Well,
this is going to be a cheery piece, isn't it?
For
some people, Terry Nation did three rather wonderful things in his life; He
created the Daleks for DOCTOR WHO, He created BLAKE’S 7, and, somewhere between
those two, he created SURVIVORS, his reaction, it is said, to him realising how
little he knew about how stuff actually worked.
Born
out of the crucible of the burgeoning self-sustaining hippie lifestyle of the late
sixties, and the shortages and power cuts of the mid 1970s, and reacting to the
constant images of queues at petrol stations from various oil embargoes going
on at the time, SURVIVORS is very much of its time, but also surprisingly timeless,
give or take one or two obvious specific fashion and engineering issues. At
times it is a kind of dystopian version of THE GOOD LIFE but in a
no-holds-barred, terrifying kind of a way.
"Survivors"
or, perhaps it should be referred to as "Terry Nation's Survivors" –
at least in his head - was made over three series between 1975 and 1977, and
episode one THE FOURTH HORSEMAN, written by TERRY NATION and impressively
directed by PENNANT ROBERTS is very atypical of the series as a whole, and yet
makes a fascinating vision of the future all on its own.
The
titles are simple and devastating; to a surprisingly moving piece of
apocalyptic music, a bespectacled man wearing a surgeon’s mask drops a flask,
which shatters. Then, at an airport, probably in Moscow by the image of a
passport stamp that appears, he looks a little ill. A hand flops down to the
ground. Many more stamps bearing the names of worldwide cities appear, until,
finally, London, and then the screen splurges out to a bloody red.
This
episode is essentially the story of two women, both SURVIVORS in their own way.
Firstly we meet Abby Grant, played by Carolyn Seymour, a rather spoiled
stay-at-home trophy wife to a busy executive, initially cast very much in the
“Here’s your whisky, darling” Margo Leadbetter mould, who is mother to a son
absent at boarding school.
Later
we will meet Jenny Richards, played by Ian Fleming’s niece, Lucy Fleming, who
shares a flat with another young woman somewhere in London. We’re not really
sure what it is that Jenny does, to be honest, but she seems fairly well
acquainted with the hospital staff when she turns up there later, although that
could just be because one of the doctors is having an affair with her flatmate.
Jenny,
incidentally, is the only character who will survive (on screen at least) to
appear in the very last episode, three seasons later.
In
general, Terry liked to put strong women in his dramas, though, at least until
the blokes turned up and somehow took over things including the focus of his
writing.
But
at least he tried.
At
the beginning of this story, the world is very recognisable and presumably at
least vaguely similar to the one inhabited by its viewers, although, very
quickly, this is about to change.
Like
many big stories, it starts very small, in a relatively isolated commuter
village just about as far from the centre of things as it is possible to get on
the outskirts of London, and the sort of place that is usually left untouched by
world events.
The
story starts on a tennis court. A game, I suppose, where there are winners and
losers, if that’s the allegory we’re playing to; or maybe it’s just pointing
out some point or other about being healthy, and whether that makes any
difference at all when the virus strikes.
Or
perhaps it’s just a chance for the director to see Abby wearing very tight
white jeans and a tight white top.
It
is a chilly morning, and, with her hair long and carefree, she is playing
against a machine, one of those automatic ball serving thingies which is brand
new according to what she tells Mrs Transon, her purple housecoat wearing
housekeeper, in the vast kitchen of the Grant’s enormously expensive looking
house, where they have enough disposable income to have a state-of-the-art
portable television in the kitchen.
So
far, so very middle class suburban in a “The Brothers” kind of a way.
The
class system is very much on show here, as another example of things about not
to matter very much, as Abby is very much the posh but bored middle-class
housewife with an accent that could cut glass, as we soon find out when her son
Peter rings from boarding school, which, despite the distraction of that bright
yellow towel she’s wearing around her shoulders, is the first troubling
indication that bad things are afoot. She may have to go and fetch her son home
at the end of the week if things don’t improve. Already the village school is
closed, and as she asks for a cold drink from Mrs Transon – get it yourself you
lazy so-and-so – they discuss the disease as if there’s a stomach bug going
around and reassure each other that there’s probably nothing to worry about.
Mrs
Transon asks if she can go and visit her sister Doris who isn’t answering her
phone and it becomes evident that there’s a big breakdown in the telephone
network, as Abby offers to drop her off at the station when she goes to pick up
David later, although the phone jingles alarmingly to imply that something
problematical is indeed occurring.
Abby
drives David’s very posh sports car, a Jensen Interceptor no less, although
such things are about to become meaningless, through the surprisingly empty
streets of the village. The radio is still working, and we hear music for
almost the last time as the news is due on at four.
She
runs into the village doctor driving his massive Rolls Royce soon to be
pointless status symbol who wants to bring some vaccine round to their house
later, and mutters about how busy he is with some of his patients “just trying
to be fashionable” by joining in with this illness fad.
Abby
and Mrs Transon arrive at Brimpsfield station, and Mrs Transon catches her
train, and whilst this shows exactly how the virus spreads, we will only catch
one more final glimpse of her.
Her
function in the plot almost over, the common people are now represented by
Blake Butler as the Station Master, Mr Pollard.
Its
all gone to pot, as he puts it. All the trains are delayed, the phones all
jammed up, timetables don’t mean a thing today, and he’s getting no sense from
Paddington.
Although
why he’s asking a Peruvian bear for advice is beyond me.
Abby
goes to make a phone call from the public call box to report the fault on the
line at home, only to find out that is pointless, and, via the four o’clock
news on her car radio, we discover that there are massive traffic jams heading
out of London, and that New York has had no power for 24 hours.
Tellingly,
the camera pans from two young girls in an otherwise quiet station car park to
a high speed train poster, showing the heights of human technological
achievement about to be snuffed out.
And,
after that one final glimpse of Mrs Transon on the train we cut away from Abby
for the first time to meet ---
Jenny,
in her flat in London, fussing over her ill flatmate who explains through her
fever about how cold she is and how worrying her lumps are. Jenny sports a
terrifying tank top and a shirt with collars that would give Concorde’s wings a
run for their money.
She
decides to go and get help, and, whilst her flatmate plaintively pleads not to
be left alone, she goes, claiming that she “won’t be long”.
Night
has fallen, and Abby does not look well as she is suddenly woken from sleeping
in her car by a loud knocking at the window.
It’s
Peter Bowles playing her husband David.
Oh
look! Finally! The star has turned up. You think it must be a Peter Bowles
series because, well, he’s Peter Bowles, and Abby’s obviously about to snuff it
so the series can finally get properly started.
After
all, these sorts of shows are never about the wives, are they?
Poor
Peter Bowles, about to lose his Abby and become a Survivor.
Actually,
Peter doesn’t come across as being very nice at all. He burbles on at great
length about his ghastly six or seven hour journey, and how he even had to get
on a bus, I ask you. Anyway, he’s far too angry to be exhausted and, whilst
Abby discretely checks herself for lumps, and the tannoy announces considerable
delays to the empty platforms, he starts another rant about nightmare traffic
jams as we jump cut to ---
Jenny,
crossing a road blocked by a nightmare traffic jam.
In a
very busy casualty department, people are queuing up to get jabs in an
overwhelmed hospital, Jenny is simply told to “ask at the desk” by a harassed
hospital employee. She meets a Doctor called Andrew who is the one who is sleeping
with her flatmate, and, even though Jenny runs through all of the symptoms, the
fever, the lumps, and so forth, Andrew finally cracks under the strain and,
perhaps unwisely, tells her it’s not flu, and that the Home Secretary has
ordered them to keep up the fiction to stop the panic.
Seventy
are dead and that’s expected to treble by the morning, and in about six days
---
At
this point in the narrative, it’s surprising to realise that only thirteen
minutes have passed; this story is moving at a cracking pace, especially for a
series made when it was.
Back
at Grant Towers, David is doing a lot of reckoning as he sits in his nice suit
drinking his nice glass of whisky, and wondering where his evening meal is.
More
backstory unfolds: Agents in Hong Kong say “millions” have died in China
although that’s not on the news, as well as some people in Rome.
And
whilst Abby cooks bacon and eggs, so convincingly that the fat spits in her
eye, he fiddles with the now dead radio and spills the beans about having
spoken to Peter about the secret plans for Abby’s birthday surprise.
But
the apocalypse is upon them: Radio Four cannot be found…!
Over
his dinner, whilst Abby simply has cheese because she’s not feeling well, they
discuss the millions killed by the Flu epidemic after the first world war – a
real world tale for those still thinking this is slightly far-fetched, I
suppose – and David – probably typically – worries about the effect this might
all have on his business interests.
And
so, as the condemned man eats his hearty evening breakfast, we pause to note
that his expectation was that Abby would cook it for him, and, because we’re
deep in the heart of the nineteen-seventies, she does this without comment.
This
not at all cosy domestic scene (apart from his obvious wealth, what on earth
does she see in him?) is punctuated by discussions about how the scientists
will sort it all out in the end, and what happens when a city breaks down, and
– in a poetic aside from the pen of Mr Nation - whether a city is like a
pampered baby.
David
expects there to be a State of Emergency declared and for the troops to be sent
in and, in a shocking display of proto-NIMBYism, states that they’ll be alright
out there in the countryside, just as the lights go out.
For
Jenny, back in London, the lights also go out, and, with Doctor Andrew in tow,
they find that her flatmate has died alone whilst she was out getting help,
which makes her feel guilty for a moment or three, but will be all but
forgotten about as the calamity escalates, and Andrew tells her in no uncertain
terms to get out of London and that he can’t because he already has the disease
and is therefore, as doomed as the person he was having an affair with who they
came here to fail to help.
In
the grim darkness, with sirens still blaring, we discover that Jenny has no
symptoms and that some people appear to have a natural immunity. In the
hospital they have had only one survivor out of hundreds of cases, and Doctor
Andrew leaves with the cheery thought that the cities are going to turn into
cesspits very quickly.
Back
at the Grant’s house, it is a relatively normal bedtime, and, in dreadful
pyjamas, David reluctantly suggests that they might get Peter out of school…
maybe… later… if things get tricky…
What
his definition of “tricky” might be remains unclear, given what we’ve already
seen, and the title of the programme, but he is acting in a very human manner
here, in assuming that the life they have is forever, and that things will get
back to normal soon.
They
try to get to sleep, but Abby is starting to show signs of illness and, still
keeping up the pretence going that this is about to become the David Grant
show, she’s feeling hot…
Night
has fallen and, in a sinister cut to some shop window dummies, Jenny is walking
along a dark and terrifying street in an awful coat and carrying awfully
inappropriate luggage. Glass smashes, and she is harassed and threatened by
three awful men to indicate the new world order, and just how terrifying this
world is about to get, although this time, Jenny manages to run away.
The
only upside is that we can probably assume that this scary trio is also doomed.
It’s not a kind thought, but we appear to be beyond kindness now.
Back
in the vast kitchen of Grant Towers, it is the middle of the night and a
dreadfully ill Abby is at the sink, not dutifully doing David’s washing up, but
trying to get herself a drink of water. A glass is dropped, and David, still
trying to convince us that this is his show now, and that he’s destined to meet
up with Jenny eventually, fails to get a phone line to ring for a Doctor.
At
the moment, Jenny looks like she might need saving too, as, terrified, she
hides from more urban horrors.
The
next day, David intercepts his local Doctor who is leaving after yet another
pointless visit. He’s not looking too good himself when David meets him, and
his own wife died that very afternoon, which explains the whisky he’s knocking
back behind the wheel.
He’s
not a cheery soul, despite him attempting a dark joke or two, people are dying
and there’s nothing he can do. In this small microcosm of life representing the
world as a whole, he’s just seen an entire family die inside an hour, and he
wonders if that’s just one morning, what will things be like in a week. He’s
just very, very tired, and explains to David that in a week millions could be
dead.
For
Jenny, still making her way along frightening urban streets that might have
once looked quite pleasant, a clap of ominous thunder leads to her finding an
abandoned car to sleep the night away in.
Abby
has spent a sweaty Monday night, and, at 6:12 on a Tuesday morning (we have to
assume that her alarm clock has batteries here given the lack of power) we hear
the same rainstorm that Jenny is sheltering from. Then, on a bright Saturday,
at 3:29, we hear birdsong and Abby wakes up.
She
has survived.
With
tentative calls of “David?”, we see that the kitchen is in a state, the
fragments of the glass she once dropped is where she left it, and, as she pours
herself a swift Gin and Tonic, we see that David – Peter flippin’ Bowles,
remember – has died on the sofa as she slept.
Crikey!
Jenny
has made it out of the city and is surprised to have a brief encounter with
Talfryn Thomas and his little tent. He is playing Tom Price, an unsavoury Welsh
vagrant who will come back later in the series and give it at least one of its
more terrible moments.
For
the moment he is simply a frightened figure imploring Jenny to stay back as
they barter for rabbits, tinned food, and chocolate.
Against
a dramatic skyline we hear from Jenny of just how bad it was in London, and
frightened villages who wouldn’t let her in for fear of the disease they think
she might have.
Tom
Price is, however, something of an optimist, telling her to wait until the
doctors have cleared it up, and that the Yanks’ll have a cure. He sees a bright
future with plenty of work and big money to be made, showing how people cling
on to the view of society they think they still have, something that will be
picked up on in a later episode when he is seen wearing posh clothes and
driving a stolen Rolls Royce.
This
odd couple part, at least for the time being, with a cheery “Good Luck!” and a
warning to stay away from people.
Abby
is, so far at least, staying with one particular and very dead person, and
looks terribly sad, a look which she does very well, it must be said. She
decides to go outside and, wearing a huge woolly hat, walks around the very
dead looking village that she lived in. She finds empty houses, a pointless
Rolls Royce, and an angry dog. She heads to the church where the graveyard
reminds us of an earlier line about not being able to bury the dead, and prays
that she’s not the only one still alive.
Later,
back home, as she contemplates a vase full of dead flowers whilst wearing more
rings on her fingers than seems feasible, she makes a decision to try to find
her son Peter, and as she drives her car along an empty road, she just misses
out on meeting Jenny, as, despite her hurting feet, she has run to the roadside
just a little too late as she heard a car.
Arriving
at a massive house which turns out to be the private school they sent their son
to, she honks the car’s horn, but nobody comes. In a different, but equally
huge woolly hat, she walks around the abandoned school, finding dead boys still
in their beds, but, to her great relief, Peter is not one of the bodies.
Amazingly,
she sees a light burning, which brings her to the rooms of Doctor Bronson, as
played with quiet dignity by Peter Copley. He is dutifully monitoring a ham
radio, but is shocked when she finds him as he is profoundly deaf. He tells her
a tragic tale of a group - including her son - which escaped five days earlier
and that, out of three hundred people in the school, how he is the only one
still alive.
Still,
Abby remains optimistic of finding Peter and, who knows, maybe he got some sort
of genetic immunity from his mother?
Jenny
finds a man sitting by a tree with a fire lit. He is barely alive, but manages
to ask her to keep away. Jenny is too tired to go any further, and asks if she
can stay, and her new friend seems too ill and exhausted to put up any further resistance.
Meanwhile,
as it’s getting light, Abby is having a fag, whilst Doctor Bronson fills in a
lot of the back story that he heard via his radio, with tales of the death of
administration, the terrible way life got in the cities, and his musings on the
biological freaks that he and Abby are.
After
this, his exposition is basically the philosophy for the entire series; that
they must come through what is to follow and start learning again. Could any of
us make a candle from scratch? Could a skilled carpenter make the tools he
actually needs to work in wood?
Despite
the breathing space that they might have from the rapidly dwindling resources
that already exist, he realises that he could possibly fashion a stone tool,
and he reflects upon the irony that his generation, one that put a man on the
moon, are now discussing stone tools.
All
must be learned again.
Doctor
Bronson makes for a rather tragic figure as he stands alone, facing a useless
future in a tweed suit and old school tie once his hearing aid batteries run
out.
Jenny,
meanwhile, finds that morning has come and the fire has gone out. Her companion
of last night lies dead – or deadish, because he does blink – and, as she has a
sudden realisation in her stupid coat and with her stupid bags, she decides to
scavenge what she can from him, taking the more practical bag that was serving
as his pillow, and finding it stuffed to the brim not with crisps and
chocolate, but bundle after bundle of now worthless five pound notes.
The
implications are clear. Values have now changed. What once mattered a lot to
some people no longer does.
After
a little bit of rather surprising actual, if slightly (but not THAT slightly)
blurry, nudity, Abby takes a final shower in what was once her family home,
metaphorically scrubbing off the past.
Then,
after cutting short her long hair, Abby, leaving the Jensen, loads up the
practical Volvo, with cans spare petrol that she got from somewhere, and uses
the rest to burn down the house with most of her possessions, and David’s body,
inside.
The
implications are clear: Her old life is gone, the world as we know it is gone.
And, what with killer rats, mob rule, plague, kangaroo courts, obsessive
repopulators, and gangs of thugs, there is far, far worse to come.
But
it’s only a story.
Or
is it?
Some
might suggest with our current population growth and overstretched resources,
and various nutters running various parts of the world, the biological culling
of humanity is only a heartbeat away, and our society may very well have to
face some or all of the fears that this remarkable piece of television causes
us to think about.
Sleep
well.
Martin A W Holmes, August 2018
