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The
precedent most often cited in the flurry of controversy that followed
BBC 1's 'live' telecast of Ghostwatch on Halloween night
1992 was Orson Welles and the Mercury Theater on the Air's radio
version of H G Wells' The War of the Worlds broadcast exactly
fifty-four years earlier, on October 31 1938. Both fictions made
great play of imitating the 'feel' of current events broadcasting.
Welles captured the tingling sensation of 'breaking news' in uncertain
times when war was looming abroad and the radio was the primary
medium of mass communication. Ghostwatch perfectly mimics
the tone of the slightly-sensationalised repackaging of the true-life
sufferings of ordinary people in series such as Crimewatch or
(as mentioned in the script) 'Hospitalwatch'. As with The War
of the Worlds, it is hard to get through the outrage in the
press and the programme-makers' discreet encouragement of tales
of unwary viewers terrified into believing that they were witnessing
real events.
An item in The Independent on December 23 1992 reports:
'The parents of a teenager who hanged himself a few days after watching
the television documentary Ghostwatch blame the BBC for their
son's death. An inquest yesterday in Nottingham recorded a verdict
that Martin Denham, 18, killed himself, but his mother, April Denham,
said 'I blame the BBC - it is all their fault. They said it was
based on a true story but it was all a hoax.' Ten years on,
the irresponsibility of soliciting and printing such a statement
from a grief-stricken parent seems a great deal more dubious an
exercise than prefacing a ghost story with an elaborate framing
device to suggest the authenticity of the following events. The
documentary format of Ghostwatch is no more than a
television version of the first chapter of Henry James' The Turn
of the Screw (1898), which describes the circumstances
surrounding the discovery and publication of the manuscript that
constitutes the bulk of the famous story. Even earlier, James Hogg
had mounted a more elaborate authentication for his terrific doppelgänger
tale The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner
(1824). A year before publication, he published a letter in Blackwood's
Magazine which detailed the discovery of a manuscript clutched
in the hand of a corpse unearthed from a Scottish peat bog; then
Hogg let it be known that an editor was examining the manuscript;
finally, the book came out anonymously, presented to the public
as a genuine memoir. All this is no more than the campfire storyteller's
prefacing of a tall story with the words: 'This really happened
to a friend of a friend ...'
Stephen Volk, then best known as the screenwriter of Ken
Russell's Gothic (1986), originally conceived of Ghostwatch
as a six-part serial along the lines of Troy Kennedy Martin and
Martin Campbell's successful Edge of Darkness (1985), which
had mingled the police, spy, science fiction and supernatural genres
with political satire and still worked as gripping popular entertainment.
Volk saw it as 'my chance to do a supernatural thriller film serial
on the BBC... dark, moody, grainy, etc. Maybe featuring an investigative
team who'd go on to have other stories. Anyway I did this treatment
of six one-hour episodes, starting with a poltergeist in a North
London housing estate, which is investigated by an eccentric
young psychical investigator (male) and a TV Roger Cook-ish journo
(female). I also had a scientist who was investigating psychic people
in a lab, but that was lost along the way, along with the reporter's
clash with her bosses. It worked in a conventional drama
serial sense, structured a bit like a Stephen King mini-series,
not pretending to be "real". Except Episode Six
was to be a "live" broadcast from the haunted house in
North London, and all hell breaks loose.' In this, as in much else
in Ghostwatch, Volk shows the influence of Nigel Kneale:
the last episode of The Quatermass Experiment (1953) purports
to be broadcast from a monster-swamped Westminster Abbey.
However, plans for a Ghostwatch serial did not come to fruition.
'Then one day the producer Ruth Baumgarten said to me, "Look,
there's no way the BBC are going to commit to this as a series,
is there any way we can do it as a one-off ninety minute drama?"
I remember very clearly sitting in her office and saying, "Look,
I had this idea: what if we do the whole thing like Episode Six
and pretend it's going out live?" There was this look
on her face and I thought "Oh my God, there's no going back
now. How the hell do I pull this off?"' Volk and
Baumgarten, later joined by director Lesley Manning, were not quite
the first people to think along these lines - in 1976, ITV broadcast
the paranoid Alternative Three, a documentary special
hosted by Shaw Taylor (presenter of the proto-Crimewatch show
Police Five) which used convincing fake footage and expert
testimony to 'expose' a cover-up of an enormous conspiracy that
included a manned landing on the Moon in 1963 and the discovery
of malign alien life. Several American TV movies play similar games:
Special Bulletin, about a terrorist siege that goes nuclear,
and Without Warning, about a meteorite storm that turns out
to be a Wells-style attack from space. The extra dimension that
enabled Ghostwatch to have a larger impact than these was
the convincing pretence that it was going out 'live', complete with
the technical fumbles and the announcement, one hour in, that 'Those
joining us for the next scheduled programme should be aware we are
staying with these events'. Like the various crime-themed shows,
which depend on audience members phoning in their testimony, or
even such slot-filling nature pieces as Badgerwatch, Ghostwatch
has an excuse for unfolding in 'real time', although its effectiveness
as a hoax is perhaps muted (as was the Welles-Wells show) by the
need to compress an actual story into a ninety-minute span.
It is debatable exactly how convincing Ghostwatch was supposed
to be. In a complaining letter to the Radio Times, primary
school teacher Robert Kensit wrote: 'I describe myself as a pretty
hard-bitten sceptic, but by the time it had finished I was feeling
very frightened indeed ... all that was needed was to have
a message flashed on screen every few minutes which would have informed
people that this was a fictional account.' Although Welles was persuaded
to do something similar during an ad-break in his live broadcast,
Volk quite rightly retorts, 'If we'd had a screaming banner across
the screen reading "This is not true", what is the point
of that? You might as well have a comedian give you the punchline
before he tells you the gag. The BBC insisted on certain billing
compromises in the Radio Times such as a cast list (that
almost had me slitting my wrists!) and a lot of the magazine coverage
pretty much gave the game away. What do you do? Destroy the fun
of the programme for the people who might enjoy it, for the sake
of pleasing those who might be offended, who probably won't like
it anyway? The BBC's answer to that would be YES! My answer
would be NO.' Volk in fact, to that end, did not even want his name
to appear on the programme credits, however the BBC got the collywobbles
the day before the transmission and insisted that the writer's name
appear on the opening titles, this in addition to the already seemingly
giving-the-game-away Screen One drama strand title sequence.
Even so, right up until the last minute it was touch and go whether
the programme would be pulled.
Apart from casting familiar TV presenters like Michael Parkinson
(who also plays himself in the 1974 horror movie Madhouse),
Craig Charles (manfully sending up his motormouth image by playing
himself as an obnoxious, insensitive exploiter) and the married
couple Sarah Greene (Pebble Mill at One) and Mike Smith (Breakfast
Time), who also play themselves in the movie The Man
Who Knew Too Little (1997), Ghostwatch works hard on
its verisimilitude, well before the even more controversial Brass
Eye attacked the conventions and ethics of TV sensationalism.
A flashed-up telephone number encourages calls from the audience
(during the broadcast the lines were manned by volunteers who explained
that the show was a fiction but listened to any ghost stories contributed),
the sometimes unsteady technical links between the supposed
safety of the studio and the 'front line' of haunted Foxhill Drive,
where the Early family is beset by poltergeist phenomena. As in
Kneale's Quatermass and the Pit (1959) and The Stone Tape
(1972), a standard ghostly mystery is peeled of its onion layers
as more and more information is revealed. We witness a series of
cumulative hauntings, each generation's evil piled upon the next
until the ghosts can actually harm the living. It is to the show's
credit that its closing sequences features material that retains
all its power to shock: the possible trapping of a teenage girl
(and a nationally known TV face) in the glory hole under the stairs
with 'Pipes', who might be the ghost of a baby-farmer or a child-molester.
Perhaps borrowing from Kneale's uncredited script for Halloween
III: Season of the Witch (1983), Ghostwatch suggests
that TV itself plays the role of a literal 'medium', hosting 'a
massive seance', supposedly spreading the poltergeist phenomena
into the homes of the viewing public.
It has been said that the controversy surrounding Ghostwatch
led to its suppression: it has never been repeated, and this
marks its first release on any home video format. However, the last
ten years have seen a proliferation of 'reality TV' programming
which happily blurs the lines between documentary, fiction, entertainment
and experiment: The Real World, Cops, Survivor,
Big Brother, Fear (which has a very Ghostwatch-like
premise). The cinema has responded with fictions rooted in a similar
premise: The Blair Witch Project (1999), The Last Broadcast
(1999), The St Francisville Experiment (2000),
My Little Eye (2002). If produced today, Ghostwatch would
probably use an internet backdrop or a guerrilla video look as opposed
to the relative slickness of a BBC Outside Broadcast Unit.
Kim Newman
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