Threads served up a bleakly British depiction of our impending nuclear doom

From the moment I launched this column, all the comments and Twitter replies have said the same thing. “This movie is nothing compared to Threads.” “When are you going to get to Threads?” “Your refusal to write about Threads tells me you are a coward, one who’s spent their entire life cravenly hiding behind ironic detachment to avoid confronting your very real fears about the world’s irreversible slide toward fiery cataclysm, from which no amount of glib gallows humor or knowledge of pop culture ephemera can save you.” Well, the message behind all these pointed, strangely personal responses has been received. It is high time we discuss the 1984 film Threads, before our eyes become too scabbed over with radiation-induced cataracts to do so.
Airing on the BBC, no doubt through a cloud of tea-splutter, Threads is often considered a transatlantic companion to our first Apocalypse Then subject, 1983’s The Day After. The comparison is unavoidable. Both were born out of Cold War paranoia over escalating U.S./Soviet tensions. Both were made-for-television films that aimed to bring harrowingly realistic depictions of nuclear war into the sanctuary of suburban living rooms. Both told their stories through ordinary people—each of them even centering on families who just happened to be living near strategic military targets (The Day After’s Lawrence, Kansas; Threads’ Sheffield). Each of them even had a shotgun wedding, and a young bride distraught over being separated from her fiancé. And finally, both were mounted by filmmakers who were convinced theirs was an act of civil service, less concerned with entertaining than scaring the shit out of anyone who might be watching—right up to the people who actually had their finger on the proverbial button.
“It seemed to me that people weren’t able to visualize the unthinkable, especially politicians,” Threads director Mick Jackson said in a 2009 interview. “So I thought that if I acted this out for them as a television drama—not as a spectacle or disaster movie—that would give them a workable visual vocabulary for thinking about the unthinkable.” Jackson had already explored the subject matter once before, in an episode of the BBC science series Q.E.D. titled “A Guide To Armageddon.” That had marked a dramatic reversal for the network that had previously banned 1965’s The War Game, a documentary-style depiction of nuclear fallout that had been deemed “too horrifying for the medium of broadcasting” and scuppered for fear it would cause viewers to commit mass suicide. But when Jackson’s Q.E.D. episode didn’t end with people throwing themselves off buildings—and meanwhile, nuclear war only got more newsworthy—the BBC commissioned Jackson to take a crack at dramatizing it again, with a film that would capture this more go-go ’80s version of apocalyptic despair.
Like The Day After’s Nicholas Meyer, Jackson undertook the task with an unusually heavy amount of research, spending a whole year talking to scientists, defense strategists, doctors, and the like—even spending the week embedded in bunkers with the designated “official survivors” training to make sense of post-apocalyptic chaos. But of all his preliminary steps, Jackson’s most prescient was hiring screenwriter Barry Hines.
The author of novels like 1968’s A Kestrel For A Knave, which he then adapted for Ken Loach’s film version, Kes, Hines was a writer who was most passionate about people and the everyday, working-class tragedies they endured. Hines may have despised Jackson’s methods, his middle-class ways, and even his posh white shoes, according to Hines’ wife. But the tension between Hines’ kitchen-sink sensibilities and Jackson’s geopolitical ambitions resulted in a film that was horrifying precisely because of how remarkably small and human it was. Compared to The Day After’s nominally “real” yet slightly corn-fed clichés (Jason Robards’ noble country doctor; the good-hearted, Steve Guttenberg-ian lunk of a college kid), Threads’ characters feel like genuine people who’d just staggered straight out of the neighborhood pubs. You can tell, because you don’t really like them all that much.
Leading this pack of people you don’t particularly mind seeing annihilated is Reece Dinsdale as Jimmy, just your ordinary, aimless punter with nothing on his mind beyond sports and sex. When we first meet Jimmy, he’s thoughtlessly scanning past radio news broadcasts to find the football scores before clumsily putting the moves on his girlfriend, Ruth, played by Karen Meagher. (As with The Day After, Jackson sought to fill Threads with unknowns—though only after contract issues disrupted his plan to use the cast of British soap Coronation Street.) After their little romantic rendezvous turns into an unplanned pregnancy, followed by an equally rushed and fumbling engagement, the young couple suddenly finds themselves stripping wallpaper off their cheap new flat and preparing for a life neither are sure they want. Jimmy, meanwhile, spends his nights drinking with his sleazy work buddy, who prods him to make the most of the time he has left as a single man.
Nuclear war is brutal, ugly, and piss-yourself terrifying, Threads argues. Why should its movie depiction be anything different?
Threads makes explicit those parallels between Jimmy’s impending nuptials and looming Armageddon, both of which threaten to really put a damper on his shagging the local girls, as Jimmy and his friend repeatedly exhort that they “might as well enjoy ourselves.” Of the latter, his buddy even shrugs that, if the bomb does fall, he wants to be “pissed out of my mind and straight underneath it.” Meanwhile, Jackson cleverly frames Jimmy and Ruth’s petty domestic dramas with the nuclear brinksmanship ratcheting up behind them, cutting away to the white-shirt bureaucrats in their shelters, readying supply chains and pushing blast radius charts around, as well as interstitial animated segments from the 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.