Bouquet of Barbed Wire was something of a succes de scandale when it first appeared in 1976. If it now strikes modern audiences as little more than a sophisticated soap opera, that's because many of the sexual relationships it details have become the common currency of the TV dramatist, its formerly risque examination of infidelity among moneyed, upper middle-class urbanites ripening into cliché.
But it should be remembered that the world it portrayed so frankly was an undiscovered country for much of the audience; seldom had cosmopolitan London and the casual relationships seemingly enjoyed by the younger generation been explored with such matter-of-fact familiarity. Furthermore, in its reliance on dialogue and complex characterisation, it often demonstrates a depth not found in its modern counterparts. Written by Andrea Newman (it was based on her 1969 novel), the series treats both male and female characters sympathetically, and is startlingly honest about the buried needs within both sexes – some women's desire for violence, for example. Such subjects would be controversial enough in the first full tide of '70s feminism, but in today's politically-correct, post-Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus climate, they might be deemed reactionary or misogynist.
Then there's the question of incest. It's hard to imagine a drama made for popular consumption treating this taboo topic with such tact and empathy. The fact that Peter (Frank Finlay) is really in love with his daughter, Prue, is implied throughout, but never made specific. This allows Newman to explore the full psychological ramifications of such a relationship. In the process, she builds a twisted Oedipal narrative where, in his overbearing infatuation with her, he allows her to assume the role of “patriarch” and dictate terms to the family, and her violent husband Gavin ends up bedding Peter's wife, the two of them acting as surrogate parents to Prue's child, which is the image of her. It's a tortuous roundelay of love (which, in Newman's universe, is as much destructive as consoling) worthy of the film director Max Ophuls.
The series was so successful, it bore a sequel, Another Bouquet, in 1977, and it is currently being remade for transmission in 2010.
First broadcast in 1976, The Feathered Serpent is a drama about an Aztec-like civilisation in the throes of changing from one faith to another, where the high priest, Nasca, will resort to murder and deceit to ensure complete submission to his god. The series couldn't be more different to modern children's television. For one thing, there's the violence. The sight of blood is omnipresent, with hearts being cut out, children being whipped and tortured, and men stabbed through the back. There's a witch's dummy with a skull for a face and talk of men being buried alive. All of which makes the series a kind of horror film for children, something unthinkable in today's more watchful climate.
But there's also the question of the whole approach to the subject matter. Historical drama now, especially that geared towards teenagers, “modernises” the language and attitudes of the invariably youthful characters so that they are closer in spirit to that of the contemporary audience. By contrast, The Feathered Serpent adheres to the conventions of its time, with its Shakespearean dialogue, “filmed theatre” camera style, and its unusual concentration on the world of adults, with the boy Tozo a somewhat token identification figure for the children. And though it is an object of popular culture itself – it was made for ITV's late afternoon children's slot – it differs from its modern equivalents (Hercules, Xena, the historical episodes of the new Doctor Who) in that it never references popular culture. Indeed, its seriousness and fidelity to period detail owe more to the educational remit of children's programming under Lord Reith's BBC.
It also credits its young audience with intelligence. Indeed, it would be hard to find a modern adult drama that so articulately maps the shifting of power between the pillars of state: the government, the priesthood and the army, represented in turn by the Emperor Kukulkhan, his priest Nasca and general Mahoutec. And it would be virtually impossible now to explore Nasca's religious fanaticism with such acute understanding, this being a man who feeds his ailing faith by promoting violence against another, uses suicide assassins and eventually, in desperation, invokes himself as god.
The first series is a tale of court intrigue and political manoeuvring while the second, shown in 1978, tips into the supernatural and the drama is more symbolic than character-driven. But both are satisfyingly complex, as thematically rich as they are exciting.
Producers: Irene Shubik, Alan Bromly
Starring: David Hemmings, Lesley Anne-Down, George Cole
At last, this legendary series is available on DVD. Made during the high-water mark of literary science-fiction, it has attained an almost mythical status among British sci-fi fans, with its reputation as a Play For Today for lovers of spaceships and little green men. It is also a fascinating product to come out of the BBC, who – let's face it – never much cared for fantasy and were often busy trying to sabotage their own successes in the genre, most notably Dr Who – the longest-running science-fiction series ever, and one of the most iconic, but regarded by the top brass as a kids' show and “beneath them”.
Even the BBC, however, couldn't ignore the wave of serious interest in the genre in the 1960s, with writers such as Philip K Dick and JG Ballard drawing admiration from the literary establishment. So they commissioned Irene Shubik (interesting how the leading lights of British TV sci-fi were both women, the producer of Who, of course being Verity Lambert) to set about sourcing stories to adapt into TV plays. And so it is that there was a time when the BBC rattled out work by Isaac Asimov, John Wyndham, EM Forster (yes, that one) on a regular basis, sometimes adapted by the likes of JB Priestley! Oh, weep for that day.
Of the 20 surviving episodes collected here, Asimov and Ballard contribute two of the finest – the former a compelling study of surveillance culture whose apocalyptic conclusions still feel resonant today, and the latter a pre-Moon landing, Capricorn One-style conspiracy saga that eerily anticipates The Truman Show 30 years in advance.
But the series is at its best when adapting the ideas of Frederik Pohl (author of many acclaimed novels, including Gateway and Gem) or John Brunner (Stand on Zanzibar). Pohl's two outrageous satires on modern capitalism are both funny and subversive. The Midas Plague warns of the dangers of a world given over completely to luxury and consumerism, where – in a brilliant twist – the lower classes end up having to do the “work” of consuming most. While Tunnel Under The World is a Groundhog Day-style nightmare in which a bored middle manager spends eternity re-living the same day over and over again – with adverts.
Brunner's stories are in a completely different key, with an undertone of genuinely unsettling hysteria. In Some Lapse of Time, a doctor finds the apparently Neanderthal man of his dreams slumped on his doorstep dressed as a tramp, while in The Last Lonely Man – directed by TV god, Douglas Camfield, and arguably the finest episode on the set – George Cole, of Minder fame, gives an excellent performance as someone losing control of their life when their mind is invaded by the personality of a psychopath.
Other enjoyable instalments include a farce about flesh-eating plants, a thriller set in a society where one can obtain a licence to murder, an amusing mind-swap dramedy, and The Counterfeit Man, which stars a young David Hemmings as part of a spaceship crew fighting a shape-changing creature, rather like Carpenter's Thing. And if you can work who is who at the end of that episode, you're a better alien than me.
In 1964, after the success of Ivor The Engine, Pingwings and Noggin The Nog, Oliver Postgate conceived this story of little folk in the wood. And although it's arguably the finest self-contained serial he and his partner Peter Firmin ever produced, it's less well-known than those previous programmes, and has also been eclipsed by the popularity of its sequel, Pogles' Wood, made two years later. That's because it was only shown once. In what may seem a bizarre decision now, given the sophistication of modern children and the Harry Potter phenomenon, the BBC deemed a tiny stop-motion puppet with teddy bear glass eyes too scary. But the witch in the story is scary, and it's in understanding how it comes to be so, that we can start to appreciate the special qualities of Postgate and Firmin's work.
The witch is terrorising Mr and Mrs Pogle because a baby has come into their care who is actually the Prince of the Fairies. She wants to possess the crown the baby will inherit because it has special powers. She only appears in two (long) scenes, but in both cases, her presence is introduced with real cinematic flair. Mr Pogle first bumps into her in the woods – there is a whip pan across the trees and suddenly she's there. It's remarkably effective. Later, in the quarry, she waits in the shadows, her beady eyes glinting, waiting for the right moment to make the most effective entrance. On each occasion, the music adds enormously to the eerie atmosphere. Composer Vernon Elliot is the unsung hero of Postgate and Firmin's Smallfilms unit, and here he excels himself with a score that must take much of the credit for the witch's fearsome impact on the young viewer.
Postgate's use of language also contributes to the effect. The colourful, often archaic, lingo the Pogles use to abuse the witch - “you old besom”, “dream creeper” - endows her with the elemental presence of a mythical creature. Indeed, the whole tale has the flavour of folklore. It was Postgate's peculiar genius to build his stories out of a bric-a-brac of rural tradition, English cosiness, off-the-wall humour and a strangely moving nostalgia for simpler times, all topped off with a dash of Lewis Carrollesque surrealism. In The Pogles, this approach reached its apogee, culminating in a midsummer dream of a series that, sadly, was rejected because it caused so many nightmares.