PBS Presents 'Filth" -- A Look Back at Prim-Time TV - November 13, 2008
By Dave Shiflett
(Bloomberg)-- Back before prime-time television became the land of wiggle, jiggle and grind, there was Mary Whitehouse, who got her knickers twisted every time someone said “knickers” on the British Broadcasting Network.
Her story is told in “Filth,” a terrific 90-minute biopic airing Nov. 16 on PBS at 9 p.m. New York time.
Whitehouse (played by Julie Walters) didn’t set out to be a moral crusader. She was an art teacher from the generation that beat Hitler and survived worldwide depression.
Then came another blitz -- the swinging sixties – which proved more formidable.
According to this Masterpiece Theater film, Whitehouse’s road to Damascus event occurred one afternoon when she turned on “the box” and was confronted by a BBC show on premarital sex.
“Sex at tea time!” says a deeply aghast Whitehouse, who bears a resemblance to Mrs. Doubtfire. The permissive generation had thrown down its thong, which she quickly picked up and converted to a battle flag.
Initially it seems Whitehouse will be a portrayed as a run-of-the-mill self-righteous, Bible-thumping bluenose though she becomes a sympathetic figure whose world is being invaded by forces she is ultimately unable to deflect.
“We have not borne our children or built our homes to have them undermined by this,” she says of racy programming. When she hears students parroting what they hear on the Beeb, she fears television, rather than family and faith, will largely determine their views on sex, violence, and language.
A reasonable enough analysis, as it turns out.
The film pits Whitehouse against Sir Hugh Greene, (Hugh Bonneville), director general of the BBC. He’s rich, arrogant and something of a horndog with his own crusading spirit.
He’s sympathetic to a bishop’s declaration that “God is dead” and nixes a religion-oriented program. He dismisses Whitehouse as a “suburban crank” who’s the “voice of my maiden aunt.” Groups like her Clean Up TV organization are “run by people who aren’t very intelligent or imaginative.”
Whatever her brainpower, Whitehouse is deeply motivated and creates a cadre of supporters, mostly female, though husband Ernest (Alun Armstrong) stands by his woman even though he’s clearly not averse to a bit of televised spice with his tea.
Whitehouse and company, who may remind some viewers of the anti-saloon league, eventually gathered over 300,000 signatures on a petition protesting the BBC’s programming, often in the face of stiff opposition. Yobs attempted to shout her down at a public meeting with chants of “We want sex!” while the postman regularly delivered obscene mail. Press suggestions that Whitehouse was a streetwalker were finally echoed in BBC ridicule, with Greene’s blessing. Critics even paid women to seduce their sons, though without success.
The film is fast paced and includes historical references that may baffle younger viewers. In one scene the Whitehouse’s parson dances about the room with a set of rabbit-ears, trying to tune in the picture, and there’s also a mention conservative MP (and to some, ultra-crank) Enoch Powell, whom Whitehouse says “turns out a lovely chutney.”
Whitehouse gets the last laugh, sort of.
Her nemesis is finally put under the control of a director sympathetic to Whitehouse, or at least her ability to raise public outrage, and resigns.
Yet her cause’s ultimate fate is summed up in an emblematic, if clunky, scene in which the Whitehouses pull alongside a car in which a young woman is smooching with not one but two fellows as Bob Dylan’s “Mr. Tambourine Man” blasts over the radio. Whitehouse rolls down her window and denounces the hussy, then breaks into “Onward Christian Soldiers.”
History indicates the Tambourine man firmly gained the upper hand, though some viewers may find themselves trying to remember exactly who he was and what he was trying to say.
Whitehouse kept up the fight until her death in 2001.
www.pbs.org
Dave Shiflett is a critic for Bloomberg News. The opinions expressed are his own.)
(Bloomberg)-- Back before prime-time television became the land of wiggle, jiggle and grind, there was Mary Whitehouse, who got her knickers twisted every time someone said “knickers” on the British Broadcasting Network.
Her story is told in “Filth,” a terrific 90-minute biopic airing Nov. 16 on PBS at 9 p.m. New York time.
Whitehouse (played by Julie Walters) didn’t set out to be a moral crusader. She was an art teacher from the generation that beat Hitler and survived worldwide depression.
Then came another blitz -- the swinging sixties – which proved more formidable.
According to this Masterpiece Theater film, Whitehouse’s road to Damascus event occurred one afternoon when she turned on “the box” and was confronted by a BBC show on premarital sex.
“Sex at tea time!” says a deeply aghast Whitehouse, who bears a resemblance to Mrs. Doubtfire. The permissive generation had thrown down its thong, which she quickly picked up and converted to a battle flag.
Initially it seems Whitehouse will be a portrayed as a run-of-the-mill self-righteous, Bible-thumping bluenose though she becomes a sympathetic figure whose world is being invaded by forces she is ultimately unable to deflect.
“We have not borne our children or built our homes to have them undermined by this,” she says of racy programming. When she hears students parroting what they hear on the Beeb, she fears television, rather than family and faith, will largely determine their views on sex, violence, and language.
A reasonable enough analysis, as it turns out.
The film pits Whitehouse against Sir Hugh Greene, (Hugh Bonneville), director general of the BBC. He’s rich, arrogant and something of a horndog with his own crusading spirit.
He’s sympathetic to a bishop’s declaration that “God is dead” and nixes a religion-oriented program. He dismisses Whitehouse as a “suburban crank” who’s the “voice of my maiden aunt.” Groups like her Clean Up TV organization are “run by people who aren’t very intelligent or imaginative.”
Whatever her brainpower, Whitehouse is deeply motivated and creates a cadre of supporters, mostly female, though husband Ernest (Alun Armstrong) stands by his woman even though he’s clearly not averse to a bit of televised spice with his tea.
Whitehouse and company, who may remind some viewers of the anti-saloon league, eventually gathered over 300,000 signatures on a petition protesting the BBC’s programming, often in the face of stiff opposition. Yobs attempted to shout her down at a public meeting with chants of “We want sex!” while the postman regularly delivered obscene mail. Press suggestions that Whitehouse was a streetwalker were finally echoed in BBC ridicule, with Greene’s blessing. Critics even paid women to seduce their sons, though without success.
The film is fast paced and includes historical references that may baffle younger viewers. In one scene the Whitehouse’s parson dances about the room with a set of rabbit-ears, trying to tune in the picture, and there’s also a mention conservative MP (and to some, ultra-crank) Enoch Powell, whom Whitehouse says “turns out a lovely chutney.”
Whitehouse gets the last laugh, sort of.
Her nemesis is finally put under the control of a director sympathetic to Whitehouse, or at least her ability to raise public outrage, and resigns.
Yet her cause’s ultimate fate is summed up in an emblematic, if clunky, scene in which the Whitehouses pull alongside a car in which a young woman is smooching with not one but two fellows as Bob Dylan’s “Mr. Tambourine Man” blasts over the radio. Whitehouse rolls down her window and denounces the hussy, then breaks into “Onward Christian Soldiers.”
History indicates the Tambourine man firmly gained the upper hand, though some viewers may find themselves trying to remember exactly who he was and what he was trying to say.
Whitehouse kept up the fight until her death in 2001.
www.pbs.org
Dave Shiflett is a critic for Bloomberg News. The opinions expressed are his own.)