Louis Theroux says TV bosses are too scared of offending people – his own back catalogue proves his point

With his deadpan questioning, eye for taboo topics and knack for letting uneasy silences linger just a beat too long, Louis Theroux has been British TV’s patron saint of discomfort since the Nineties. But now it seems that the broadcaster is fighting for the right to keep making television that leaves us feeling awkward and unsettled.

Delivering the annual MacTaggart keynote speech at the Edinburgh TV Festival on Wednesday, the documentary-maker argued that an “atmosphere of anxiety” has pervaded corporations like the BBC in recent years. Concerned about “giving offence” by spotlighting difficult subject matter, commissioners are playing it safe, he claimed. The end result of this squeamishness around tricky material is, as Theroux says, “less confident, less morally complex filmmaking”. And we’re all the worse off for that lack. You only need a quick glance at his own back catalogue to see he has a point.

Theroux made his name tackling weighty, controversial subjects like neo-Nazism, paedophilia and the hate group Westboro Baptist Church. His famous interview style is all about faux-naivety, asking disarmingly straightforward questions that then give his subjects the chance to dig their own holes. Think of the time he watched innocently as boxer Chris Eubank blustered through an apparently simple question about whether he drinks alcohol. Or when he looked on as an American reverend began attempting to channel the spirit of his alien friend Korton. Or the more sinister scene in which he confronted Max Clifford with evidence of a PR set-up. Crucially, he gives us viewers the chance to make up our own minds about what we’re seeing and hearing on screen. We have to do some of the work for ourselves, delving into moral grey areas, because the presenter hasn’t spelt out his judgements for us.

Of course, he doesn’t always pull it off perfectly. His 2022 series Forbidden America, which explored online subcultures in the US, was criticised for giving a platform to various extreme right-wing online commentators. And perhaps the most chilling example of Theroux’s interview manner backfiring came in the 2000 profile When Louis Met Jimmy, when he roundly failed to uncover Jimmy Savile’s horrific crimes (he eventually made a follow-up film to try and grapple with the ways in which he was roundly duped by Savile, which was released in 2016). But when he gets it right – whether he’s embedding himself in a group of survivalists, going behind the scenes in a notorious prison or gently questioning the kids on the Westboro Baptist Church’s picket line – it certainly makes for absorbing and provocative viewing.

And yet in his MacTaggart lecture, the filmmaker admitted that he’s now struggling to bring some of his more “dark and troubling” documentary pitches to fruition: he’s yet to find a home for a film about conspiracy theorist David Icke and a series exploring Isis’s media operations (fascinating but undeniably inflammatory subjects). If the three-time Bafta winner can’t get those ideas off the ground, rest assured that there is probably no one else in British media who can. Instead, Theroux’s most recent BBC output has been relatively cosy stuff. He’s sat down for wide-ranging but not particularly gruelling interview specials with figures like Dame Judi Dench, Stormzy and, erm, Rita Ora. Entertaining, yes – who wouldn’t want a tour around Dame Judi’s garden, filled with trees she’s named in memory of her late actor friends? But was it gripping and thought-provoking? Not really.

The question of which subjects are worthy of further exploration on TV, and which are better off left well alone, is a seriously knotty one. It also risks bringing up the dreaded spectre of “cancel culture”. But it should be possible to acknowledge two things at the same time. One, that being more attuned to “the need not to wantonly give offence”, as Theroux put it in his lecture, is a positive step for the entertainment industry and for audiences. And two, that this might also have the side effect of making broadcasters more wary and more risk-averse (which is bad news for audiences). Then there are the political pressures that public broadcasters – particularly the BBC – are facing. Is it any surprise that the Beeb doesn’t want to stir up controversy (with, say, a doc about some issue with the potential to rile up right-wing columnists) when its funding seems to be constantly under threat?

Of course, risk aversion on the part of broadcasters isn’t a problem that’s reserved for factual programmes like the ones Theroux makes. We see it in the world of drama too, where audiences are plied with endless takes on old formulas – usually police procedurals, or domestic thrillers about women with top of the range kitchens – or reboots and spin-offs. But when it comes to documentaries, it seems particularly stark – and has particularly dire consequences for our critical thinking. When was the last time you watched a genuinely thought-provoking documentary, one that didn’t metaphorically hold your hand throughout, try to signpost how we should respond, or deliver a flattering take on its A-list subject in exchange for carefully stage-managed access?

If you’re struggling, you’re not alone. I managed to come up with the BBC’s recent Once Upon a Time in Northern Ireland series, a remarkable and carefully balanced exploration of the Troubles, and Steve McQueen’s Uprising, which aired back in 2021 and charted the aftermath of the 1981 New Cross Fire through personal testimonies. Then I hit a dispiriting mental block. Channel 4’s factual efforts tend to be bolder but a bit more salacious (to mark its 40th anniversary last year, for example, they commissioned My Massive C**k, a doc about life with “an extra-large penis”).

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Perhaps the crux of the matter is the problem of platforming. Commissioners need to acknowledge the difference between giving a problematic subject the chance to unload their views unchallenged, and holding them to account through rigorous, challenging programme-making. Presenting something on screen doesn’t have to mean glorifying it. Forbidden America is a case in point: it only takes some very gentle prodding from Theroux for a far-right influencer like YouTuber Baked Alaska to show himself up, resorting to a nonsensical, expletive-ridden rant. TV bosses need to trust that audiences can make this distinction, and give them the chance to do just that. Failure to do so isn’t just patronising – it’s risky, creating a media literacy vacuum that all too often gets filled by extreme social media personalities.

Pretending that difficult subjects don’t exist does everyone a disservice. To borrow a phrase from Theroux, these are “the unresolved areas of culture where our anxieties and our painful dilemmas lie”. And aren’t those some of the most compelling parts of our lives?