'The Warden and the Householder' (1961): A Very Silly Cold War Public Information Film

As Cold War curiosities go, you can't get much more frighteningly odd than British Civil Defence films. These miniature movies - many of which were made to be played on television in a constant, nerve-shredding loop in the run up to nuclear war - instructed the public on how to 'protect' their homes against atomic attack. Most people are all to familiar with the horrifying Protect and Survive series, but few people have had the pleasure of seeing The Warden and the Householder. This fascinating 1961 film combines the tensions of an imminent nuclear war with the stresses of daily life in an average British home, and could very well could have justified an alternative title of Nuclear War on Coronation Street. The film was made by the Civil Defence Corps, primarily to be shown to volunteers during their training, although an abridged version was also produced to be shown to the public on television had war loomed. A link to the full film can be found at the bottom of this article.

Directed by David Cobham – best known for directing the vastly different Tarka the Otter in 1979 – The Warden and the Householder sees an erstwhile and rather patronising Civil Defence Warden, Mr. White patrolling Nottingham as nuclear war approaches, instructing residents on ‘simple, common sense’ protective measures that they could take to safeguard their homes and their lives. The Warden’s mission is not without its challenges; as well as eager homeowners, Mr. White comes across battle-axes, village idiots and the neighbourhood thug, all of whom attempt to thwart his noble intentions. Will Mr. White succeed in saving the neighbourhood? It’s all very tense in a Threads meets Last of the Summer Wine type way.

The film was shot on location in Nottingham between January 31st and February 19th 1961, and utilised many real houses belonging to members of the Nottingham Playhouse Amateur Dramatic Society, who also acted as extras in the film. Nottingham people who were involved in the filmmaking were invited to the completed film’s grand premiere, to be held at the local Civil Defence HQ. An eager audience gathered in the small hall, excited to ‘have the chance of seeing themselves on the screen, while others [saw] their homes which they lent for interior scenes.’ The date was 1st December 1961. In the morning, the film goers had trimmed their homes for Christmas; in the evening, they saw their homes used as a backdrop for destruction. What a cheery way to commence the festive season.

So, what cinematic masterpiece were the Nottingham film fans treated to that chilly December night? Let’s dim the lights, flick on the projector and settle in for a scene by scene analysis of The Warden and the Householder. Roll film!

Scene 1: The film opens with a montage of horrific newsreel footage depicting the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. We see happy children playing in the school yard, shoppers walking through a market and workers on their way to the office. Then comes the mushroom cloud. And the charred bodies. And the burning skin. The crying orphans. This is nuclear war as we rarely see it depicted in films of the period: realistically.

The voiceover here is blunt and unfeeling. A BBC newsreader type voice reels off lists of figures relating to the dead, injured and those who simply vanished during the Japanese atomic bombing. The scenes shown were only filmed sixteen years before the making of The Warden and the Householder and yet seem from another world, newly awoken to the destructive power and ominous potential of atomic weapons. Sadly, by the time 1961 had rolled around, things had gotten much worse, as we are to find out in our next scene…

Scene 2: The newsreel footage ends and we now find ourselves taking part in a Civil Defence Corps training session in a typical community centre. Rows of desks are peopled by eager students, who lean forward to hear the words of their teacher. The Instructor is distinctly World War Two in style, with a smart uniform, gleaming badges and a voice as neatly clipped as his moustache.

“Today,” he says, “we live under the threat of nuclear weapons with a destructive power one thousand times greater than those exploded at Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Today, too, our scientists know much more about the effects of nuclear explosions. Accordingly, we have been able to plan effective counter measures. We have devised precautions that can be taken by everyone to guard against the effects of a nuclear attack.”

Look into my eyes…

“Now, the day might come during a period of national emergency when you, the Warden, would be required to call on all householders personally and instruct them on how to prepare their homes in the event of a nuclear attack.”

Like a preacher of doom, the Instructor strides up to his pulpit-like desk and picks up his copy of Advice to the Householder, a cheery little pamphlet printed on black paper and emblazoned with an uplifting picture of a mushroom cloud. He waggles it at his pupils; this is to be their bible of Civil Defence knowledge.

“[The public] will have had the householder’s handbook,” he continues, “in which they are told to rely on you for further help and advice. It’s up to you – it’s up to each one of us – to prepare for this very great responsibility. You would be their fountainhead of knowledge, their instructor and guide. You must not let them down.”

The Instructor here shoots a three-second-long hard stare down the camera and into the eyes of the viewer. Watching this scene feels rather like being warned to be responsible by an all-seeing headmaster.

“As part of this preparation, you have already been instructed in the effects of nuclear explosions,” the Instructor says to his pupils, pulling down a screen which reveals a starkly simplistic image ‘explaining’ the basics of an explosion. “Heat and light, blast and radiation. You have probably, all of you, come to terms with it in your own minds. But to the public, the subject, especially radioactivity will be entirely new. Remember: they would have to be taught to protect their families from something they can’t see, they can’t smell, can’t hear and cannot easily understand.”

A really informative flip chart from the Instructor, there.

The camera pans over the students listening to the Instructor’s rousing speech. Many of the students suspiciously resemble the cast of Dad’s Army, who sit with furrowed brows and glazed expressions. On another table, we see others who appear to be barely out of school, as well as volunteers who actually have their mouths hanging open in bewilderment. If these are the heroes we have to rely on after a nuclear attack, they aren’t exactly filling me with confidence.

Is it Dad’s Army? No, it’s the Civil Defence!

“So, if the time does come, you will have to be prepared to receive all kinds of enquiries, doubts and, perhaps, very strange ideas on the effects of nuclear explosions and on how they are to protect themselves from them. Individual enquiries regarding which cannot all be covered in the householder’s handbook, but on which the public will expect you to give them the answers; the right answers. As an important step to meet this problem, we had a film made, a film to show you the sort of problems that you, the Warden, might be faced with if you ever have to instruct and advise the public during a national emergency. Let’s have a look at it, shall we?”

The Instructor’s helpful assistant presses the switch on a projector and sets the film rolling, lighting up the smoke-filmed room with flickering light. As the credits roll, we are sucked into the film being shown, as though we ourselves are one of the Civil Defence trainees watching in the hall…

Scene 3: The lights are low and the curtains are drawn in a cosy 1960s front room. A dutiful husband brings his wife a cup of tea, served in a dainty china cup on a saucer. As the couple serenely sip their tea, the TV set flickers into life, tuned to the BBC Ten O’clock News. The newsreader is Michael Aspel, playing himself. Five years later, Aspel would lend his vocal talents The War Game, narrating the somewhat more disturbing nuclear war film that was banned by the BBC for being ‘too horrifying for the medium of television’.

A cup of tea before the world ends, dear?

The newsreader is grave-faced: nuclear war is looming. The news reports, delivered in crisp Queen’s English, describe the rapidly deteriorating global situation in stark and blunt terms: a US submarine has been attacked, armed forces are being deployed and rumours are swirling of shots being fired in the Middle East. In short, things are looking bleak. As the news articles become progressively more frightening and talk turns to the possible use of nuclear weapons, the couple watching TV continue to sip peacefully on their tea. Frankly, if I were in their shoes, I’d be downing a litre bottle of vodka rather than tea. But that’s just me.

Michael Aspel as the newsreader.

The camera then zooms in to focus solely on the TV screen. “Now,” says the announcer, “here is an important announcement: the Government has decided to call on all members of the Civil Defence Corps to report to their headquarters. It’s expected that wardens will begin house to house briefing of the public tomorrow.”

Scene 4: Rat-a-tat-tat! We promptly jump cut to a shot of a hand rapping on a door. Bang on time to begin briefing the public is Mr. White, the local Civil Defence warden who is to be presented as our hero of the film. Although our first impression of Mr. White is that he’s immaculately turned out in his pressed uniform, neat tie and jaunty cap, he doesn’t exactly scream approachability. As he awaits an answer, he tuts and rolls his eyes at the door in front of him; clearly, he doesn’t think very much of the people who live here. The door creaks open and the object of his displeasure, Mrs. Wells, is revealed.

Mr White strides into action.

Mrs. Wells frowns and greets her visitor with an ever-so cheery, “Well, what is it then?” For want of a better word, Mrs. Wells is a slob. She’s dressed in a scrubby, patched cardigan and apron, and she slouches against the doorframe with obvious disdain. Even worse than that, she’s behaving in a most unladylike fashion, folding her arms and – horror of horrors – chewing on gum! Gracious!

Mr White struggles to contain his contempt for the slovenly woman before him and asks what protective measures she's undertaking in light of the impending nuclear war.

“None,” she helpfully replies, curling her lip. This is not music to Mr White’s ears.

“My husband says there isn’t going to be any war.”

“You’ve read the homeowner’s handbook, haven’t you?” he asks.

“No. My husband says there isn’t going to be any war and all this panic is going to blow over.” (This unfortunate turn of phrase foreshadows the fallout dust which, if the war does start, will shortly blow over Mrs. Wells’ unprepared house. The camera here is positioned low, making Mrs. Wells appear to tower over the audience; she is well and truly on her high horse). “Besides,” she continues, “I’ve got plenty to do without sitting around reading books, thank you very much.”

And with that, Mrs. Wells slams the door in Mr. White’s face.

“I’ll come back when you’ve got more time, then,” says Mr. White, slipping a pamphlet about the hydrogen bomb back into his clipboard. As he turns away, he shoots a final disparaging glance at Mrs. Wells’ mucky front door, probably taking grim satisfaction from imagining it burning to a crisp in the heat of a nuclear explosion.

Scene 5: Mr. White arrives at another front door. Again, the house is terraced, but this time neatly kept with a small, tidy front garden. The door opens before Mr. White has even had a chance to knock; Mrs. Jameson, who lives here, has been anxiously awaiting his visit. Her copy of the homeowner’s handbook is ready and waiting on the hallway side table. Mrs. Jameson is worlds apart from the slovenly Mrs. Wells. She is prim and neatly turned out, and her sensible hairdo is pinned to the side to ensure it doesn’t get in her way while she does the housework. Compare this to the lazy Mrs Wells, whose hair was shockingly still in curlers in the middle of the day!

Mrs .Jameson. She’s ever so worried.

Mrs. Jameson is a ditherer. As soon as she opens the door to Mr. White, she bombards him with a list of her worries about the upcoming nuclear attack, as well as a mountain of trivial details of her complex family setup:

“This handbook affair says to put down everyone in the house, but Aunt Nora – she’s the one with the arthritis, suffered ever so, she has – she’s only here on Thursdays and Fridays while her old man goes to Birmingham, on account of him being in the garage business. Do you want me to put her down as well?”

Mr. White does not have the best poker face. As Mrs. Jameson rabbits on about Aunt Nora’s arthritis, his eyes glaze over in obvious boredom. Now, if I were in his position and attempting to brief as many homes as possible during the highly tense and short leadup to nuclear war, I’d tell Mrs. Jameson to stop blathering and move onto the next house as quickly as possible. Mr White clearly has better reserves of patience than I do, however. In spite of his boredom, he allows Mrs. Jameson to waffle on and on, before putting her mind at rest by noting the Aunt Nora affair down on his clipboard. We can imagine him praying that the bomb doesn’t drop on a Thursday or Friday while Aunt Nora is visiting, or all hell will truly break loose!

Mr White, struggling to look interested in Aunt Nora’s arthritis.

Mr. White next asks which room Mrs .Jameson intends to use as her nuclear refuge. Again, we get to hear the story of her life while she pulls confused facial expressions and scratches her head in bewilderment like Stan Laurel. Her son, Sid (who works at the builders up the road) thinks the room at the back of the house would be best because of the wall connecting to next door. Mrs. Jameson, on the other hand, thinks the parlour would be best, because “it’s got ever such a lovely view over the town.”

Cue Mr. White with a whopping great put down: “I’m afraid a nice view wouldn’t be much protection against fallout, Mrs. Jameson.” Yikes. Feeling all-important, he then seizes the moment to invite himself into Mrs. Jameson’s home, barging past her and striding off down the hallway. Naturally, being a good and subservient member of the public, she allows him to force his way into her private property with a feeble, “Oh, all right.”

Scene 6: Our next scene takes us to Mrs. Jameson’s back room, which is quintessentially cosy, with crocheted doilies on the tables, lacey headrests on the armchairs and frilly rugs on the floor. Her young daughter, Jean, plays on the floor with the family dog. The suggestion here is that the Jamesons are a caring, protective family, eager to do their best to provide for and protect their own. Think back to Mrs. Wells, who had neither children or pets, and was therefore – in keeping with the stereotypes of the time – insinuated to be heartless and selfish.

The Jameson’s back room: shortly to be blown to smithereens.

Mrs. Jameson sends Jean and the dog into the back yard to play. They skip off merrily, unaware of their fate… For now.

Mr. White strides into the room and gives his verdict: “Your son was right, Mrs. Jameson. This room would be best for your refuge.” He proceeds to strut around the room like an arrogant builder, slapping the external and party walls which will offer the best protection against fallout. He is in his macho element, rambling away pompously about building materials and construction while Mrs. Jameson looks on open-mouthed, at once appearing confused and totally in awe of Mr. White’s DIY prowess and general manliness. This is a recurring theme in the film: men are portrayed as practical and knowledgeable when it comes to building nuclear protections, while women are concerned with trivial fripperies such as what the view from the fallout room will be like. Fortunately for the hapless women, heroic Civil Defence men like Mr. White are on hand to teach them the error of their ways and to save them from a horrific fate. Phew!

Next, as if to drive home the point I’ve just made, Mr. White asks Mrs. Jameson if she knows how to block up her windows. She puts her hand to her cheek, lowers her eyes and bats her eyelashes in a damsel in distress fashion. “Oh, aye, yes. I think so,” she says, obviously meaning the exact opposite.

Mr. White sees through this little feminine ruse immediately, and with a good-natured chuckle he reassures her that the men will come to her rescue. “Well,” he says, “if you – or rather, your husband – want any help, come round to my place and see how I did it.” He smiles and closes his eyes while he describes his fine handiwork, as though he’s inviting his neighbours round to see his new loft conversion over a bottle of wine, rather than asking worried people over to learn how to build a nuclear refuge.

Mr. White is still wallowing in his pride when Mrs. Jameson offers him a cup of tea. He meanders around the living room as she puts the kettle on, picking up newspapers bearing terrifying headlines from the coffee table and fiddling with the clock on the mantle piece. He’s acting like a family friend who’s popped round for a brew on a Sunday afternoon. While he’s in a jovial mood, Mr. White turns his attention to that essential ingredient of any social gathering: gossip. “The woman next door,” he says, “do you know her?”

“Elsie?” replies Mrs. Jameson, her ears pricking up. “Of course. What about her?”

“I found her a bit difficult about this do-it-yourself protection business. I wonder if you might have a word with her or show her what you’re doing.”

Mrs. Jameson’s waggling finger of shame.

Mrs. Jameson’s face says it all: her eyebrows are raised incredulously and she cocks her head in disapproval. It seems she doesn’t like Elsie. The main reason? Her husband. We are now introduced to the villain of the film: Mr. Wells. Mrs. Jameson waggles her finger. “That’s her husband, Mr. White. He’s a wrong’un and no mistake.”

We don’t find out what social faux pas or misdeeds Mr. Wells has committed to earn the damning title of ‘wrong’un’, but it’s obvious that he is something of a neighbourhood pariah. He is not a member of the community, which explains why he isn’t bothered if the community burns to the ground as a result of his failure to minimise fire risks. Mrs. Wells, meanwhile, is presented as nothing more than an echo chamber for her husband’s opinions, incapable of forming any of her own and blindly repeating his anti-Civil Defence views like a ventriloquist’s dummy. The opinions of women have taken quite a bashing in the film so far; methinks there weren’t many women on the writing team for this film…

A sudden shriek pierces the air. Mrs. Jameson and Mr. White look around in panic. Is it the attack siren? Has the war started already? No, it’s just the kettle screaming on the stove. They both chuckle with relief. Here, by interrupting the discussion of the negligent Mr. Wells with a siren-like wail, the script writers are suggesting that careless people such as he are hastening an attack and threatening to bring death and destruction into the homes of their more organised and responsible neighbours.

A cup of tea, served with a smile.

For the time being, though, normality continues and Mrs. Jameson ambles into the kitchen to prepare a nice cup of tea, while Mr. White sits himself upon a pouffe in front of the fire. Maintaining her traditional role in defiance against the world-shattering events unfolding around her, Mrs. Jameson ‘plays mother’ and serves the tea. She then casts a nervous glance around her living room, fiddling with the frills on her apron in agitation. Being the super sleuth he is, Mr. White deduces that something is troubling Mrs. Jameson and asks her what it is.

We now come to the crux of Mrs. Jameson’s fears regarding nuclear attack. Is she terrified of the eyeball-melting heat flash? Fearful of a slow, lingering death trapped beneath the rubble of her house? No. Mrs. Jameson’s primary concern is… Dust. She has read about ‘something called fallout dust’, you see, and is terribly concerned and anxious to know what it will look like, presumably so that she can keep a lookout for it settling on her freshly polished mantle piece. Forget stockpiling fourteen days of food and constructing a fallout shelter, Mrs. Jameson wants to make sure she’s prepared with all the necessary cloths and dusters!

Mr. White’s patience is beginning to wear thin. “You won’t see any fallout dust,” he insists, “if you’ve taken cover as soon as the fallout warning goes and stay there, whatever you do, until you get word that it’s safe to come out again.”

Mrs. Jameson nods. She doesn’t bother to clarify how the world will be rendered safe again, and cleanliness and order restored. Are the authorities in possession of a huge vacuum cleaner? A giant feather duster? We’ll never know, because Mr. White doesn’t bother to explain. “Oh, I see,” says Mrs. Jameson, putting the matter to bed once and for all. There is no mention of the rather major issue of radioactivity; fallout dust is merely a minor, mucky inconvenience that will require nothing more than a little spring cleaning to rectify. 

With that little issue cleared up, Mr. White takes his leave, happy that he’s sponged a free brew off Mrs. Jameson in exchange for absolutely no helpful advice on blast or fallout protection whatsoever. As he heads out of the door, he reminds Mrs. Jameson to come and visit him at home that evening to see his own do-it-yourself protection measures. “Aye, I will,” she confirms, watching from the doorway as Mr. White scurries off home to plump the cushions in his nuclear refuge room.

Mrs. Jameson is now in a pensive mood. She slowly heads back into the living room and calls Jean back inside. Jean dashes in with a smile on her face, the dog gambolling at her heels. Her grin swiftly disappears as her mother grabs her by the arm and drags her onto the armchair for a nightmare-inducing pep talk on the upcoming nuclear war: “Now, listen to me very carefully. You know all this war trouble there’s been in the papers…”

And the scene fades to black as yet another child is traumatised by the terror of Cold War paranoia.

Poor Jean. A hideous haircut and a hideous death on the horizon.

And that’s where we’ll leave it for now. Next time, the tension mounts as Mr. White continues his rounds and comes face to face with snobs, local busybodies and the dreaded Mr. Wells! Will Mr. White brief enough homes and sponge enough free cups of tea before the bomb drops? Stay tuned to find out!

By Rebecca Shaw