celebrated war hero finally runs out of places to hide from what he’s done.

There are monsters, storms, shipwrecks, sorcery and plenty of blood, but none of that is really the point. What interests Nolan is not simply whether Odysseus can get home. It is whether a man who has seen and done what Odysseus has seen and done is capable of coming home at all.

Matt Damon plays Odysseus not as a swaggering hero but as a man worn down by experience. He is clever, certainly. He still has the quickness of mind we associate with Homer’s great survivor. He reads situations, calculates risk, deceives when necessary and understands that brute strength is not always the answer. Yet Damon carries something heavier through the film. This Odysseus has lived too long with the consequences of his own intelligence.

The fall of Troy hangs over everything.

The Trojan Horse has always been presented as the supreme example of Odyssean cunning, the trick that finally ended a seemingly unwinnable war. Nolan is far less interested in celebrating the brilliance of the deception than in what followed. The gates open, the Greeks enter the city and victory gives way to slaughter. Odysseus cannot separate the triumph from the carnage. His greatest military achievement has become the memory he cannot escape.

The film repeatedly returns to Troy, not as a place of glory but as a wound. Odysseus is haunted not only by what happened to him, but by what he helped make happen.

That is a much more interesting starting point than simple heroism.

Nolan has spent much of his career making films about memory, guilt, time and the stories people tell themselves in order to live with what they have done. Seen in that context, The Odyssey almost feels inevitable. Homer’s poem is already full of recollection, invention and self-mythology. Odysseus is not simply a man who has adventures. He is also a man who narrates them, shaping his own legend as he goes.

Nolan leans into that. The past never stays neatly in the past. Troy, the sea, the dead and the lost companions intrude constantly on the present. The result is a story where the journey matters less as geography than as reckoning.

For all the scale of the production, the film ultimately rests on something intimate. Anne Hathaway’s Penelope is central to that.

It would have been easy to reduce her to the faithful wife waiting patiently for the adventurer’s return. Nolan wisely avoids it. She has endured a siege of her own. Odysseus has been absent for twenty years. Their son has grown up without him. Ithaca has filled with men who treat the King’s disappearance as an opportunity, consuming his household while circling his wife.

Penelope survives through patience and intelligence.

That makes her much closer to Odysseus than the traditional image of the passive wife suggests. Both survive by reading people, delaying decisions and concealing their intentions when necessary.

Hathaway plays her with restraint. There is anger, but it has been compressed by years of waiting. There is love too, though Nolan never treats love as a magic solution to everything that has happened.

When Odysseus finally returns, the question is not simply whether Penelope recognises him. The more difficult question is whether she can recognise what remains of him.

Twenty years is a long time. The young king who sailed for Troy is gone. The woman he left behind has changed too. Survival has altered them both.

This is where the film is at its strongest. The reunion is not sentimental. There is no suggestion that the past can simply be resumed. Odysseus may have reached Ithaca, but homecoming requires something more difficult than navigation. It requires him to be seen honestly.

That idea runs through the relationship with Telemachus as well.

Tom Holland gives the son a convincing mixture of admiration, resentment and uncertainty. For Odysseus, twenty years is an absence. For Telemachus it is almost a lifetime. He has grown up with a father who is more story than man.

That creates a peculiar distance when they finally meet.

Telemachus wants the man he has imagined. The man who returns is damaged, secretive and violent.

The slaughter of the suitors makes this especially uncomfortable. Nolan does not present it as a simple moment of righteous revenge. The violence is thrilling in the way large-scale cinema can be thrilling, but it is not clean. By this point we have spent too much time watching what violence has already done to Odysseus.

The film understands that brutality can be justified within a story and still leave a mark on the person carrying it out.

That is one of the things that separates this Odyssey from a conventional action epic. Nolan is interested in warriors, but not especially interested in worshipping them.

Even victory carries a cost.

The film also makes a deliberate decision to push the gods into the background. Homer’s gods are constantly interfering, taking sides, offering protection and exacting revenge according to whims that often seem terrifyingly human.

Nolan reduces that machinery.

Homer purists will probably hate that choice, and they are not entirely wrong.

Part of the strange power of the original poem lies in the fact that human beings never fully control their own fate. Nolan prefers responsibility. By pushing the gods away, he leaves Odysseus more exposed. He cannot blame everything on Poseidon or divine hostility. His actions belong to him. His guilt belongs to him.

Something of Homer’s oddness is lost, but something else is gained.

The Calypso episode makes that especially clear.

Charlize Theron’s Calypso is not simply a sorceress keeping a man captive. Nolan turns the island into a kind of emotional suspension. Time barely seems to move. Nothing progresses. It is beautiful, seductive and deadening.

For Odysseus, that makes it dangerous.

Calypso offers something more tempting than immortality. She offers the possibility of not having to go back. No Troy. No Penelope. No Ithaca. No reckoning.

For a man carrying the weight Odysseus carries, that is a serious temptation.

Thankfully, none of this comes at the expense of the pleasures of the original story. The Cyclops is there. The sea is dangerous. Ships look fragile. Men look small and vulnerable.

At its best, the film captures the primal quality these stories require: the sense that the world is vast, indifferent and quite capable of swallowing human beings without noticing.

The physical quality of the production helps enormously. Wood looks like wood. Stone has weight. Rope bites into hands. Ships creak rather than glide. The Mediterranean is beautiful but never friendly.

That gives the fantasy substance.

The monsters feel as though they belong in the same world as the men confronting them.

Lupita Nyong’o’s Helen adds another layer to Nolan’s treatment of Troy. Rather than treating Helen as the woman whose beauty supposedly started a war, the film presents her as a figure who has become an explanation for decisions made by other people. Nolan seems deeply sceptical of the idea that wars begin for the reasons printed on the banners.

That is a far more convincing reading of the myth.

Nyong’o plays Helen with a weary awareness of the stories built around her. She becomes less a cause of history than a victim of the narratives imposed upon her.

The casting of a black woman as Helen attracted predictable arguments, but they seem beside the point. Helen is not a historical figure preserved in a photograph. She is a mythological figure onto whom generations have projected their own idea of beauty. The more interesting question is whether the actor can carry the weight of that projection. Nyong’o can.

For such an enormous production, the film is remarkably doubtful about grandeur. Troy falls. Odysseus survives. He outwits enemies.He makes it home.

Yet almost every victory is presented alongside its aftermath. What did it cost? Who was left behind? What did the victor become?

Those questions connect the film to Oppenheimer and Dunkirk. Nolan remains fascinated by people caught inside events larger than themselves, especially when achievement and catastrophe are difficult to separate.

There are weaknesses.

Nolan sometimes makes the ancient world feel a little too psychologically familiar. His characters occasionally think and speak in ways a modern audience will recognise immediately. That makes the film accessible, but it also smooths away some of the alien quality of Homer.

Honour, hospitality, bloodline, revenge, fate and divine power all operate differently in the poem than they do in modern storytelling.

The film occasionally translates too much.

The reduced role of the gods is part of the same issue. Morally, Nolan’s universe is satisfying. Mythologically, it is less strange.

There are also moments when the scale begins to overwhelm the material. Nolan loves vast landscapes, crashing sound and monumental imagery. Sometimes something monumental is happening. Sometimes two people are having a conversation. The film is strongest when it remembers the difference.

That is why Damon and Hathaway matter so much. They provide an emotional centre that no amount of spectacle could replace.

By the time Odysseus reaches Ithaca, it becomes clear that Nolan has been telling two different stories. One is the familiar one. A man is trying to get home. The other is more interesting. A man is trying to become someone who can live at home again.

The final passages are powerful because they do not pretend return is the same thing as restoration. There is no restoration. There is only whatever comes next. Odysseus has spent years outwitting monsters, kings and gods. Penelope asks something much harder of him.

She asks him to stop performing the legend.

She asks him to be the man who came back.

By Pat Harrington

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Culture Vulture 26 September–2 October 2026

My three highlights are very different beasts. Finding Britain’s Slave Traders with David Olusoga is television doing one of the things television can still do exceptionally well: taking history that has been tidied up, sentimentalised or pushed politely to one side and putting it back in the centre of the national story. An Inspector Calls, meanwhile, demonstrates why Priestley refuses to go away. Eighty years after the play was first performed, its arguments about wealth, responsibility and the consequences of our actions remain irritatingly alive. And for sheer pleasure, Pet Shop Boys Night offers Neil Tennant and Chris Lowe in all their elegant, ironic, melancholy glory.

Elsewhere, there is classic Hitchcock, the return of Blue Lights, a formidable run of late-night films, Led Zeppelin, Steinbeck, Hammer horror, Pop Art, housing drama, the British slave trade, space exploration and even the cultural politics of the buffalo. Not much room for boredom.

Saturday 26 September

10.35am – The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (1943), BBC Two

Powell and Pressburger never do the obvious. They take a story that could have been a straight patriotic salute to a career soldier and turn it into something stranger, richer, and quietly devastating. Time rolls over Clive Candy like a tide — friendships shift, loyalties blur, the country he serves keeps reinventing itself — yet he clings to a code that once made perfect sense and now feels like an antique he’s determined to polish anyway.

Roger Livesey carries all of this with a kind of effortless gravity. He’s funny without trying to be, dignified without pomp, and heartbreakingly human in the moments when he realises the world has moved on and isn’t waiting for him to catch up. The film drifts between eras with a painter’s confidence, one minute broad and comic, the next unexpectedly tender.

People sometimes talk about Colonel Blimp as if it’s a cosy old favourite, but that undersells it. Beneath the warmth and wit sits a sharp critique of British self‑image — the comforting myths, the stubbornness, the belief that honour alone can navigate a century that refuses to play by the old rules. It’s a portrait of a man out of time, drawn with affection but never sentimentality.

The Space Race in Colour — 8pm, Channel 4, 1/2

The opening part explores the extraordinary acceleration of space exploration during the 1950s and 60s. What makes the story endure is not simply the technology but the mixture of scientific ambition, military competition, propaganda and genuine human curiosity driving it. Colour footage gives familiar history an unusual immediacy.

Chrissie Hynde and the Pretenders at the BBC — 8.45pm, BBC Two

A welcome trawl through the BBC archive devoted to one of rock music’s genuinely distinctive figures. Hynde has always possessed that rare combination of toughness, intelligence and effortless cool. The songs have aged rather better than many of the fashions surrounding them. Catch up via iPlayer.

The Space Race in Colour — 9pm, Channel 4, 2/2

The second instalment turns to Kennedy’s 25 May 1961 pledge to land an American on the Moon before the decade was out. An audacious political promise that became an engineering challenge on an almost unimaginable scale. We know the ending; the fascination lies in remembering how improbable it once seemed.

Chrissie Hynde at Glastonbury — 10pm, BBC Two

The Pretenders’ 2023 Glastonbury appearance. Hynde remains a commanding live performer, and the set provides a useful reminder that this catalogue goes a good deal deeper than the obvious hits.

Arena: Alone with Chrissie Hynde — 11.30pm, BBC Two

This 2017 portrait is the more intriguing part of the evening. We follow Hynde from clothes shopping in Paris to hanging out with Sandra Bernhard in New York. Less a conventional rock biography than an intimate encounter with a famously self-contained artist.

Withnail and I — 12.20am, Channel 4 (1987)

Some films don’t age so much as ferment, and Withnail and I is one of them — sharper, stranger, sadder every time you return to it. On the surface it’s a shambolic comedy about two out‑of‑work actors fleeing a grim London flat for a countryside that turns out to be even grimmer. But underneath the booze, the bravado and the endless quotable lines, there’s a story about friendship stretched thin by desperation, about youth quietly slipping away while you’re busy performing your own downfall.

Richard E. Grant’s Withnail is a masterpiece of controlled chaos: all flailing elegance, theatrical misery and the kind of self‑destruction that would be unbearable if it weren’t so funny. Paul McGann’s “I” is the ballast — anxious, hopeful, already half aware that the life they’re clinging to is unsustainable. Together they stumble through a world that feels permanently waterlogged, chasing dignity, escape, or at least a drink strong enough to make the day tolerable.

What stays with you isn’t just the comedy, though it’s still lethal. It’s the melancholy that creeps in around the edges, the sense that this is the last chapter of a friendship that can’t survive adulthood. The final scenes land with a weight the film has been quietly preparing you for — the moment when the performance ends and one of them has to step into a future the other can’t face.

It’s still desperately funny. It’s still painfully sad. And it still feels like one of the great British films about the moment youth gives way to something colder.  A film about friendship, failure and the end of youth masquerading as an extended drinking session.

Nostalgia — 12.35am, BBC Two (2022)

Mario Martone’s brooding return-to-Naples drama follows a man confronting the city and memories he left behind decades earlier.

Martone’s film moves at the pace of someone returning to a place they once knew intimately but can no longer read. Naples isn’t just a backdrop here; it’s a living archive of everything the protagonist abandoned — the streets he grew up on, the rituals he shed, the mistakes that hardened into memory. When he walks back into the city, it’s as if the past has been waiting for him, patient and unforgiving.

There’s a brooding stillness to the way Martone frames the neighbourhoods: sun‑bleached courtyards, narrow alleys that seem to close in as he tries to navigate them, faces that carry decades of unspoken history. The film doesn’t rush to explain anything. It lets the geography do the talking, and the geography has a long memory.

What emerges is a portrait of a man trying to reconcile who he was with who he became — and discovering that the city has its own version of him, one he can’t easily escape. The drama is quiet, almost stealthy, but it builds into something weighty: a reckoning with guilt, loyalty and the kind of nostalgia that isn’t warm at all, just persistent.

It’s patient, atmospheric filmmaking — the sort that trusts you to sit with the silences and the shadows. Martone understands that returning home is never simple, and rarely comforting. Here, it’s a confrontation.

Sunday 27 September

The 39 Steps — 12.40pm, BBC Two (1935)

Hitchcock was still working within the British studio system when he made The 39 Steps, but you can already see the whole toolkit forming — the wrong man on the run, the cool blonde with secrets of her own, the set‑pieces that snap into place with a magician’s timing. What’s striking, ninety years on, is how light it all feels. Robert Donat barely seems to break a sweat as he’s dragged from London to the Highlands and back again, accused of murder, chased by spies, handcuffed to a stranger who’d rather be anywhere else.

There’s a looseness to Donat’s performance that keeps the film buoyant. He’s charming without being smug, quick without being slick, and always looks as though he’s enjoying the absurdity of the situation just enough to keep you on his side. Hitchcock matches him beat for beat: scenes tumble into each other with a rhythm that feels almost musical, jokes land in the middle of danger, and the plot — which is nonsense in the best possible way — clicks forward with beautiful economy.

What’s remarkable is how modern it still feels. The pacing is ferocious, the humour dry, the storytelling stripped down to essentials. No fat, no fuss. Just a man, a mystery, and a director discovering how to make cinema move like a living thing.

It’s fast, funny, and built with such confidence that you can see the future Hitchcock in every frame. Nearly a century later, it still runs like a train.

Our Man in Havana — 12.55pm, Talking Pictures TV (1959)

Greene’s own adaptation gives Carol Reed exactly the material he thrives on: a world where danger and absurdity sit so close together you can’t quite tell which is which. Havana, caught in the last flicker of pre‑revolutionary glamour, becomes a stage for one of the great comic deconstructions of espionage — a place where the shadows are long, the drinks are strong, and the intelligence services are so desperate for information they’ll believe almost anything, provided it arrives on the right form.

Alec Guinness plays Wormold with that immaculate, slightly baffled charm he could summon without effort. He’s a vacuum‑cleaner salesman who stumbles into British intelligence and quickly discovers that inventing agents, plots and blueprints is far easier than actually running them. His sketches of imaginary weapons — lifted straight from the parts of his own appliances — are accepted as gospel by men who should know better. Guinness never pushes the comedy; he lets the madness of the situation do the work, and the result is funnier, and sadder, than a broader performance would allow.

Reed keeps the tone light but never flimsy. Beneath the jokes lies a clear-eyed view of Cold War bureaucracy: the memos, the committees, the blind faith in paperwork, the willingness to inflate nonsense into national security. Glamour is stripped away, replaced by a kind of weary procedural chaos. Everyone is pretending, and everyone is invested in the pretence.

It’s a delight — nimble, dry, and quietly scathing. A spy film where the most dangerous thing isn’t the enemy, but the machinery of espionage itself, grinding on regardless of whether any of it makes sense.

The Lady Vanishes — 2.05pm, BBC Two (1938)

Hitchcock’s British period is full of treasures, but this one has a particular snap to it — a thriller that never forgets to be playful, a comedy that never loses its grip on tension. It begins with the bustle of a European railway station, all chatter and mild chaos, then slips onto a train where reality seems to bend ever so slightly. A woman disappears, and almost everyone insists she was never there. That simple hook becomes a kind of game: who’s lying, who’s confused, and who’s quietly steering events from the shadows.

Margaret Lockwood and Michael Redgrave make a terrific pair, sparring their way through the mystery with a lightness that keeps the film buoyant even as the stakes rise. Hitchcock uses the confined setting beautifully — corridors, compartments, dining cars — each space tightening the screws a little more. The humour is dry, the pacing brisk, and the whole thing has that early-Hitchcock confidence where he seems to be discovering just how much fun he can have with an audience’s nerves.

Eighty‑odd years later, it still works. The wit, the suspense, the sheer elegance of the storytelling — all intact. It’s one of his most entertaining British films, and a reminder that he didn’t need Hollywood to be Hitchcock.

Eva Longoria: Searching for France — 7.15pm, BBC Two

Longoria continues the travel-and-food format with France as her destination. These programmes work best when the celebrity presenter gets out of the way and allows local history, food and people to take over. Full series on iPlayer.

Assault on Precinct 13 — 9pm, Great Action (1976)

Carpenter was still early in his career when he made Assault on Precinct 13, but the confidence is already there — that stripped‑back style, the refusal to waste a frame, the sense that he knows exactly how to wind an audience up without ever raising his voice. The setup is brutally simple: a near‑abandoned police station, a handful of people inside, and a faceless gang outside who seem less like criminals than a force of nature. No speeches, no psychology, just pressure.

What makes it sing is the economy. Carpenter takes a tiny budget and turns it into something elemental. The station becomes a kind of frontier outpost, the siege a modern‑day western smuggled into an urban nightmare. The characters aren’t grand or mythic — they’re ordinary, scared, improvising — which somehow makes the tension worse. You feel every corner tightening, every option closing.

The violence is sudden, the humour bone‑dry, and the atmosphere thick enough to chew. Carpenter’s score pulses underneath it all, that cold, insistent rhythm that feels like a heartbeat you can’t slow down.

It’s lean, merciless filmmaking — a reminder of how much you can do with almost nothing when you understand pacing, space and dread. A siege movie that never pretends to be anything else, and ends up being far more because of it.

Platoon — 10pm, BBC Two (1986)

Oliver Stone’s Vietnam War film remains raw, angry and morally divided. Willem Dafoe and Tom Berenger embody competing visions of soldiering while Charlie Sheen’s young recruit is caught between them. Sometimes unsubtle, certainly, but its fury is genuine.

An Inspector Calls — 10pm, BBC Four

Priestley’s play is a morality tale built like a piece of clockwork: one room, one family, one visitor who refuses to let anyone wriggle out of their own part in a young woman’s death. The 2015 adaptation leans into that structure without ever feeling stagey. It has a kind of eerie stillness — the Birling home glowing with wealth and certainty — and then David Thewlis walks in and the temperature drops.

Thewlis’s Inspector Goole doesn’t raise his voice or posture. He simply arrives, and from that moment the celebration curdles. He has that unsettling calm that makes you lean forward, the sense that he already knows every answer and is waiting to see whether the Birlings will tell the truth or cling to their self‑image. One by one, the family’s polished surfaces crack: the smugness, the entitlement, the insistence that responsibility is something for other people. Priestley’s machinery is visible, yes, but it’s purposeful — each revelation landing with the weight of a moral argument rather than a plot twist.

What the adaptation captures so well is the play’s anger. Not loud, not theatrical — just steady, focused, and aimed squarely at the idea that privilege can insulate you from consequence. It can’t. Priestley knew that in 1945, and the story hasn’t lost any of its bite.

It’s an excellent version, atmospheric without fuss, and anchored by Thewlis’s quietly relentless performance. And if you miss it live, it’s sitting on iPlayer, waiting for you to step into that dining room and watch the façade crumble.

J. B. Priestley documentary — 11.15pm, BBC Four

A 1973 programme made as Priestley approached his 80th birthday. A fitting companion piece, allowing the man himself to reflect on a career that moved between novels, theatre, broadcasting and public argument.

Monday 28 September

Finding Britain’s Slave Traders with David Olusoga — 9pm, BBC Two

The concluding part of Olusoga’s superb and devastating two-parter. Edward Colston’s name became nationally notorious in 2020 when his statue went into Bristol Harbour, but Olusoga’s point is that Colston was no aberration. Hospitals, schools, theatres and civic institutions benefited from fortunes entangled with slavery, while the privatisation and expansion of the trade fed British economic growth.

The casual brutality inflicted upon millions of Africans makes this difficult viewing. It should be. This is not somebody else’s history. It is part of Britain’s national story, and Olusoga is particularly good at joining the individual lives to the larger economic structures. Both episodes are on iPlayer.

Nobody — 9pm, Film4 (2021)

Bob Odenkirk makes an unexpectedly convincing action hero as an apparently ordinary suburban father whose old skills resurface spectacularly. Ridiculous in places, but knowingly so. A very efficient piece of pulp entertainment.

Henry Moore Night — from 10pm, BBC Four

A whole evening devoted to Moore begins with reminiscences from his daughter Mary. BBC Four remains at its best when it raids the archive like this rather than trying to imitate mainstream television.

The Culture Show: Henry Moore — 10.10pm, BBC Four

The late Alan Yentob examines Moore’s work and his relationship with television. Moore understood early that broadcasting could take sculpture beyond galleries and into millions of homes.

Dead Man’s Shoes — 10.50pm, Film4 (2004)

Meadows has made plenty of tough films, but this is the one where the darkness feels baked into the soil. No swagger, no genre polish, no cathartic showdown — just a man walking back into the town that failed his brother and refusing to let anyone pretend it didn’t happen. Paddy Considine gives a performance that seems to vibrate with purpose. He’s frightening, yes, but never in a showy way. The terror comes from how still he is, how certain. You can see the grief sitting just behind the rage, shaping every decision.

The film unfolds like a bad memory resurfacing. Meadows shoots the Midlands with a stark intimacy: empty fields, quiet estates, the kind of places where cruelty can hide because nobody’s looking. The men Considine is hunting aren’t master criminals; they’re small‑time bullies who thought they’d gotten away with something. Meadows refuses to glamorise any of it. Violence arrives without flourish, without slow‑motion, without the usual cinematic cushioning. It’s ugly, abrupt, and leaves a mark.

What lingers, though, isn’t the brutality. It’s the sorrow. The bond between Considine’s character and his brother — shown in those grainy, affectionate flashbacks — gives the film its spine. You understand exactly why he’s doing this, and you understand the cost. By the time the final reckoning arrives, the film has stripped revenge of every comforting illusion. There’s no triumph here, no release. Just consequence.

It’s brutal, intimate, unforgettable — Meadows at his most uncompromising, and Considine at his most extraordinary.

Nickel Boys — 11.05pm, BBC Two (2024)

RaMell Ross approaches Colson Whitehead’s novel with the same instinct that shaped Hale County This Morning, This Evening: a refusal to flatten experience into tidy narrative. Instead of marching through the horrors of a Jim Crow‑era reform school, he asks you to inhabit the boys’ world — its routines, its silences, its sudden ruptures — until the brutality becomes inseparable from the landscape itself.

The story is rooted in real history, and Ross treats that history with a kind of solemn patience. He doesn’t sensationalise the abuse; he lets it sit in the frame, unadorned, impossible to look away from. The camera lingers on faces, on gestures, on the uneasy stillness of a place designed to break children. You feel the weight of the institution not through exposition but through the way the boys move, the way they watch each other, the way hope flickers and dims.

What’s striking is the visual language. Ross favours images that seem to breathe — long takes, unexpected angles, compositions that feel almost tactile. It’s demanding, because he isn’t guiding you with conventional dramatic beats. He’s inviting you into a state of attention, asking you to experience the boys’ vulnerability and resilience from the inside rather than as observers.

The result is purposeful, unsettling, and deeply human. A story of racism and institutional violence told without melodrama, without shortcuts, and without compromise. It’s not an easy watch, but it’s not meant to be.

Monitor: Henry Moore — 11.10pm, BBC Four

A 1960 programme in which Hugh Weldon visits Moore. Television archive material of this kind offers something modern profiles often cannot: the artist speaking before his reputation has hardened completely into history.

Henry Moore at Home — 11.35pm, BBC Four

Moore guides viewers around his own art collection. There is always something revealing about discovering what artists themselves choose to live with.

Face to Face: Henry Moore — 12.25am, BBC Four

John Freeman interviews Moore in the famously austere Face to Face format. No gimmicks, nowhere to hide, just questions and answers. A fine conclusion to the evening.

Tuesday 29 September

The American Buffalo — 3.50pm, PBS America

Ken Burns turns his attention to the buffalo and, inevitably, to America itself. The near-destruction of the animal becomes inseparable from westward expansion, Indigenous dispossession and the mythology of the frontier. Burns can sometimes take his time getting somewhere, but when the subject deserves space, that becomes a strength.

Blue Lights — 9pm, BBC One, 1/6

The Belfast police drama returns. A community event begins to spiral, placing officers back inside the complicated network of loyalties, grudges and pressures that made the earlier series so compelling. Its great strength has always been its refusal to reduce policing in Northern Ireland to simple heroics.

Malcolm X — 10.40pm, BBC One (1992)

Spike Lee doesn’t approach Malcolm X as a monument. He treats him as a man in motion — someone whose beliefs, loyalties and sense of self kept shifting as he tried to make sense of a country determined to deny him dignity. That’s why the film needs its full three‑hour sweep. It isn’t just recounting events; it’s tracing a life lived in chapters, each one reshaping the next.

Denzel Washington’s performance is the spine of it. He doesn’t imitate Malcolm so much as inhabit him, letting the swagger of the early years give way to discipline, then conviction, then a kind of hard‑won clarity. You watch him evolve — the hustler, the prisoner, the minister, the international figure — and Washington makes each transformation feel inevitable without ever losing the man underneath. It’s one of those performances where you forget you’re watching an actor.

Lee matches that intensity with scale. Nightclubs, prison cells, mosques, Harlem streets, Mecca — the film moves through them with purpose, never rushing, never padding. The politics are present, of course, but they’re rooted in experience: the racism Malcolm endured, the community he fought for, the fractures within the movements he joined. The film refuses to freeze him into a single pose. It shows the contradictions, the growth, the moments of doubt, the flashes of revelation.

By the time it reaches its final stretch, the epic length feels earned. You’ve travelled with him, seen the cost of his convictions, and understood why his voice still echoes. 

In Ten Pictures: Britney — 11.10pm, BBC Three

Britney Spears’ extraordinary and often disturbing public life reconstructed through ten photographs. The format works when the images become doorways into larger questions about fame, control and the voracious celebrity culture that surrounded her.

Wednesday 30 September

Bridge of Spies — 6.15pm, Film4 (2015)

Spielberg treats the Cold War as a landscape of quiet manoeuvres rather than grand theatrics, and Bridge of Spies is one of his most elegant explorations of that world. Everything here is measured: the diplomacy, the paranoia, the moral pressure. Tom Hanks plays James Donovan with that steady, unshowy conviction he does better than almost anyone — a lawyer who finds himself negotiating the exchange of Soviet spy Rudolf Abel for downed American pilot Gary Powers, and refuses to abandon the principles that brought him into the job in the first place.

The film moves with a calm confidence, each scene tightening the moral stakes without ever resorting to bombast. Berlin is rendered as a place of frost and fracture, a city where every conversation feels like it might be overheard. Spielberg’s restraint is deliberate: he wants you to feel the weight of diplomacy, the slow grind of negotiation, the way ordinary decency becomes radical in a climate built on suspicion.

And then there’s Mark Rylance. His Abel is a marvel of understatement — a man who seems to occupy the frame without disturbing it, speaking softly, observing everything, revealing almost nothing. It’s one of those performances where the smallest gesture carries the most weight. He steals scenes not by dominating them, but by refusing to perform in the way everyone expects.

The result is a Cold War drama that’s quietly gripping, beautifully crafted, and anchored by two actors who understand that tension doesn’t need noise. It’s a film about integrity under pressure, and Spielberg gives it the space to breathe.

The Shaman’s Grave — 8pm, BBC Four

Germany, 1934. The bones of an ancient priestess are exhumed and appropriated by the National Socialists in support of Aryan mythology. A fascinating reminder that authoritarian regimes do not merely rewrite recent history; they frequently attempt to annex the ancient past as well.

11.25pm – Shame (2011), Film4

McQueen’s films never give you a comfortable angle, and Shame is the one where that refusal becomes the whole point. It’s a portrait of addiction stripped of melodrama, glamour or tidy psychology — just a man circling the same impulses, the same rituals, the same hollow aftermath, until the repetition itself becomes suffocating. Michael Fassbender commits to it with a kind of frightening honesty. There’s no vanity in the performance, no attempt to soften the edges. He plays Brandon as someone who has built his life around avoidance, and the cost of that avoidance is written into every gesture.

The film’s bleakness isn’t decorative. McQueen shoots New York as a place of glass, steel and distance — beautiful in a way that feels hostile, a city that reflects Brandon back at himself without offering any warmth. The camera holds him in long, unbroken takes, forcing you to sit with the discomfort rather than escape it through editing. When Carey Mulligan’s character enters the story, the dynamic shifts: her vulnerability exposes his, and suddenly the emotional isolation he’s been maintaining looks less like control and more like collapse.

What makes Shame so unsettling is its refusal to explain. There’s no neat origin story, no therapeutic breakthrough, no final act redemption. McQueen isn’t interested in diagnosing Brandon; he’s interested in showing what it feels like to be trapped inside a life that looks functional from the outside and is anything but. The film’s power comes from that restraint — the sense that everything you need to understand is already there, in the silence, in the repetition, in the way Fassbender’s face tightens when he’s trying not to feel anything at all.

It’s a remarkable piece of filmmaking, but not something you put on to wind down a night. It asks for attention, patience and a willingness to sit with discomfort. And it earns all of it.

Hammer: Heroes, Legends and Monsters — 12.45am, Sky Arts

A celebration of the studio that gave British horror its own unmistakable combination of Gothic colour, blood, sex and theatricality. Hammer’s Dracula and Frankenstein films were once dismissed as lurid entertainment; their visual influence now seems undeniable.

Thursday 1 October

The Holdovers— 9pm, Film4 (2023)

Payne has a knack for stories that look modest on the surface and then quietly open up into something far more generous. The Holdovers is one of his best: a Christmas tale that refuses to be sentimental, a comedy that keeps finding pockets of bruised humanity, a drama that understands how people can be stuck without quite knowing it.

Paul Giamatti’s Mr Hunham is a marvel of irritation — a man so entrenched in his own disappointment that he’s practically fossilised. He’s funny, but not in a way that asks for approval; the humour comes from how thoroughly he’s barricaded himself behind intellect and routine. Opposite him, Dominic Sessa’s Angus Tully has that brittle teenage bravado that cracks the moment anyone looks too closely. They’re both stranded at Barton Academy for the holidays, two people who would never choose each other’s company and yet slowly, almost reluctantly, begin to matter.

And then there’s Da’Vine Joy Randolph. She gives the film its centre of gravity. Her Mary carries grief like a weight she’s learned to balance, and Randolph plays her with such warmth and sorrow that every scene she’s in deepens the film. She doesn’t push for emotion; she lets it rise naturally, and when it does, it’s devastating.

Payne keeps the tone beautifully judged — warm but never sugary, sharp but never cruel. The period detail is lived‑in rather than nostalgic, the humour dry, the pacing unhurried. What emerges is a story about unlikely connection, about people who’ve been sidelined by life finding a way, briefly, to step back into it.

It’s tender, funny, and quietly profound. A winter film that understands the season isn’t always merry, but that kindness, when it arrives, can feel like a small miracle.

The Client — 9pm, Legend (1994)

John Grisham adaptation with Susan Sarandon and a young Brad Renfro. A boy who knows too much about a mob murder becomes trapped between prosecutors and organised crime. Glossy 1990s legal thriller territory, but Sarandon gives it steel.

Florence Foster Jenkins — 11.05pm, BBC Two (2016)

Meryl Streep plays the famously wealthy New York socialite whose love of singing vastly exceeded her ability to do it. Hugh Grant is particularly good as the husband trying to sustain both Florence’s dreams and the elaborate illusion surrounding her.

Friday 2 October

War — 9pm, Sky Atlantic, also shown at 2am early Friday, catch-up via NOW

Dominic West and Sienna Miller lead a glossy legal drama that embraces the pleasures of the genre rather than apologising for them. Big personalities, courtroom manoeuvring and moral ambiguity: this looks designed to be consumed rather than merely admired.

Scarface — 9pm, Legend (1983)

De Palma doesn’t do restraint here — he builds a world of neon, sweat and cocaine where everything is dialled up past sanity, and then lets Al Pacino tear through it like a man convinced excess is the same thing as destiny. Tony Montana’s rise is all swagger and momentum, a swagger so intoxicating that generations have mistaken it for aspiration. But the film itself is far clearer: this is a man poisoning every room he enters, burning every bridge, destroying anything that might tether him to humanity.

Pacino’s performance is volcanic, but there’s method in the madness. He plays Tony as someone who believes he can outshout consequence, a man whose hunger is so ferocious it becomes grotesque. De Palma matches him with operatic flourishes — the camera swooping, the colours screaming, the violence erupting without warning. It’s vulgar, deliberately so, because the world Tony builds is vulgar. The film isn’t celebrating it; it’s diagnosing it.

What’s often missed is how sad it is. Beneath the swagger sits a man who can’t stop escalating, who mistakes paranoia for strength, who keeps climbing even when the ladder is clearly on fire. By the time the final act arrives, the excess has curdled into inevitability. The fall isn’t a twist — it’s the only possible ending for someone who’s spent the entire film proving he can’t live in any world that isn’t built entirely around him.

Pet Shop Boys Night — from 9.05pm, BBC Four

An evening devoted to Neil Tennant and Chris Lowe, whose combination of dance music, melancholy, irony and immaculate pop intelligence has proved remarkably durable.

Pet Shop Boys at the BBC — 9.05pm, BBC Four

Archive performances remind us how many great singles there are. The Pet Shop Boys understood that pop could be emotionally direct and archly detached at the same time.

The Substance — 10pm, BBC Two (2024)

Coralie Fargeat doesn’t nibble at her themes — she bites straight through them. The Substance is a ferocious piece of body‑horror satire, a film that takes the entertainment industry’s obsession with youth and beauty and pushes it to a grotesque, hilarious, stomach‑turning extreme. Demi Moore is superb as a star whose relevance is slipping, her performance pitched perfectly between icy control and mounting desperation.

The film’s central conceit — a product that allows you to generate a younger, “better” version of yourself — is played not as sci‑fi but as nightmare logic. What follows is messy, excessive, and very deliberately impossible to look away from. Fargeat’s images are loud, sticky, and confrontational; subtlety is not on the menu, and that’s precisely why it works.

Beneath the splatter sits a razor‑sharp anger about how women are consumed, discarded and remade by an industry that worships youth while punishing ageing.

The Last Samurai — 10.45pm, ITV1 (2003)

Tom Cruise stars as an American soldier drawn into Japan during the turbulent transition of the Meiji period. Historically simplified, certainly, but handsome, sincere and powered by an excellent Ken Watanabe performance.

The Wicker Man — 12.15am, BBC Two (1973)

Hardy’s original remains one of British cinema’s strangest, most enduring creations — a film that feels less like a mystery and more like a ritual you’ve accidentally wandered into. Edward Woodward’s devout, increasingly frantic policeman arrives on a remote Scottish island in search of a missing girl, only to find a community whose beliefs, songs and sunlit cheerfulness unsettle him more than any overt threat.

The collision between Christianity and paganism is handled with unnerving calm. Nothing on Summerisle is played as overtly sinister; it’s the normality of the islanders’ behaviour that makes Woodward’s desperation feel so stark. Christopher Lee, in one of his finest performances, presides over it all with a kind of aristocratic serenity — charming, articulate, and utterly convinced of the logic guiding his people.

Folk music, police procedural, religious debate and creeping dread shouldn’t coexist, yet here they fuse into something singular. The film’s power lies in how gently it leads you toward horror, how the bright colours and open landscapes make the final revelation feel both inevitable and shocking.

Forget the remake. This is the real thing — a wonderfully unsettling masterpiece.

Carlito’s Way — 12.25am, Legend (1993)

Al Pacino plays former gangster Carlito Brigante, attempting to escape the criminal world only to discover that old loyalties and bad choices have long memories. De Palma directs with swagger, Sean Penn is wonderfully reptilian, and the final stretch is a masterclass in suspense.

The Pet Shop Boys evening continues with Reel Stories: Pet Shop Boys, the 2023 programme in which Tennant and Lowe sit down with Dermot O’Leary and revisit clips from their career, before concluding with their 2024 Radio 2 in the Park headline performance from the Dreamworld: The Greatest Hits Live tour. Both are also on iPlayer.

Streaming

Netflix

Becoming Led Zeppelin — from Sunday 27 September
A documentary tracing the origins of Led Zeppelin through new interviews, previously unseen footage and performances. The great attraction is that the story is largely told by the band themselves. For devotees there will be familiar territory, but unseen archive material involving Zeppelin is hardly something to complain about.

East of Eden — all seven episodes from Thursday 1 October
Another adaptation of John Steinbeck’s sprawling family saga. Steinbeck gives television plenty to work with: sibling rivalry, parental failure, inherited guilt, money, morality and the constant possibility that people might become something other than what their families expect. Seven episodes should at least give the story room to breathe.

Channel 4 Streaming / Walter Presents

3PU: Paris Police Psychiatric Unit — all six episodes from Friday 2 October
A French thriller centred on the intersection between policing and psychiatry. Walter Presents has built its reputation on European dramas that assume viewers are capable of following something more demanding than the conventional procedural, so this is one to investigate.

Kill Jackie — all eight episodes from Friday 2 October
Catherine Zeta-Jones plays Jackie Price, who has traded her former life as one of Europe’s biggest cocaine dealers for the apparently respectable world of art dealing. Unfortunately, respectable reinvention is rarely enough to make a criminal past disappear. An enjoyably lurid premise and exactly the sort of thing that could become a weekend binge.

Leaving Soon

Stan & Ollie — BBC iPlayer, available until Sunday 27 September
Steve Coogan and John C. Reilly capture Laurel and Hardy late in their careers, touring Britain as their fame begins to fade. Rather than simply impersonating the comedy legends, both actors find the affection, disappointment and dependency beneath the partnership. Gentle, sad and very good. Catch it while you can.

Documentary: The Neo‑Nazi Who Lived a Secret Gay Life

Tahnaiya Russell’s documentary on Nicky Crane is a stark, absorbing portrait of a man living two violently contradictory lives — a notorious British Movement street fighter and a regular on London’s gay scene. It presents Crane’s brutality plainly, recounting incidents such as leading mobs attacking South Asians in Brick Lane and Black cinema‑goers in Woolwich , while also revealing the private world he kept hidden: the camp voice, the sensitivity, the nights spent at Heaven disco .

The film situates Crane within the fractured Britain of the 1970s and 80s — economic decline, racial tension, tabloid hostility, and the rising danger of the AIDS crisis . It shows how youth subcultures became battlegrounds where violence and extremism thrived . What emerges is not an excuse, but a refusal to flatten him: a man driven by delusion, insecurity, symbolism, and the need for belonging, capable of both harm and unexpected tenderness .

It’s a fascinating, unsettling piece of work — one that confronts the era’s anti‑gay hostility, the political weaponisation of sexuality, and the contradictions inside someone who caused real damage yet lived a life at odds with his own ideology.

Read our full review

Availability: The documentary is now available in full on YouTube.

 

 

Radio

Saturday 26 September

Seven Ages of Man with Michael Rosen — 10am and 10.15am, Radio 4
Rosen remains one of those broadcasters capable of taking a large subject and making it sound like a conversation rather than a lecture. Two compact instalments worth making time for.

Mapping India: The World’s Largest Count — 12.05pm, BBC World Service
India at census scale is almost impossible to comprehend: an enormous administrative exercise that is simultaneously about population, identity, resources and political power. Radio is well suited to getting behind the sheer numbers.

Sunday 27 September

The Soldier’s Return — 3pm, Radio 4
Melvyn Bragg’s novel turns its attention to the consequences of war after the soldier comes home. The battlefield may be behind him, but the conflict continues in family life, memory and the difficulty of returning to ordinary existence.

Monday 28 September

The Essay: The Sounding Isle — 9.45pm, Radio 3
Kate Kennedy follows in the footsteps of Dame Ethel Smyth, whose 1886 walking tour of Cornwall became a source of inspiration. A lovely premise: a contemporary composer encountering landscape through the traces left by another musician more than a century earlier.

Tuesday 29 September

A Place Called Home — 2.15pm, Radio 4
The first of six loosely connected dramas set against Britain’s housing crisis. Tanika Gupta places us inside a stressed West London tower block. Housing statistics are everywhere; drama can do something rather different by showing what those pressures actually feel like from inside a home.

Pop Art Remix — 4pm, Radio 4
Artist Gavin Turk challenges the assumption that Pop Art begins and ends in America. He looks back to the 1956 This Is Tomorrow exhibition at London’s Whitechapel Gallery, where British artists were already responding to transatlantic consumer culture with a mixture of attraction and suspicion. Turk’s own Pop, his 1993 reimagining of Warhol’s Elvis, makes him an unusually appropriate guide.

Wednesday 30 September

The Lives and Loves of a She-Devil — 3pm, Radio 4 Extra
Fay Weldon’s gloriously savage tale of marriage, revenge and female reinvention. The title alone announces that respectability is unlikely to survive intact.

Thursday 1 October

The Global Jigsaw — 10.30am, BBC World Service
This edition turns to the Tigris and Euphrates, rivers that are simultaneously geographical features, historical arteries and sources of modern political tension. The best World Service programmes are particularly good at showing how geography becomes geopolitics.

Friday 2 October

Cuttin’ It — Radio 4
Charlene James’s drama follows two Somali girls attending the same South London school who are not friends and who hold sharply opposed attitudes towards female genital mutilation — one shaped by ideas of cultural meaning, the other by an understanding of its brutality.

There is no disguising the subject. It is difficult material and not easy listening. That is precisely why drama can be useful here: it allows competing experiences and loyalties to be voiced without pretending that the harm involved is abstract.

That is Culture Vulture for 26 September–2 October 2026: an unusually strong week in which the archive is every bit as tempting as the new material. If I had to clear three spaces in the diary, they would be for Finding Britain’s Slave Traders, An Inspector Calls and Pet Shop Boys Night — but there is plenty around them worth staying in for.

Selections and reviews by Pat Harrington

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Nowhere Boy Review: Inside the Turbulent Childhood That Shaped John Lennon

There’s a point early in Nowhere Boy when you realise the film isn’t interested in burnishing the Lennon myth. It’s not a Beatles origin story. It’s a study of a boy whose life was shaped by emotional fault lines long before fame ever entered the picture. What emerges is a portrait of a childhood that could have fractured in a dozen directions, most of them far from greatness.

The Household of Cold Fronts and Warm Rooms

John’s upbringing is a patchwork of contradictions. He grows up in Mimi’s house—tidy, ordered, emotionally airtight. She loves him, but in a way that never quite reaches him. She is reserved, cool, and the kind of guardian who keeps her feelings under lock and key. She’s the stable parent figure, but not a comforting one.

And then there’s Uncle George.

David Threlfall plays him with a warmth that feels like sunlight in a house otherwise kept at a brisk temperature. He’s playful, spontaneous, and the closest thing John has to uncomplicated affection. George’s presence brings a looseness to the household, a small “club” between the two males that offsets Mimi’s rigidity. When George dies suddenly, John collapses under the weight of grief, and Mimi’s inability to respond with anything resembling softness becomes one of the film’s quiet heartbreaks.

It’s the first major rupture in a life full of them.

Julia: The Storm That Breaks the Weather

John’s reintroduction to his mother Julia is where the film’s emotional voltage spikes. Anne‑Marie Duff plays her as a woman who feels everything at full volume—impulsive, affectionate, unpredictable. She is someone who greets John with immediate, overwhelming warmth, in stark contrast to Mimi’s emotional reserve .

Julia is intoxicating to him. She’s the one who teaches him banjo, who opens the door to Elvis, who gives him the first taste of artistic possibility. But she’s also unstable, swinging between exuberance and despair. The film hints at a deeper psychological turbulence, and because mother and son barely know each other, their bond carries a strange, uneasy intensity .

John is starved of affection from one mother figure and overwhelmed by it from the other. No wonder he turns to girls his own age with a kind of desperate urgency—he’s trying to locate a version of affection that doesn’t confuse or consume him.

The Emotional Blueprint of a Songwriter

The screenplay, drawn from Julia Baird’s memoir, gives us glimpses of the nightmares John carries — memories of separation, of love abruptly cut off, of connections that never had time to settle. Those early losses shape the emotional undercurrents in his later music.

This is where Nowhere Boy becomes more than a biopic. It becomes a key to understanding Lennon’s songwriting.

You see the origins of the duality in his lyrics—the clear surface meaning and the shadow beneath it. His songs often contain a second emotional layer, something felt rather than stated . That’s the residue of this childhood: joy and sorrow coexisting, affection and abandonment intertwined.

It’s there in ‘Julia.’ It’s there in ‘Mother.’ And you can hear it in the way Lennon could write something uplifting that still carried a bruise.

The Roads Not Taken

One of the film’s most striking themes is how easily Lennon’s life could have gone another way. His father nearly took him to New Zealand. His mother’s instability could have swallowed him. His aunt’s emotional distance could have hardened him. The film shows a boy whose future was never guaranteed, whose genius emerged not from stability but from surviving instability.

If Julia had been consistently present, Lennon might not have become the artist he did . It’s not a comfortable thought, but it’s an honest one. Creativity often grows in the cracks.

Performances That Carry the Weight

Aaron Taylor‑Johnson doesn’t imitate Lennon; he channels him. His face does the emotional heavy lifting—hurt, defiance, longing flickering behind the eyes. Thomas Brodie‑Sangster’s Paul McCartney is a quieter revelation, playing Paul as a boy already sharpening his musical instincts, already aware of Lennon’s brilliance and volatility.

Together, they create a dynamic that feels authentic: admiration, rivalry, and the beginnings of a partnership that would change the world.

A Film About Becoming

Ultimately, Nowhere Boy succeeds because it refuses to be a Beatles prequel. It’s not about destiny. It’s about contingency. It’s about a boy navigating emotional storms, finding refuge in music, and discovering that expression can be a lifeline.

It’s a film about becoming, not being. And that’s what makes it quietly extraordinary.

By Pat Harrington

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Culture Vulture: 19–25 September 2026

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The Jungle That Taught the World to Dream

Part of a series of Counter Culture features on The Jungle Book and Kipling’s influence on cinema, animation, and global mythmaking

Some stories survive because they’re good. Others survive because they change the way future stories are told. The Jungle Book sits squarely in the second camp. Kipling didn’t just give the world Mowgli; he gave storytellers a new imaginative architecture — a way of seeing nature as political, animals as moral agents, and childhood as a crucible rather than a sanctuary. The book didn’t merely endure; it rewired the cultural imagination.

It’s easy to forget how radical the premise was when it first appeared. A human child raised by wolves. A jungle governed by laws older than any village. A world where belonging is earned through action rather than inherited through blood. These ideas didn’t just influence literature; they became the scaffolding for modern mythmaking. Salman Rushdie once wrote that The Jungle Book is “one of the great works of imaginative literature, and its influence is everywhere.” He wasn’t exaggerating. Cinema owes Kipling more than it usually admits.

The First Cinematic Jungle

Long before digital vines and motion‑capture tigers, Kipling had already drawn the blueprint for the cinematic jungle. His forest wasn’t a backdrop. It was a character — moody, political, hierarchical, unpredictable. Filmmakers recognised the potential immediately.

You can see Kipling’s fingerprints in King Kong (1933), where the jungle tests morality rather than merely providing scenery. In Tarzan and His Mate (1934), nature is both sanctuary and threat. In The African Queen (1951), the river becomes a crucible for courage. These films didn’t adapt Kipling directly, but they borrowed his worldview: the wild is a living system that responds to the people inside it.

Kipling himself understood landscapes as political entities. In Letters of Travel (1920), he wrote: “The land has its own soul, and it will not be denied.” Modern filmmakers still operate under that assumption, consciously or not.

Animation Learns to Speak Animal

When animation matured enough to tackle complex worlds, The Jungle Book became one of its foundational texts. Not because of the songs or the humour — those were Disney’s inventions — but because Kipling had already imagined animals with personalities that weren’t human caricatures.

Baloo isn’t a talking bear. Bagheera isn’t a talking panther. The wolves aren’t talking dogs.

They are animals with agency, intelligence, and emotional logic. They speak, but they do not behave like humans. Kipling’s animals have moral codes, loyalties, and political structures. They negotiate. They argue. They enforce laws. They are citizens of a world with its own constitution.

Animation borrowed this model wholesale. Walt Disney said of the 1967 adaptation: “The story works because the relationships work.” Wolfgang Reitherman, who directed it, insisted that Kipling’s animals “had to feel real, even when they talked.”

Other cultures followed suit. Roman Davydov’s Soviet Maugli (1973–1984) treated the animals with near‑documentary seriousness. The Japanese anime Jungle Book Shōnen Mowgli (1989) leaned into emotional realism. Hayao Miyazaki, whose films often echo Kipling’s ecological sensibility, once remarked: “Nature is not a backdrop. It is a protagonist.”

Kipling taught animation how to speak animal — without losing the animal.

The Hybrid Hero Becomes a Cinematic Archetype

Mowgli is one of cinema’s earliest hybrid heroes — a character who belongs to multiple worlds without being fully claimed by either. Modern film is obsessed with this archetype.

The outsider who sees clearly. The child raised outside their birth culture. The protagonist who straddles two identities. The hero who refuses to fit neatly into categories.

But Mowgli was there first.

Filmmakers love characters who exist between worlds because they reveal hypocrisy. They expose cracks in systems. They challenge the idea that identity must be singular. You can trace Mowgli’s lineage through Tarzan, Superman, Harry Potter, Moana, Rey in Star Wars, and even Spock in Star Trek. All of them are shaped by dual belonging — or dual exile.

Joseph Campbell wrote in The Hero with a Thousand Faces (1949): “The hero is the one who comes to know.” Mowgli fits that definition perfectly. His identity is not inherited; it is learned.

The Jungle as Mythmaking Engine

Modern mythmaking — the stories that cross borders, languages, and cultures — often relies on a few key ingredients:

a child hero a dangerous world a moral code older than humanity a community built on loyalty rather than lineage a villain who embodies entitlement a landscape that shapes destiny

Kipling had all of this in Volume One. He created a myth structure that filmmakers still use today.

The jungle became a metaphor for childhood, danger, identity, belonging, ecological balance, and political power. It became a place where characters confront themselves. A place where innocence is tested. A place where loyalty matters more than words.

Kipling understood myth instinctively. In Something of Myself (1937), he wrote: “If history were taught in the form of stories, it would never be forgotten.” He wasn’t just writing tales; he was building memory systems.

Global Adaptation and Cultural Rewriting

Every culture that adapts The Jungle Book rewrites it. That’s the mark of a myth. It bends. It absorbs. It transforms. It becomes local without losing its core.

In Soviet Russia, Mowgli became a symbol of collective responsibility. In Japan, he became a figure of emotional introspection. In India, he became a symbol of national identity and ecological harmony. In the West, he became a symbol of individualism and self‑discovery.

The jungle shifts too — sometimes lush, sometimes brutal, sometimes mystical, sometimes political. But it always retains its autonomy. It is never a passive landscape. It is never a colonial possession. It is never a backdrop for human triumph.

This is why the story travels so well. It is not tied to a single culture. It is tied to the universal tension between belonging and danger.

The Modern Cinematic Jungle

Today’s cinematic jungles — the ones built with digital vines and photorealistic animals — still follow Kipling’s rules:

Nature has agency. Animals have politics. Danger is constant. Belonging is earned. Innocence is not protection. Identity is fluid.

Even the most technologically advanced films echo the emotional logic of Kipling’s world. Jon Favreau, director of the 2016 adaptation, said: “Technology lets us build the jungle, but Kipling built the relationships.” That’s the key. The myth survives because the emotional architecture is intact.

The technology changed. The myth didn’t.

The Final Influence

Trace the lineage of modern cinema — adventure films, ecological epics, animated classics, hybrid‑identity narratives — and Kipling’s fingerprints are everywhere. Not because filmmakers consciously imitate him, but because he shaped the imaginative architecture they inherited.

He taught storytellers that nature is political. He taught animators that animals can be characters. He taught filmmakers that identity can be fluid. He taught mythmakers that belonging is earned. He taught audiences that childhood can be dangerous and formative. He taught the world that the jungle is not a place — it is a force.

T.S. Eliot once wrote, “Humankind cannot bear very much reality.” Kipling disagreed. He believed we could bear it — if we learned from the animals.

Mowgli didn’t just survive the jungle. He changed the way the world tells stories about it.

And perhaps that’s the real legacy: a reminder that the wild — literal or metaphorical — is where we discover who we are. Kipling’s jungle is not a retreat from civilisation. It is a confrontation with truth.

The jungle taught the world to dream. It also taught the world to listen.

By Mia Fulga

 

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Culture Vulture 29 August–4 September 2026

There’s a distinctly end-of-summer feel to this week’s Culture Vulture, but the schedules are far from winding down. In fact, there’s a very strong run of films across the week, some returning television favourites and a streaming slate which ranges from period crime to superheroes and prestige drama.

Three things stand out for me. First, BBC Two gives us the complete Godfather trilogy across Sunday, Monday and Tuesday. Whatever your view of the third film, that is still quite a proposition.

Secondly, there’s an excellent musical thread running through the weekend, from Wham! and the Beach Boys to the Mamas and the Papas, not forgetting a Proms evening devoted to James Bond. And finally, Gogglebox returns for its 28th series on Friday. There are programmes which reinvent television and programmes which simply understand television. Gogglebox has always belonged rather comfortably in the second category.

Here’s what caught my eye.

Saturday 29 August

6.10pm, PBS America — Athens: Birthplace of Democracy

A look back to the city and political culture which gave the Western world one of its most enduring — if frequently contested — ideas.

7.30pm, BBC Two — BBC Proms: Daniel Bartholomew-Poyser Has a Licence to Thrill

Daniel Bartholomew-Poyser and the BBC Concert Orchestra turn their attention to the music of James Bond. Bond themes have always been unusually ambitious bits of popular music in their own right, so there is plenty here for an orchestra to get its teeth into. Catch up via BBC iPlayer.

9pm, BBC Four — Kabul

Drama set against the chaos surrounding the fall of Kabul in August 2021. The full series is available on BBC iPlayer.

9pm, Sky Arts — Chaplin (1992)

Attenborough’s sweeping biopic isn’t shy about its own grandeur, and Robert Downey Jr meets that scale with a performance that’s all quicksilver brilliance and bruised vulnerability. He doesn’t impersonate Chaplin so much as inhabit him — the physical precision, the darting intelligence, the melancholy that sits just behind the eyes. It’s a turn that reminds you how astonishingly gifted Downey was even before his later reinventions.

The film itself is a handsome, old‑school studio epic: big sets, big emotions, big narrative leaps. Attenborough charts Chaplin’s rise from poverty to global fame with a kind of museum‑quality reverence, but he’s at his best when he lets the cracks show — the political battles, the personal failings, the way genius and ego grind against each other. The supporting cast is a parade of familiar faces, each dropping in to sketch a moment in Chaplin’s turbulent life, but it’s Downey who keeps the whole thing alive, electric, and strangely intimate.

Not a perfect film, but a fascinating one — and worth revisiting for a performance that still feels like lightning in a bottle.

9pm — Wham! 10 Days in China

A look at Wham!’s groundbreaking 1985 visit to China, when George Michael and Andrew Ridgeley became the first major Western pop act to tour the country.

10.25pm, BBC Two — Wham! at the BBC

More George and Andrew, this time through the BBC archives.

10.30pm, Channel 5 — Kinky Boots (2005)

A film that knows exactly what it’s doing and does it with a grin. Kinky Boots takes the very real anxieties of a failing Northampton shoe factory and spins them into a buoyant, big‑hearted fable about reinvention. The premise — pivoting from sturdy brogues to flamboyant, high‑heeled fetish boots — is inherently comic, but the charm lies in how sincerely it treats the people involved.

Joel Edgerton gives the factory’s reluctant heir a nicely rumpled decency, but it’s Chiwetel Ejiofor who detonates the film’s energy. His Lola is a force of nature: glamorous, sharp, wounded, and utterly magnetic. Every scene he’s in lifts the film from gentle workplace comedy into something with real emotional voltage. The dynamic between Lola and the factory lads — suspicion giving way to curiosity, then respect — is handled with a light touch that never tips into sermonising.

It’s a story about survival, pride, and the unexpected places solidarity can bloom. Warm, funny, and quietly radical in its insistence that tradition and transformation don’t have to be enemies. A crowd‑pleaser with a bit of steel in its spine.

1.35am, BBC Two — Compartment No. 6 (2021)

A film that moves in small, almost imperceptible shifts — the kind that creep up on you and suddenly feel enormous. Compartment No. 6 traps two strangers in the narrow, rattling purgatory of a long train ride: a Finnish archaeology student fleeing a complicated relationship, and a Russian miner whose bluntness initially feels like a personal attack. It begins in discomfort — the kind of social claustrophobia anyone who’s ever been stuck in the wrong carriage at the wrong time will recognise.

What follows is beautifully observed, never hurried. Director Juho Kuosmanen has a gift for noticing the tiny gestures that reveal people: a half‑smile, a defensive shrug, the way irritation softens into curiosity. The film’s great strength is its refusal to force intimacy; instead, it lets connection emerge in the gaps between language, in shared cigarettes, in the bleak humour of bad weather and worse circumstances.

The Arctic Circle looms like a metaphor — cold, distant, unreachable — yet the journey towards it becomes unexpectedly warm. By the time the train judders into its final stops, the film has quietly built something tender out of loneliness, miscommunication and the strange, fragile alliances that form when two people have nowhere else to go.

Sunday 30 August

5.25pm, Sky Arts — The Beach Boys: Endless Harmony

The Beach Boys story told through archive footage, music and the complicated relationships behind all those immaculate harmonies.

5.25pm, BBC Two — The Italian Job (1969)

A film so woven into British pop culture that it barely needs announcing — but it deserves celebrating. The Italian Job remains the purest expression of late‑60s swagger: Michael Caine at his most effortlessly charismatic, a caper built on cheek and precision, and a vision of Britain that believed ingenuity could outshine brute force.

Everything about it is engineered for delight. The Minis — red, white and blue — dart through Turin with balletic confidence, turning the city into a playground of tunnels, rooftops and improbable escape routes. Quincy Jones’ score snaps and struts. The supporting cast, from Noël Coward’s magnificently patrician Mr Bridger to Benny Hill’s chaotic cameo, adds texture to the film’s comic‑criminal ecosystem.

And then there’s that ending. The bus, the cliff, the gold, the unresolved teeter that has fuelled half a century of debate. It’s the perfect final note: audacious, funny, and refusing to tidy itself away. A caper that knows the value of leaving you suspended — grinning, guessing, and wanting just a little more.

6.20pm, ITV4 — Waterloo (1970)

Bondarchuk’s thunderous epic of Napoleon’s last stand still has the power to astonish. Before computers made massed battles a matter of software, this was done the hard way: tens of thousands of real soldiers manoeuvred across vast fields, cavalry charges thundering through smoke, and artillery barrages staged with unnerving force.

Rod Steiger gives a brooding, volatile Napoleon; Christopher Plummer’s Wellington is all cool calculation. But the real star is the scale — the sheer logistical madness of recreating Waterloo with such detail and weight. It’s old‑school spectacle, the kind that reminds you what cinema can do when ambition meets an army.

7pm, BBC One — Hamza: African Birds of Prey

Hamza Yassin turns his attention to Africa’s magnificent birds of prey. Catch up via BBC iPlayer.

7.40pm, Sky Arts — California Dreaming: The Songs of the Mamas and the Papas

The music and story of one of the defining vocal groups of the 1960s.

9pm, Film4 — A Few Good Men (1992)

Cruise brings the drive; Nicholson brings the detonation. Rob Reiner’s military courtroom drama is sharply written and tightly paced, but it’s Nicholson who tilts the whole thing on its axis. As Colonel Jessup, he strides in late, occupies the film for barely a handful of scenes, and still manages to dominate it through sheer force of personality.

Cruise’s young Navy lawyer pushes, probes and tries to stay upright under the weight of the institution he’s challenging, but the film’s electricity comes from the collision between the two men — idealism meeting absolute authority. By the time Nicholson delivers his famous tirade, the verdict is already in: he steals the picture cleanly, confidently, and without breaking a sweat.

9pm, BBC One — Vigil

The thriller returns to the schedules, with the full series available on BBC iPlayer.

9pm, ITV1 — Trigger Point

More bomb disposal tension, with the full series available on ITVX.

10pm, BBC Two — The Godfather (1972)

Coppola’s first chapter in the Corleone saga remains one of cinema’s great acts of world‑building: shadowed rooms, whispered loyalties, and violence delivered with ritualistic calm. Brando’s Vito is the film’s centre of gravity, a weary patriarch whose authority seems to bend the air around him.

But it’s Pacino who quietly reshapes the story. His Michael begins as the outsider — the son who insists he’s not part of the family business — and Pacino plays those early scenes with a stillness that barely registers as ambition. Across three hours, that stillness hardens. Every decision, every silence, every glance nudges him further into the darkness.

By the time he closes the door in the final shot, the transformation is complete: a man who thought he could stand apart has become the very thing he feared. It’s one of the most controlled, chilling performances ever put on film.

11pm, Yesterday — Sir Alex Ferguson: Never Give In (2021)

A portrait of Ferguson that refuses to settle for the familiar mythology. Yes, the football is there — the trophies, the authority, the ferocious competitive instinct — but the documentary’s real interest lies elsewhere. It looks at the man after the noise has faded: his childhood, his marriage, the rhythms of family life, and the frightening vulnerability of his 2018 brain haemorrhage.

What emerges is a study in memory and mortality. Ferguson reflects on the past not as a sequence of victories but as a series of turning points, losses, recoveries, and the people who shaped him. The film’s quietness is its strength. It shows how someone defined by control confronts the one thing he cannot command: time.

Bank Holiday Monday 31 August

7pm, Sky Arts — Six Minutes to Midnight (2019)

A quietly tense pre‑war thriller with a premise that feels almost too strange to be true: an English finishing school on the Sussex coast where the daughters of high‑ranking Nazi officials are being groomed into perfect ambassadors for the Reich. Eddie Izzard plays a teacher who stumbles into a web of espionage, suspicion and political brinkmanship as Europe edges towards catastrophe.

The film mixes seaside gentility with gathering storm clouds — polite manners, crisp uniforms and the unsettling sense that something poisonous is being cultivated behind closed doors. It’s a story about loyalty, identity and the danger of looking away just when history is about to turn.

8pm, BBC One — The Royal Edinburgh Military Tattoo

One of Edinburgh’s great annual spectacles, with massed bands, military precision and the Castle providing a backdrop television could scarcely improve upon.

10.30pm, BBC Two — The Godfather Part II (1974)

The rare sequel that doesn’t just match its predecessor but deepens it. Coppola builds a vast, mournful tapestry of power, family and the corrosive cost of ambition, cutting between two men at two moments in American history: Michael consolidating his empire in the 1950s, and young Vito climbing from poverty to influence half a century earlier.

Pacino’s performance is glacial, terrifying in its restraint — a man hollowing himself out in the name of control. De Niro, meanwhile, gives Vito warmth and quiet resolve, showing how the foundations of the Corleone dynasty were laid with community, necessity and a kind of rough‑edged honour.

The contrast is devastating. One rises to protect his family; the other destroys his in the name of protecting it.

11pm, BBC One — Four Weddings and a Funeral (1994)

The film that turned Richard Curtis’s brand of romantic comedy into a global export. Hugh Grant’s stammering charm was already familiar, but here it crystallised into something irresistible: the diffident Englishman who can’t quite get out of his own way.

What’s easy to forget is just how big a cultural moment this was. A modestly budgeted British film that became an international phenomenon, reshaping the genre for a decade and launching a wave of imitators. Its mix of sharp wit, emotional honesty and unabashed sentiment still works because it never sneers at its characters — it lets them be awkward, hopeful, foolish and occasionally profound.

11.30pm, Film4 — Carol (2015)

Todd Haynes crafts this with exquisite control — every glance, every pause, every shift in light doing as much storytelling as the dialogue. Cate Blanchett’s Carol is poised, elegant, and quietly aching; Rooney Mara’s Therese is all tentative curiosity, drawn into a relationship that feels both impossible and inevitable.

The film moves like a piece of chamber music: restrained, precise, and emotionally devastating in its quietest moments. Haynes lets the 1950s setting press in from all sides — the social constraints, the unspoken rules — while never losing sight of the tenderness at the centre.

2.50am, Channel 4 — Sick of Myself (2022)

A pitch‑black Norwegian comedy that treats narcissism like a competitive sport. The film follows a young woman so desperate to stay at the centre of everyone’s attention that she escalates her behaviour from petty manipulation to outright self‑harm, all in the name of sympathy, notoriety and social currency.

It’s viciously funny and deeply uncomfortable — a satire of performative culture where every gesture is a bid for relevance and every relationship becomes collateral damage. The further she pushes things, the more horrifying and absurd it becomes, until you’re laughing and wincing in the same breath.

A brutally sharp look at the hunger to be seen, and the chaos that follows when that hunger becomes the whole personality.

Tuesday 1 September

3.10pm, Film4 — Send Me No Flowers (1964)

One of the most purely enjoyable Day–Hudson comedies, built on a premise so daft it becomes irresistible. Rock Hudson’s hypochondriac is convinced he’s dying, and in a fit of misguided gallantry decides the best thing he can do for Doris Day’s devoted wife is to line up her next husband.

What follows is a bright, breezy spiral of misunderstandings, jealousies and suburban chaos, powered by the duo’s effortless chemistry and a script that knows exactly how to let them sparkle. It’s feather‑light, colourful and cheerfully silly — the kind of comedy that feels like opening a window on a sunnier world.

5.15pm, Film4 — Spartacus (1960)

Kubrick’s Roman epic is colossal in every sense, but its most radical force sits behind the camera. Spartacus is the film that helped break the Hollywood blacklist: Kirk Douglas insisted that Dalton Trumbo — one of the “Hollywood Ten,” jailed and exiled from the industry for refusing to name names during the McCarthy anti‑Communist purges — be credited under his own name. It was an act of defiance that changed careers and cracked open one of the ugliest chapters in American film history.

On screen, the scale is staggering. Douglas’s Spartacus leads a slave revolt that feels genuinely seismic, and Laurence Olivier presides over Rome with icy patrician menace. Kubrick marshals armies, landscapes and political intrigue with a precision that still impresses, but the film’s heartbeat is its politics — both the rebellion it depicts and the one it quietly enacted in Hollywood.

A landmark of spectacle and a landmark of resistance.

9pm, BBC Three — Scamanda

A four-part documentary telling the extraordinary story of Amanda Riley, whose fraudulent cancer story deceived thousands.

11pm, BBC Four — I Am Martin Parr

A portrait of one of Britain’s most distinctive photographers. Available on BBC iPlayer.

11.05pm, BBC Two — The Godfather Part III (1990)

The trilogy’s closing chapter has lived in the shadow of its predecessors for decades, but taken on its own terms it’s a sombre, compelling epilogue. Coppola shifts the tone from operatic violence to something more reflective: a story about age, regret and the impossibility of outrunning one’s past.

Pacino’s Michael is older, wearier, and haunted by the choices that built his empire. The performance is fascinating — the coiled intensity is still there, but now it’s tempered by guilt and a longing for legitimacy that he can never quite grasp. Andy García brings volatile energy as Vincent, the heir apparent, while the film’s Vatican‑entangled plot adds a layer of moral rot that feels entirely appropriate for Michael’s final act.

It may not reach the heights of the first two films, but there is real power in watching a man who once controlled everything realise that the bill for his sins has finally come due.

11.45pm, Film4 — Journeyman (2017)

Paddy Considine’s second feature is a quietly devastating piece of work — intimate, unshowy and emotionally exact. He writes, directs and stars as Matty Burton, a middleweight boxer whose life is shattered by a catastrophic brain injury sustained during a title defence. What begins as a familiar sports narrative turns into something far more fragile: a study of identity, recovery and the terrifying uncertainty of a mind that no longer behaves as it once did.

Considine’s performance is remarkable in its vulnerability, and Jodie Whittaker matches him beat for beat as a partner trying to hold together a life that has suddenly come apart. The film never tips into melodrama; it stays close to the small, painful details of rehabilitation — the confusion, the anger, the flickers of hope.

A moving, humane drama about rebuilding from the inside out.

.1.35am, Film4 — Pixie (2020)

A darkly comic Irish caper that plays everything with a wink and a threat. Olivia Cooke is terrific as Pixie, a young woman whose charm is matched only by her talent for trouble. After a heist goes sideways, she heads off across rural Ireland with two hapless accomplices, a bag of stolen drugs and a growing list of very dangerous people trying to catch up.

The tone is gleefully off‑kilter — gun‑toting priests, eccentric gangsters, sharp dialogue and a sense that every decision is making things worse in a slightly hilarious way. Cooke anchors it all with a performance that’s sly, unpredictable and enormous fun. A lively late‑night watch with a streak of mischief running right through it.

Wednesday 2 September

10.55pm, Legend — The Fighter (2010)

A tough, lived‑in boxing drama that works because it’s really about the people orbiting the ring rather than the punches thrown inside it. Mark Wahlberg plays Micky Ward with understated grit, but the film’s charge comes from Christian Bale as Dicky Eklund — a former fighter, now a chaotic, crack‑addicted mentor whose glory days have curdled into delusion.

Bale doesn’t just play Dicky; he disappears into him. The jittery energy, the compulsive charm, the self‑sabotage — it’s all there, and it gives the film a rawness that most sports biopics never touch. Amy Adams adds steel as Charlene, the woman trying to pull Micky out of the gravitational pull of his family, while David O. Russell keeps the whole thing moving with bruising momentum.

A story about loyalty, damage and the fight to break free, anchored by one of Bale’s most ferociously committed performances.

Thursday 3 September

12.55pm, Legend — The Assassination Bureau (1969)

A wonderfully odd slice of Edwardian mischief, pitched somewhere between black comedy, adventure caper and social satire. Oliver Reed plays Ivan Dragomiloff, the suavely amoral head of a professional organisation devoted to murder-for-hire — a gentlemanly league of assassins who treat killing as a matter of honour, etiquette and contractual obligation.

Diana Rigg, sharp as ever, enters the story as a journalist determined to expose the Bureau’s existence. Her plan? Commission them to kill their own leader. What follows is a playful chase across Europe, full of elaborate assassination attempts, period charm and a tone that winks at the audience without ever tipping into outright farce.

It’s eccentric, stylish and very much its own thing — a late‑60s curiosity powered by Reed’s swagger and Rigg’s impeccable wit.

2.35pm, Talking Pictures TV — The Durant Affair (1962)

A compact, no‑nonsense British crime drama, the sort of film Talking Pictures excels at rescuing from obscurity. The Durant Affair sits firmly in that fascinating corner of early‑60s British cinema where modest budgets, tight scripts and character actors doing solid work combine into something unexpectedly engaging.

It’s not a headline title, and that’s precisely the appeal. These lesser‑screened crime pictures offer a snapshot of a filmmaking culture that was grittier, more workmanlike and often more inventive than the prestige productions of the era. If you enjoy digging into the hidden shelves of British film history, this is exactly the kind of curio that rewards the effort.

9pm, GREAT! TV — Kind Hearts and Coronets (1949)

One of the crown jewels of Ealing comedy: elegant, wicked and delivered with a straight face sharp enough to cut glass. Dennis Price is superb as Louis Mazzini, the impeccably polite young man who decides that a handful of inconvenient relatives stand between him and a dukedom — a problem he approaches with calm, murderous efficiency.

Alec Guinness’s tour‑de‑force turn is the film’s great delight: he plays almost the entire D’Ascoyne family, from fussy parsons to pompous admirals to suffragette firebrands, each performance perfectly judged and slyly exaggerated without ever breaking the film’s refined tone.

It’s a comedy of manners wrapped around a string of killings, delivered with such charm and precision that its darkness feels positively civilised. A masterpiece of dry British wit.

9pm, BBC Two — A House Through Time

David Olusoga continues his exploration of the lives hidden within the history of a single house. The full series is available on BBC iPlayer.

12.05am, BBC Two — Respect (2021)

Jennifer Hudson doesn’t just play Aretha Franklin — she channels her. The film follows Franklin’s rise from a prodigiously gifted church singer to the undisputed Queen of Soul, tracing the battles she fought both publicly and privately to claim her voice, her artistry and her autonomy.

Hudson’s performance is the anchor: vocally astonishing, emotionally grounded, and delivered with a reverence that never slips into imitation. The film moves through the key chapters — the early gospel years, the breakthrough hits, the personal struggles, the political awakening — with a warmth that honours Franklin’s legacy even when confronting its darker corners.

It’s a conventional music biopic in structure, but the power of the story and the sheer force of Hudson’s presence make it resonate. A celebration of a singular talent and the long, hard road she walked to become herself.

Friday 4 September

9pm, ITV2 — The Dark Knight (2008)

Christopher Nolan’s Batman film remains a defining moment in modern superhero cinema — muscular, morally tangled and executed with a seriousness that reshaped what the genre could be. But its gravitational centre is, of course, Heath Ledger’s Joker, a performance so ferociously alive it still feels dangerous.

Ledger’s Joker isn’t a villain with a plan; he’s an agent of rupture. Everything about him — the smeared makeup, the hunched posture, the voice that slides between mock‑polite and feral — suggests someone who has studied human behaviour purely to learn how best to unsettle it. He isn’t interested in money or power; he wants to expose the fragility of order, to prove that civilisation is only ever one bad day away from collapse.

The brilliance of the performance is its unpredictability. Ledger plays him as a man who delights in rewriting the rules mid‑sentence, whose jokes land like threats and whose threats land like philosophy. Every scene tightens because you genuinely don’t know what he’ll do next. It’s not just a great comic‑book villain; it’s one of the great screen performances of the century.

Around him, Christian Bale’s Batman and Aaron Eckhart’s Harvey Dent form the film’s moral spine, but Ledger is the spark that turns the whole thing into a battle for the soul of Gotham. A landmark — and a reminder of how one extraordinary performance can tilt an entire film into legend.

9pm, Legend — Once Upon a Time in America (1984)

Sergio Leone’s final film is a vast, mournful gangster epic — less interested in crime than in the long shadows it casts over a life. Robert De Niro’s Noodles drifts through the story like a man permanently out of time, haunted by friendships broken, betrayals committed and memories that refuse to settle into anything stable.

Leone tells the tale at an unhurried, almost dreamlike pace. Scenes unfold with the weight of recollection rather than the urgency of plot: childhood in the Jewish ghettos of New York, the rise into organised crime, the fractures that tear the group apart, and the decades‑later reckoning that may or may not be real. The film’s structure — looping between eras, blurring the line between what happened and what Noodles believes happened — gives it a melancholy that’s closer to elegy than thriller.

De Niro is superb, playing Noodles as a man defined by regret, while James Woods brings electric volatility as Max, the friend whose ambition becomes a kind of curse. Ennio Morricone’s score does the rest, bathing the film in sorrow and nostalgia.

A sprawling, hypnotic masterpiece — a gangster film that moves at the pace of memory, and hits with the force of everything time refuses to heal.

9pm, Channel 4 — Gogglebox

It’s back for its 28th series. The format remains ridiculously simple — people watching television while we watch them — but when the casting works, so does the programme. Catch up via Channel 4 streaming.

9.20pm, Talking Pictures TV — Dr Jekyll and Sister Hyde (1971)

One of Hammer’s strangest and most intriguing late‑period horrors — a gender‑swapping twist on Robert Louis Stevenson that lets the studio lean into both gothic melodrama and something far more subversive. Ralph Bates plays Dr Jekyll as a driven, increasingly unhinged scientist whose experiments in extending human life lead him to create a female alter ego: Sister Hyde, played with icy poise by Martine Beswick.

The transformation conceit gives Hammer room to explore identity, repression and desire in a way that feels unusually bold for the era. Sister Hyde isn’t just a murderous counterpart; she’s a manifestation of everything Jekyll fears and covets, a figure who moves through Victorian London with a confidence and sensuality that destabilises him completely.

It’s lurid, atmospheric and knowingly provocative — a film that takes a familiar story and twists it into something slyly transgressive. One of Hammer’s more unusual delights.

11.05pm, BBC Two — Harvest (2024)

A quietly gripping drama, Harvest works in the space between rural stillness and creeping unease. Set in a farming community where tradition, hardship and unspoken tensions shape every relationship, the film follows a family facing a season that threatens to break them — financially, emotionally and morally.

What makes it compelling is its restraint. The drama unfolds in small, telling moments: the weight of responsibility passed between generations, the strain of keeping a livelihood alive, the way isolation can magnify every fear. The performances are grounded and naturalistic, giving the film a lived‑in authenticity that makes its darker turns hit harder.

It’s a thoughtful, atmospheric piece — a modern British drama that finds its power not in big plot swings but in the quiet, accumulating pressure of a life tied to the land. A strong, understated choice to round off the week.

Streaming

Netflix

Monster’s Ball — available now

A stark, emotionally bruising drama that moves with a quiet, deliberate intensity. Set against the backdrop of America’s deep racial and social fractures, the film follows two people whose lives have been shaped by grief, anger and generational damage, and who find themselves drawn together in circumstances that should make connection impossible.

What gives the film its power is the restraint: the performances are raw without ever tipping into melodrama, and the story unfolds in small, painful increments. It’s a film about the weight people carry, the ways they fail each other, and the fragile possibility of redemption. Hard‑hitting, but worth the emotional toll.

H Is for Hawk — available now

This adaptation of Helen Macdonald’s acclaimed memoir captures the strange, intimate process of training a goshawk while navigating overwhelming grief. It’s part nature study, part psychological portrait, and part meditation on how humans seek meaning in the wild when their own lives feel unmanageable.

The film leans into the book’s reflective tone, lingering on landscape, silence and the uneasy bond between handler and bird. It’s gentle but piercing, a story about control, surrender and the ways we try to rebuild ourselves through ritual and obsession. A beautifully made piece of contemplative nonfiction.

The Gentlemen — Season 2, from Thursday 3 September

Guy Ritchie’s criminal world returns for a second series, and it’s as swaggering, chaotic and sharply dressed as ever. The new run expands the turf wars, double‑crosses and entrepreneurial villainy that defined the first season, giving the ensemble more room to stretch into their particular flavours of misbehaviour.

There’s a confidence to the storytelling now: the humour is darker, the schemes more elaborate, and the tone sits comfortably between crime thriller and high‑end mischief. If you enjoyed the first season’s mix of violence, charm and sheer audacity, Season 2 doubles down on all of it.

Channel 4 Streaming / Walter Presents

Cold Courage — all episodes from Tuesday 1 September

A tense, politically charged thriller that follows two women drawn into a shadowy organisation dedicated to exposing corruption. The series moves between London’s media world, far‑right extremism and the murky spaces where influence and intimidation overlap, giving it a contemporary edge that feels uncomfortably close to reality.

What stands out is the character work: both leads are damaged, determined and navigating trauma while trying to dismantle something far bigger than themselves. It’s stylish, tightly plotted and full of the kind of moral ambiguity Walter Presents specialises in.

Devil’s Throat: The Demon’s Fall

A Bulgarian thriller steeped in folklore, superstition and the darker corners of rural life. The series blends procedural investigation with mythic undertones, creating an atmosphere where every discovery feels like it might be pointing toward something older and more unsettling than simple criminality.

The pacing is deliberate, the visuals striking, and the tension builds from the clash between modern policing and ancient belief. It’s one of those shows that creeps under the skin — not loud, but quietly unnerving.

Paramount+

Humans — all episodes from Thursday 3 September

A return to one of the most thoughtful sci‑fi dramas of recent years. Humans explores artificial intelligence not through spectacle but through domestic life, asking what happens when synthetic beings become indistinguishable from the people they serve.

The new availability of all episodes gives viewers the chance to appreciate the show’s slow‑burn evolution: from questions of labour and autonomy to full‑blown debates about consciousness, rights and revolution. It’s smart, grounded and emotionally resonant — sci‑fi with something real to say.

Sweden: Demons Fall — Series 2, from Friday 4 September

The second series deepens the supernatural mystery at the heart of this Swedish thriller. What began as a story of strange occurrences in a remote community now expands into a broader exploration of belief, fear and the legacies families try to outrun.

Series 2 is moodier, more ambitious and visually striking, with a stronger sense of dread threading through each episode. It’s Nordic noir with a supernatural twist — cold, atmospheric and compelling.

Prime Video

Mother Mary — available now

A bold, stylised drama that plays with the idea of celebrity myth‑making. The film follows a pop icon whose life becomes the subject of a sprawling biographical project, blurring the lines between truth, performance and the narratives artists build around themselves.

It’s visually lush and musically driven, with a central performance that embraces both the glamour and the vulnerability of fame. The film asks what it means to be seen, and what gets lost when a person becomes a symbol. Ambitious, intriguing and full of texture.

Disney+

The Mandalorian and Grogu — from Wednesday 2 September

The Star Wars universe heads back to familiar territory with Din Djarin and Grogu, and the new series leans into everything that made their partnership irresistible: stoic warrior energy, found‑family warmth and a galaxy full of danger, politics and creatures with questionable intentions.

Expect a broader canvas this time — bigger stakes, deeper lore and a sense that the pair are being drawn into events far beyond bounty hunting. It’s still recognisably The Mandalorian, but with the scale and emotional weight turned up. A welcome return for two of modern Star Wars’ most beloved characters.

Radio

Sunday 30 August

7.15pm, BBC Radio 4 — Bouncing Off the Walls: A Prison Soundscape

A striking piece of auditory documentary-making, this soundscape builds its world not through interviews or narration but through the textures of prison life itself. The clatter of doors, the echo of corridors, the hum of communal spaces — all of it arranged to give listeners a sense of the rhythms and pressures of an environment defined by confinement.

It’s an atmospheric listen, one that asks you to sit inside the sonic architecture of incarceration and consider what it reveals. Without commentary, the programme becomes a kind of immersive portrait: unsettling in places, unexpectedly human in others, and quietly powerful in the way it lets sound do the storytelling.

Monday 31 August

6pm, Boom Rock — The Stiff Records Story

A lively, affectionate dive into one of Britain’s most gloriously unruly independent labels. Stiff Records was never just a roster — it was an attitude, a gleefully anarchic challenge to the music industry’s self-importance. The programme traces the label’s rise through its defining artists, from Ian Dury’s swagger to Elvis Costello’s sharp intelligence and Madness’s irresistible energy.

What emerges is a portrait of a label that prized personality, risk and sheer cheek. The documentary captures the era’s DIY spirit and the sense that Stiff’s artists were rewriting the rules as they went. A treat for anyone who loves the scruffier, more inventive corners of British music history. Repeated Thursday at 9pm.

Tuesday 1 September

8.05am, 3.05pm and 10.05pm, BBC World Service — People Fixing the World

This edition tackles sepsis — a condition where minutes matter and early diagnosis can be the difference between life and death. The programme looks at innovators trying to speed up detection, from rapid-testing technologies to new approaches in frontline healthcare that aim to catch symptoms before they escalate.

It’s a clear-eyed, hopeful piece of reporting, focused on practical solutions rather than alarm. By spotlighting people working to close the gap between onset and treatment, the episode shows how small changes in process and technology could save thousands of lives worldwide.

Wednesday 2 September

10am, 4pm and midnight, BBC Radio 4 Extra — Mercury

Three chances across the day to catch this imaginative audio drama, which blends mystery, science and a touch of the uncanny. Mercury unfolds with a slow, deliberate pull, drawing listeners into a story where the boundaries between explanation and intuition blur.

It’s the kind of drama that rewards close listening: layered sound design, thoughtful pacing and a narrative that reveals itself piece by piece. Atmospheric, intriguing and well worth dipping into at whichever time suits.

Friday 4 September

8.30pm, BBC World Service — CrowdScience

This week’s episode takes a gleeful dive into the psychology of roller coasters — why some people crave the stomach-dropping, high-speed chaos of a ride while others would rather stay firmly on the ground. The programme explores the science of thrill-seeking, from brain chemistry to personality traits, and how our bodies interpret fear when we know we’re safe.

It’s an entertaining blend of neuroscience and amusement-park nostalgia, with plenty of insight into what drives human appetite for controlled danger. A fun, thoughtful listen that might even explain why you love — or loathe — being hurled around at improbable speeds.

That’s it for this week. Plenty of crime, music, history and heavyweight cinema, with enough lighter material scattered around to stop the whole thing becoming oppressive. If I were choosing just three, I’d make time for The Godfather Part II, Kind Hearts and Coronets and the James Bond Prom — three very different demonstrations of how much pleasure there is to be had when style and substance turn up together.

Selections and reviews by Pat Harrington

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Culture Vulture: 22–28 August 2026

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