The Midwich Cuckoos, legendary science-fiction writer John Wyndham’s 1957 novel, has twice been adapted for the screen before, both times under the more sensational title, Village of the Damned. The assumption, presumably, with these movies, was that the book’s curiously twee – and singularly British – title would alienate international audiences. It is refreshing, then, that the novel has finally come to TV this week under its original name – though that sop to the Wyndham estate is the only respectful element of this bland, faithless reimagining.
The Midwich Cuckoos (Sky Max and NOW) follows a spread of characters living in the rural village of Midwich, one of those unexciting places where nothing much happens. Imagine The Archers, if everyone in Ambridge were even more insipid and under-written. But something strange is afoot: horses whinny, murmurations dart inexplicably, traffic lights flicker. And into this milquetoast milieu descends a bolt of golden lightning, and the so-called “day out”, where all the Midwichers fall unconscious and the village is rendered inaccessible from the outside. When the population reawakens, the young women find that they are mysteriously (and, often, impossibly) pregnant. Cue much hand-wringing from the authorities about what sort of life forms are growing in the wombs of the Midwich mummies. “I’m pregnant, how can that be a hostile act?” one of the host mothers yells at a town hall meeting. She’ll be delighted to discover there are seven long episodes to find out.
