Picture this: a filmmaker who didn't just push boundaries—he shattered them, exposing the dark underbelly of power and humanity's capacity for cruelty in ways that still make us squirm. Peter Watkins, the English cinematic trailblazer rooted in a legacy of unyielding radicalism, wasn't afraid to confront the tyrants of history or the ordinary folks caught in the crossfire. His work, steeped in the same defiant spirit as visionaries like Edward Bond, Ken Loach, and Dennis Potter, relentlessly probed the perils of authority and the catastrophic fallout when it spirals out of control. But here's where it gets controversial: Watkins wasn't just making movies; he was igniting debates about war, nuclear threats, and the masks we hide behind in society—ideas that some deemed too provocative to air.
In an era when dystopian tales, post-apocalyptic nightmares, and mockumentaries feel like overused tropes in films and TV, Watkins pioneered these styles back in the 1960s, turning them into powerful tools for dissent. Dystopian stories, for beginners, depict bleak futures where society has gone horribly wrong—think oppressive regimes or environmental disasters—while post-apocalyptic ones explore life after a major catastrophe, like a nuclear holocaust. Mockumentaries mimic documentaries to expose truths or satirize reality. Watkins wielded them to challenge the status quo, drawing from his background in radical theater and screen that prioritized uncomfortable truths over escapism.
Take his groundbreaking anti-nuclear film, The War Game (available for viewing at https://www.theguardian.com/culture/2003/jan/31/artsfeatures.dvdreviews6), commissioned by the BBC in 1965 but ultimately banned from television, only surfacing in cinemas and later on TV after a couple of decades. Clocking in at a brisk 47 minutes, this short but intense piece immerses viewers in a lifetime of dread, as if you're experiencing the terror firsthand. I remember watching it as a teen at a Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament rally years after its creation—it felt like stepping into a harsh awakening, a rude entry into the disillusionments of maturity.
Audiences were familiar with Stanley Kubrick's satirical masterpiece Dr. Strangelove from 1964, and some knew Sidney Lumet's tense thriller Fail Safe from the same year, but The War Game stood apart with its raw, unsettling focus. While Strangelove and Fail Safe zoomed in on decision-makers at the top, portraying leaders grappling with nuclear brinkmanship, Watkins flipped the script to spotlight everyday people below: anxious British civilians, nudged by bewildered low-level bureaucrats, bracing for and enduring a nuclear strike. It revealed how doctors, cops, soldiers, and civil servants, trained for World War II scenarios, were woefully unprepared for this new horror—leading to grotesque failures that emphasized the human cost.
And this is the part most people miss: The War Game's genius lies in its delivery, mimicking the detached, reassuring style of a government public information film, like the notorious Protect and Survive pamphlet (revisited in https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2017/mar/16/protect-survive-nuclear-war-republished-pamphlet), complete with that authoritative BBC 'voice of reason' tone. Instead of comforting the public, Watkins used it to lay bare brutal realities—watch as police officers, armed with special revolvers, execute radiation-poisoned victims on the streets to avoid overloading hospitals. It's a chilling inversion, forcing viewers to confront the propaganda that often obscures truth.
Filmed in a pseudo-documentary format, the movie features gaunt, ghostly faces of survivors staring into the camera, responding mechanically to an unyielding narrator. Mockumentaries are typically employed for humor, irony, or poking fun at media credibility, but here, Watkins deployed it with deadly earnestness to drive home that this isn't fiction—these scenes echoed the real atrocities of Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and even non-nuclear horrors like the firebombings of Dresden, Hamburg, and Tokyo. Perhaps we'd been conditioned in the West to dismiss these as distant misfortunes of defeated foes, or to believe the Cuban Missile Crisis had sealed the nuclear threat away. Watkins roared back: 'No, this could—and does—happen.' The fragile dance of global politics remained precarious, a theme later echoed in Barry Hines's 1984 TV drama Threads (explored in https://www.theguardian.com/film/2024/sep/15/threads-nuclear-apocalypse-bbc-tv-drama-40-years-on-mick-jackson-interview), which built directly on Watkins's foundation.
Watkins's mockumentary approach was arguably even more groundbreaking in his earlier work, the 1964 BBC gem Culloden (detailed at https://www.theguardian.com/books/2005/jul/09/featuresreviews.guardianreview12). Here, a contemporary film crew arrives at the 1746 Battle of Culloden, much like Vietnam War journalists, capturing the clash between Jacobite rebels led by the charismatic 'Bonnie Prince Charlie' (Charles Edward Stuart) and the royal forces under Duke Cumberland, son of King George II. No gimmicky nods to the cameras or crew; instead, a composed off-screen reporter 'interviews' soldiers, officers, and nobles, their faces pressed close to the lens in raw vulnerability.
The rebels, ravaged by hunger, exhaustion, and internal clan rivalries under their arrogant, impulsive leader, suffer a crushing defeat. But Watkins delves deeper, showing the grim aftermath—what we'd call war crimes today. Cumberland's triumphant troops, fueled by victory's frenzy, pursue the fleeing forces to Inverness, indiscriminately killing fighters and innocents to 'subdue' the Highlands. The bayoneting of wounded Jacobites on the battlefield eerily mirrors those police shootings in The War Game. And Watkins subtly underscores a controversial point: leaders and soldiers share blood ties—brothers, cousins, relatives—reminding us that wars pit family against family, with divisions born of conflict rather than innate differences. Is it provocative to suggest that all sides in battle are more alike than we admit? Some might argue it humanizes villains, while others see it as a call to question blind patriotism.
Entering the 1970s, Watkins delivered Punishment Park (covered in https://www.theguardian.com/theguardian/2005/jul/08/4) in 1971, a lesser-known but arguably his pinnacle, blending deadpan dystopian satire with his signature style. Set in the U.S. but narrated by a polished English voice evoking a BBC documentary, it depicts a government cracking down on hippies, activists, and dissenters, offering them a stark choice: two decades in prison or a 'few days' in the enigmatic Punishment Park. Most opt for the Park, unaware of its horrors, and for the first time, Watkins's omniscient narrator breaks character, descending into panicked screams of revulsion—like a seasoned broadcaster like Ludovic Kennedy or David Attenborough succumbing to utter despair. It's a jaw-dropping sequence that lingers in memory.
Watkins's journey continued unabated, encompassing a biting pop culture commentary in Privilege (1967), a Bergman-inspired biopic of Edvard Munch in 1974, the sprawling 14-hour anti-nuclear epic The Journey (1987), and a historical docudrama in 2000, La Commune (Paris, 1871), chronicling the short-lived Paris Commune uprising. Through it all, his cool, fervent passion for truth burned brightly until his final days.
Watkins's films challenge us to rethink power, war, and media's role in shaping reality. But is his radical vision still vital in our era of streaming services and viral controversies? Do you believe his unflinching portrayals of human failings unite us or divide us further? And what about the idea that even enemies share common threads—does that make wars more tragic or just harder to justify? Share your opinions in the comments—do you agree with Watkins's approach, or find it too unsettling? Let's discuss!
