Very few people had the good sense to appreciate Peter Watkins' Privilege when it first appeared some 40 years ago. It was the Summer of Love, after all, a time thoroughly at odds with a bleak, uncompromising vision that cast a withering glance at, among other things, the children of rock 'n' roll as dupes of The Man. Privilege soon vanished from theaters and then from the face of the earth, another movie misfortunate enough to be too far ahead of its time.
Fast-forward to 2008, when everything that's old is new again, and Privilege has finally rematerialized. Looking more eerily prescient than ever on a beautifully produced new DVD from New Yorker Films and Project X Cinema, Privilege is a film ripe for discovery (or rediscovery, as the case may be).
Set in Britain in the proverbial "near future," Watkins' movie posits a time and place where the church and state, along with various shadowy sub-agencies, have officially entered into an unholy alliance to preserve the status quo. Entertainment, and pop music in particular, is their main tool — a mass-produced global commodity that cloaks itself in the illusion of cathartic art while keeping the masses (particularly the young and potentially restless) docile, contented and far away from anything smacking of the political process. Sound familiar?
Paul Jones (lead singer for Manfred Mann during their "Quinn the Eskimo" and "Do Wah Diddy Diddy" days) stars as Steven Shorter, a manufactured pop star who, as the movie's emotionless narrator informs us, is "the most desperately loved entertainer in the world." Jones is alluringly understated (and, as an actor, underrated) as the fragile and tragically damaged Shorter, whose managers push him relentlessly and whose adoring fans can't get enough of him, even with an All-Shorter TV station broadcasting 24/7 and a chain of Steve's Dream Palaces hawking everything from Steve-endorsed electronics to dog food.
The movie plays a bit like satire nowadays, but back in the day, Privilege felt like pure sci-fi or maybe some hyperbolic metaphor for the inner fascist lurking in us all. Even the halls and stadiums the singer plays often evoke the monumental architectural schemes favored by fascism (with flamboyant touches à la Ken Russell or Derek Jarman), and Shorter himself plays along with the act, often greeting the crowds with a raised arm salute that's pure Mussolini. And then the singer morphs into pre-Ziggy performance artist, dragged on stage hooded and handcuffed by sadistic cops and thrown into a cage where he performs a rock anthem/Gregorian chant to a huge crowd that gradually shifts from reverence to hysteria. A riot ensues.
Privilege is wildly entertaining stuff, but its essence is tragedy compounded by irony. Watkins shows us a man who is clearly a government-sanctioned tool for conformity and control, but the irony is that he might also actually be the great artist his handlers promote him as — and the tragedy is his gradual awakening to his part in the process (galvanized by his relationship with an inquisitive painter played by proto-supermodel Jean Shrimpton).
Shorter might start off believing his own PR, but as cracks appear in the story, he begins whipping himself (literally as well as figuratively) into some borderline psychotic semblance of martyrdom. It all culminates in the star's almost ritualistic betrayal of the "public trust" (that crucial, titular privilege), and when he messes with his fans' all-important peace of mind, he watches their love turn rapidly to hate.
Even by the standards of a pre-blockbuster film industry, Watkins' complex and curiously downbeat movie doesn't feel like a conventional studio picture. It's partially designed as fly-on-the-wall documentary, aiming for a sense of authenticity amplified by a mix of non-actors and scrupulously toned-down professionals supplying the sort of naturalistic performances that Watkins favors. At the same time, the filmmaker periodically confronts us with the artificiality of it all by having his actors engage in some deliberately off-putting bits of Brechtian business designed to break the fourth wall. But don't worry — the notoriously media-shy Watkins (who refuses to talk to journalists) helps explain what he's up to in another extensive "self-interview" for the handsomely produced 40-page booklet included with the DVD.
There's only one other extra on the disc, but it's an extremely significant one: the 1962 short film Lonely Boy, a fascinating documentary on teen idol Paul Anka, one of the first pre-packaged pop stars. Watkins watched this 26-minute film over and over again by way of preparing for Privilege, and what we see in Anka, the missing link between Elvis and Menudo, sets the stage for Steven Shorter. Then again, in a world where Britney and Hannah Montana are the rule, the pop-fascist superstate of Privilege is looking more quaint by the hour.
This article appears in Jul 30 – Aug 5, 2008.