In Apocalypse Then, we revisit films that depict the onset of nuclear conflict and the quick aftermath of annihilation. You recognize—for enjoyable.
From the second I launched this column, all of the feedback and Twitter replies have mentioned the identical factor. “This film is nothing in comparison with Threads.” “When are you going to get to Threads?” “Your refusal to put in writing about Threads tells me you’re a coward, one who’s spent their total life cravenly hiding behind ironic detachment to keep away from confronting your very actual fears in regards to the world’s irreversible slide towards fiery cataclysm, from which no quantity of glib gallows humor or information of popular culture ephemera can prevent.” Nicely, the message behind all these pointed, surprisingly private responses has been acquired. It’s excessive time we focus on the 1984 movie Threads, earlier than our eyes change into too scabbed over with radiation-induced cataracts to take action.
Airing on the BBC, little question via a cloud of tea-splutter, Threads is commonly thought of a transatlantic companion to our first Apocalypse Then topic, 1983’s The Day After. The comparability is unavoidable. Each had been born out of Chilly Battle paranoia over escalating U.S./Soviet tensions. Each had been made-for-television movies that aimed to convey harrowingly lifelike depictions of nuclear conflict into the sanctuary of suburban residing rooms. Each instructed their tales via bizarre folks—every of them even centering on households who simply occurred to be residing close to strategic navy targets (The Day After’s Lawrence, Kansas; Threads’ Sheffield). Every of them even had a shotgun wedding ceremony, and a younger bride distraught over being separated from her fiancé. And eventually, each had been mounted by filmmakers who had been satisfied theirs was an act of civil service, much less involved with entertaining than scaring the shit out of anybody who is likely to be watching—proper as much as the individuals who really had their finger on the proverbial button.
“It appeared to me that individuals weren’t in a position to visualize the unthinkable, particularly politicians,” Threads director Mick Jackson mentioned in a 2009 interview. “So I assumed that if I acted this out for them as a tv drama—not as a spectacle or catastrophe film—that will give them a workable visible vocabulary for fascinated about the unthinkable.” Jackson had already explored the subject material as soon as earlier than, in an episode of the BBC science collection Q.E.D. titled “A Information To Armageddon.” That had marked a dramatic reversal for the community that had beforehand banned 1965’s The Battle Sport, a documentary-style depiction of nuclear fallout that had been deemed “too horrifying for the medium of broadcasting” and scuppered for worry it will trigger viewers to commit mass suicide. However when Jackson’s Q.E.D. episode didn’t finish with folks throwing themselves off buildings—and in the meantime, nuclear conflict solely acquired extra newsworthy—the BBC commissioned Jackson to take a crack at dramatizing it once more, with a movie that will seize this extra go-go ’80s model of apocalyptic despair.
Like The Day After’s Nicholas Meyer, Jackson undertook the duty with an unusually heavy quantity of analysis, spending a complete 12 months speaking to scientists, protection strategists, medical doctors, and the like—even spending the week embedded in bunkers with the designated “official survivors” coaching to make sense of post-apocalyptic chaos. However of all his preliminary steps, Jackson’s most prescient was hiring screenwriter Barry Hines.
The creator of novels like 1968’s A Kestrel For A Knave, which he then tailored for Ken Loach’s movie model, Kes, Hines was a author who was most keen about folks and the on a regular basis, working-class tragedies they endured. Hines could have despised Jackson’s strategies, his middle-class methods, and even his posh white sneakers, in accordance with Hines’ spouse. However the stress between Hines’ kitchen-sink sensibilities and Jackson’s geopolitical ambitions resulted in a movie that was horrifying exactly due to how remarkably small and human it was. In comparison with The Day After’s nominally “actual” but barely corn-fed clichés (Jason Robards’ noble nation physician; the good-hearted, Steve Guttenberg-ian lunk of a faculty child), Threads’ characters really feel like real individuals who’d simply staggered straight out of the neighborhood pubs. You possibly can inform, since you don’t actually like all of them that a lot.
Main this pack of individuals you don’t significantly thoughts seeing annihilated is Reece Dinsdale as Jimmy, simply your bizarre, aimless punter with nothing on his thoughts past sports activities and intercourse. After we first meet Jimmy, he’s thoughtlessly scanning previous radio information broadcasts to seek out the soccer scores earlier than clumsily placing the strikes on his girlfriend, Ruth, performed by Karen Meagher. (As with The Day After, Jackson sought to fill Threads with unknowns—although solely after contract points disrupted his plan to make use of the forged of British cleaning soap Coronation Avenue.) After their little romantic rendezvous turns into an unplanned being pregnant, adopted by an equally rushed and fumbling engagement, the younger couple out of the blue finds themselves stripping wallpaper off their low cost new flat and getting ready for a life neither are positive they need. Jimmy, in the meantime, spends his nights consuming along with his sleazy work buddy, who prods him to take advantage of the time he has left as a single man.
Nuclear conflict is brutal, ugly, and piss-yourself terrifying, Threads argues. Why ought to its film depiction be something completely different?
Threads makes specific these parallels between Jimmy’s impending nuptials and looming Armageddon, each of which threaten to actually put a damper on his shagging the native ladies, as Jimmy and his pal repeatedly exhort that they “may as properly take pleasure in ourselves.” Of the latter, his buddy even shrugs that, if the bomb does fall, he needs to be “pissed out of my thoughts and straight beneath it.” In the meantime, Jackson cleverly frames Jimmy and Ruth’s petty home dramas with the nuclear brinksmanship ratcheting up behind them, reducing away to the white-shirt bureaucrats of their shelters, readying provide chains and pushing blast radius charts round, in addition to interstitial animated segments from the federal government’s risibly optimistic “Protect And Survive” series that explained, with calm British politesse, how to store a dead body in plastic until it’s safe to come out.
Again—as in The Day After, as in Miracle Mile—there is the portrayal of people living in hapless ignorance, watching these various warning signs unfold but not knowing what to do about it, so mostly they just put it out of their minds. (Ruth even assures Jimmy that they’re going to have a great future together: “I just know it.”) Threads, at least, depicts anti-nuke protesters taking to the streets, but even these are shouted down by hecklers asking what about factory jobs. Their more single-minded personal concerns are ironically underscored by the film’s constant use of churning, telex-style overlays, rattling off cold statistics about chief local exports and expected casualty counts. The apocalypse approaches slowly and businesslike.
The actual attack, on the other hand, is about as chaotic as has ever been committed to film. A bludgeoning montage of mushroom clouds, panicked rioters, exploding buildings, and faces and milk bottles melting in the flames, it’s a far more graphic affair than The Day After’s tasteful, X-ray freeze frames. Questionably, Jackson even includes a man who’s caught squatting on the toilet (“Bloody hell!”), as well as an extreme close-up of urine pouring from a terrified woman’s pant leg. Still, who can consider matters of taste in the middle of a massacre? Nuclear war is brutal, ugly, and piss-yourself terrifying, Threads argues. Why should its movie depiction be anything different?
For as merciless as that bombing scene is, Threads is primarily remembered for its relentlessly cruel depiction of the aftermath—a grim, hopeless trudge through broken streets littered with grinning corpses and smoldering dead cats, trembling women holding the black, charred remains of tiny babies. As the text dispassionately informs us, burying the bodies is deemed to be impractical, so they’re just left to the rats. Cholera and other diseases run rampant, while radiation-burned victims slop through blood and pus at the local hospital, where the best that doctors can do is saw their limbs off as they bite down on rags.
Later, the military rounds up the able-bodied to work in “reconstruction” camps, while the old and infirm starve to death; in the apocalypse, only the cockroaches and the British class system are guaranteed to survive. And as the food supplies dwindle and atomic dust blots out the sun, Ruth and her fellow refugees (Jimmy is assumed to have died in the blast, though his idiot friend sticks around) stumble off into nearby farm towns, reduced to eating rotting sheep carcasses raw in the freezing cold. Ruth, at least, manages to keep her strength long enough to give birth to her daughter, gnawing the umbilical cord off herself.
As Threads skips over months and years, the population dwindling to medieval levels, the sunlight eventually returns, though the increased levels of ultraviolet radiation leaves Ruth blinded with cataracts and dying of cancer. Her daughter, Jane, like the other children of the apocalypse, grows into a sullen, near-feral creature, capable of only caveman grunts of “Work!” and other bits of broken English. And because there are still a few minutes left in the runtime to squeeze in as much misery as possible, Jane is soon raped, eventually giving birth to her own unplanned baby—a stillborn deformity, whose face causes Jane to scream as the film cuts mercifully to black.
Whereas The Day After provided the salve of pretending that the preceding were just a cautionary tale—John Lithgow’s “Is anybody listening?” benediction an urgent call to heed the film’s dire warnings—there was an aura of bleakly resolute acceptance to Threads that, like its characters, seemed to suggest that we were already fucked. Sure, like Nicholas Meyer, Mick Jackson claimed that Ronald Reagan also watched his film, saying years later that he “likes to imagine” it similarly factored into Reagan’s attempts to broker peace with the Russians. (Though unlike Meyer, he never received a telegram telling him as much.) But its real impact was arguably on the British temperament: Some time after Threads’ premiere, journalist Sue Lloyd Roberts looked at the nation’s dwindling volunteers for civil defense exercises and concluded, “After watching The Day After and Threads, anyone might be forgiven for taking the ‘better to die than to survive’ attitude. So why bother?”
There was an aura of bleakly resolute acceptance to Threads that, like its characters, seemed to suggest that we were already fucked.
That attitude can be extrapolated to the living, too. Threads’ opening narration, delivered as a spider unspools its light and silvery web, reminds us that civilization only exists thanks to the gossamer human connections that bind it together. Three years after Threads aired, Margaret Thatcher would famously be quoted as saying, “There is no such thing as society. There is living tapestry of men and women and people and the beauty of that tapestry and the quality of our lives will depend upon how much each of us is prepared to take responsibility for ourselves and each of us prepared to turn round and help by our own efforts those who are unfortunate.” Threads seemed to argue that this tapestry was all just an illusion, its individual threads easily torn asunder by a sudden hot wind. Or even slowly picked apart, like the blankets being disassembled by Jane and her fellow neo-Neanderthals, by the gradual erosion of our empathy for each other.
The burden of that knowledge—of seeing how flimsy this whole human race racket really is—could explain our persistent attraction to seeing it all blown to shit, time and time again, in the apocalypse films that have become as common a genre as slashers or movies where sports teams lose until they don’t. After all, there’s something undeniably cathartic about just dropping the pretense and reveling in the hopelessness of the modern human condition; like Jimmy and his pal shrugging off World War III in favor of another pint, hey, it’s not like we can do anything about it. The best we can hope is to be drunk and snug inside the blast radius when our own death from above arrives.
But that wasn’t what Jackson or Hines intended, of course. They wanted Threads to spur the international outcry for nuclear disarmament, to become activists for the cause the same way Ruth’s portrayer Karen Meagher did. They wanted us to put down the pint and go do something, to recognize that the ties binding us together needed to be tightened immediately, before they were forever torn. For all its grim hopelessness, Threads had a subtextual faith that people would understand all this before it was too late.
Watching Threads now, in 2017, when the ones holding those strings in their tiny hands only seem to care about yanking them for their own ego-gratifying amusement, well… With apologies to the charred babies and incinerated cats, maybe the scariest thing about Threads is how grimly, hopelessly naive that seems.