For decades the West Highland Line has been believed to be the most beautiful train journey in the world. But this century it has amassed a crowd far beyond train enthusiasts, walkers, and cyclists: fans making the pilgrimage to the majestic “Harry Potter Viaduct,” officially the Glenfinnan Viaduct, on the northern extension of the line between Fort William and Mallaig. Tourists not only pack the scheduled ScotRail diesel services which cross the viaduct—views are superior from the windows on the left-hand side of the train in the northbound direction—but buy tickets for a private steam train which also ploughs the route. Visitors flocking to the Scottish locations of a popular fictional television franchise is the setup to “The Fall of Sir Douglas Weatherford” (publicly funded by the BBC, Screen Scotland, and the B.F.I.), showing now at the Montrose Playhouse.
Kenneth McKay, played by Peter Mullan, has a manner which used to be called curmudgeonly. He “subscribed to a genealogy website” and believes himself a descendent of pompous aristocrat Sir Douglas Weatherford—“a knight of the most ancient and most noble order of the thistle”—who made his money through the slave trade, lived in a mansion, and published his opinions in long-forgotten tomes. The aristocrat is a happy idiot. He provides an English-upper-class-accented voiceover to the film. “These days,” he says, “my legacy chokes under a thick layer of dust” in a “modest visitors centre in my hometown” (at which Mr McKay works). His love for animals is demonstrated by “the vast number I shot on my travels.” He describes Mr McKay as “a man of little distinction,” founding-father Benjamin Franklin as “that pervert,” and himself as “a genius.”
Everybody other than Mr McKay is delighted at the town’s success. The film crews and cosplaying fans bring in money. The town needs it: weeds sprout between gaps in the asphalt of the car park as it metastasises into a wild-flower haven; a bus stop is decrepit; the painted road markings are cracked and unloved. A documentary-maker films in the pub. “They want to know what we think of the show,” a regular says. “Watch my drink,” another says, “I’m going to be famous!” Rumours fly “that the producers might cast local talent in minor speaking roles in an effort to engage the community.”
Mr McKay’s other job is to guide bus tours. He reads from the old windbag’s book. His six bored-to-death guests film the hi-vis-wearing television-company security personnel instead. Now the tour can be repackaged to highlight locations from the series—“unfortunately that’s as close as we can get,” but the handsome star with the long blond wig “will be on set today!” Mr McKay is a refusenik. He believes in the way things should be. He doesn’t considers this sort of pop-cultural phenomenon to be progress. “Did you just put your gum…? Take your mask off so I can see your face. Take your mask off. Take the gum off. Now you get off. That’s a national landmark. Don’t shake your head. Off. Off. Sir Douglas Weatherford…” “Who?” “Sir Douglas Weatherford sat here to compose…the fourth treatise.” He lectures, re-posting—in effect—the aristocrat’s slop.
Mr McKay’s re-enacting and backward-looking are the filmmakers’ device to refract his deep depression and overwhelming grief after his wife’s death. Mr Mullan’s skill is to portray an unsympathetic character who leers with judgement and intolerance, and leaves the audience ill at ease. “[He is] just a sad old man,” the handsome actor says. “It’s sad.” Mr McKay bristles at “the entitlement amongst the crew who can be rather arrogant.” As the T.V. crew sets up on the beach he is recording yet more slop. “This stretch of beach is probably the most poignant” for an event in March, 1783. A hi-vis-costumed lackey runs over. “You can’t be down here!” he says. “We have permits. This beach needs to be vacated.”
We watch Mr McKay at home, curtains closed, replaying and replaying a home-video of his young daughter’s irretrievable birthday party from nineteen ninety-three. Visits from his granddaughter become quizzes on the family tree. “Next name, please!” “Next name, please!” His granddaughter pronounces “Urquhart.” “Well done, you,” Mr McKay says. His daughter (the girl’s mother) is impatient. “Dad,” she says, “do we really need to do the family tree right now? It’s not polite.” As they leave, Mr McKay says, “You come from a noble family…don’t let anyone tell you different.” In the saddest moment of the film Mr McKay arrives at his daughter’s house to leave a birthday gift for his granddaughter; a party has been arranged to which he has not been invited. He hides behind a privet hedge to conceal his shame. The filmmakers balance the camera elsewhere too. Take one scene when Mr McKay gets into his half of the bed: the camera pans across, centring the shot with the other—empty—half. It is a simple, powerful, moving touch. Mr McKay watches a moment from the series over and over. “You have betrayed me,” a character says. “No father, it is you who have betrayed our people,” replies the handsome actor.
After the scene with the chewing gum, Mr McKay is summoned for a meeting with the aloof grand dame of the Weatherfords. “You’ve got to stop all this Douglas Weatherford posturing,” she says, in an accent similar to the aristocrat himself. She is a fan of “this marvellous telly show” from which her family is making pots of money. “Why don’t you just play along and dress up as you’ve been asked? The Weatherford family is asking you to adapt. Can you do that?” Back at the visitor centre a tourist brings in her small son.”He’s such a fan of the show,” she says. “Oh is he,” Mr McKay says. “I’ll just die then shall I?” A shopkeeper asks, “Are you a fan of the show?” A pause. “Good God, no!” Mr McKay says.
Adam Poole
13th June 2026
If you are interested in viewing this screening, please book your tickets here
