[NB. In keeping with WordJam's house style, films are attributed to director and TV dramas to screenwriter.]
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Privilege
(d. Peter Watkins: Universal, 1967)
Any of Peter Watkins' films could've easily made this list, but in an era where celebrity supposedly equals moral authority, Privilege seems more timely than ever. Set at an unspecified time in the (then) near-future, the film depicts a pop star being used by the government as both controlled rebellion and, later, an agent of social conformity. While Privilege isn't one of Watkins' best works (his unique faux-documentary style doesn't quite gel here), if you substitute the main character for, say, Taylor Swift, Megan Thee Stallion or Lizzo you'll find yourself gazing directly into the soulless, aspiration-driven void of contemporary pop culture. Incidentally, several sequences are recreated practically shot-for-shot in Stanley Kubrick's own dystopian classic A Clockwork Orange.
The Year of the Sex Olympics
(scr. Nigel Kneale: BBC, 1968)
Most critical analyses of The Year of the Sex Olympics tend to focus on how Nigel Kneale predicted reality television a good thirty years before it first hit our screens, but this tends to obscure other anticipations that are far more pertinent. In the authoritarian media-industrial complex depicted in the play, the masses are pacified with drugs and pornography to prevent population growth, everyone speaks in bastardised Americanese, entertainment is dumbed down to the absolute lowest common denominator, and any ideas that are deemed likely to elicit emotional responses are promptly stamped out to prevent personal discomfort and self-reflection. Sound familiar?
The Devils
(d. Ken Russell: Warner Bros., 1971)
The late, great Ken Russell described The Devils as his one and only political film; in many ways, one roll of the dice was all he needed. Using the Loudon 'possessions' in 17th century France as its focal point, the film takes in a decadent and depraved ruling elite using repressive moral dogma to keep the rest of the populace in check, lawfare, moral panic, smear campaigns, social coercion and political theatre to show the abuse of power at its most abhorrent. "Don't look at me!" screams Father Grandier (Oliver Reed in a career-best performance) as he burns at the stake in the film's harrowing climax. "Look to your city! Your city is destroyed... Your freedom is destroyed also." Well, quite.
Lemmings
(National Lampoon: Banana/Blue Thumb Records, 1973)
National Lampoon's merciless Woodstock parody began life as a stage production before being preserved for posterity on record. In addition to capturing a group of brilliant young comedians on the threshold of success (Christopher Guest, Chevy Chase, John Belushi et al), it chronicles a moment in time when alternative culture was becoming a grim, myopic parody of itself. There's nothing wrong with idealism, of course - but as Lemmings reminds us, when dreams of utopia wilfully ignore even the most basic realities it's not unreasonable for people looking in through the correct end of the telescope to call bullshit.
A Very Peculiar Practice
(scr. Andrew Davies: BBC, 1986-88, 1992)
Inspired by Andrew Davies' experiences as a lecturer in English literature and creative writing at the University of Warwick, A Very Peculiar Practice was intended as both a satire on the egregious mismanagement in higher education during the 1980s and an exquisitely subtle state of the nation address. Far from being an artefact from another time, however, it pre-empts so many frontline issues in the present, seemingly never-ending culture war that it's now painfully obvious Davies was sounding the alarm long before the first shots were fired. Institutional capture; the unholy alliance between self-styled progressive ideologies and big pharma, big tech and the military-industrial machine; cancel culture (exemplified here as traditional academia vs. radical theory); deplatforming: at times, it feels like this brilliantly witty and truly unique series could've been written yesterday. Or tomorrow.
Holding On
(scr. Tony Marchant: BBC, 1997)
Tony Marchant's eight-part, Robert Altman-esque ensemble drama was broadcast shortly after the 1997 UK general election, and although its story of a seemingly unconnected group of Londoners brought together by an unmeditated murder may have been devised during the dying days of John Major's Conservative government, it strongly anticipates the Britain that would emerge in the shadow of Tony Blair's New Labour. This is a world where idealism and opportunity walk hand-in-hand, but promises mean nothing and no one acknowledges responsibility. Whatever your political stripe, Holding On speaks to that deeply human need to connect with others in a society that's forgotten the value of community.
Give Me Immortality or Give Me Death
(The Firesign Theatre: Rhino Records, 1998)
Often (glibly) referred to as America's answer to Monty Python, The Firesign Theatre produced some of the most innovative comedy albums of the 1960s and '70s: their idiosyncratic fusion of socio-political satire and surreal silliness forming the missing link between The Goons and Thomas Pynchon. In the late '90s, they regrouped to record their 'Millennium Trilogy', taking their last pot-shots at the madness of the 20th century before it expired. Give Me Immortality or Give Me Death is the first and finest of these albums, presented as the output of a major commercial radio station on New Year's Eve 1999. Alternative facts, gleeful doom-mongering, media overreach and rampant corporatism collide in a series of bizarre yet all too plausible vignettes that somehow seem to belong in a post-2016 world than the one depicted here. Laced throughout are a series of commercials for an all-purpose, BlackRock-style asset management company whose sales pitch becomes increasingly more sinister as the clock ticks down to midnight ("US Plus: We own the idea of America...").
Shoot the Messenger
(scr. Sharon Foster: BBC, 2006)
To my mind the last great television play produced by the BBC, Shoot the Messenger is an extraordinary meditation on race in 21st century Britain that shits all over the racist bilge propagated by grifters like Reni Eddo-Lodge and David Olusoga. Broadcast only once and subjected to a storm of entirely misplaced controversy, Sharon Foster's drama focuses on Joe, an IT consultant who becomes a teacher after reading that black students in inner-city schools are underperforming next to their white peers. When he finds himself dismissed from his job following an allegation of misconduct from a problem pupil, Joe enters a spiral of depression and homelessness which leads him to self-identify as white. Through direct-to-camera address, we follow his journey through multicultural Britain, exploring differing perceptions and facets of black culture. In a world where everyone's told to stay in their lane and categorised into eternal victims or perpetual oppressors, God knows we need intelligent, nuanced and - above all - fearless work like this.
Honourable Mention:
The Future
(Leonard Cohen: Columbia, 1992)
I wasn't going to include music in this list, but since Leonard Cohen's albums blur the line between music and the spoken word it would be remiss not to mention this late masterpiece. Written partially in response to the sweeping geopolitical changes of the early 1990s, The Future rejects the notion put forward by Francis Fukuyama that the 'triumph' of western liberal democracy marks both the end of history and the decline of tyranny in favour of a more cautious worldview: one where, as Cohen growls on the title track, "Things are gonna slide, slide in all directions / Won't be nothing / Nothing you can measure anymore." Elsewhere, tracks like "Democracy", "Closing Time" and "Anthem" appear to sense the disquiet to come with the sort of wry bemusement only someone who's made their way through the looking glass can muster. Indeed, listening to The Future now is an almost eerie experience: so many of our contemporary concerns, from forever wars to neo-secular death cults, seem to be presented here that the overall effect is akin to a kind of precognitive eulogy.
