(October 20, 1967; writer: “Paddy Fitz”; director: Patrick McGoohan)
Star Patrick McGoohan both wrote and directed this episode (he assumes the name Paddy Fitz for his script credit) that takes the series to a striking new level of absurdity.
This is the one in which McGoohan’s “Number Six” learns that the position of the most powerful person that he’s met in The Village–that would be “Number Two”, who’s under the command of the still-mysterious “Number One”–goes up for election every year and that he’s very welcome to run for the job himself. In fact, the current “Number Two” (seasoned British film actor Eric Portman, a favorite of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger) encourages it. Not that it takes much effort to convince him, as McGoohan sees this as a possible chance to escape. Or to least learn more about The Village’s secrets.
Now, none of this makes a lick of sense because there’s a different “Number Two” in every episode. The Village is clearly does NOT run elections for that position. They are hiring and firing like Donald Trump. Crazy turnover in that position.
So, I don’t know what the hell kind of of logic is happening in this episode, but that’s okay. The Prisoner is already weird all over. Every episode begins with Patrick McGoohan waking up and hobbling toward the window of his room, as if he’s unsure if he’s dreaming or not. And maybe he is.
And this very episode is VERY dreamy.
McGoohan directs this almost like it’s a psychedelic art film. Or as close as he could get to that sort of thing for television circa 1967. It’s aloof, but always visually striking. Even when you don’t feel like you have enough information, your eye is overwhelmed.
The moment that McGoohan decides to run for office, it’s like the opening notes of The Beatles’ “Magical Mystery Tour” just sounded out at top volume. Whole crowds instantly have his photo on campaign signs as they march down the cobblestone streets like a circus parade. It’s party time and the confetti is flying and the hive mind is buzzing.
Meanwhile, a “journalist” who stops to interview McGoohan just writes down his own made-up answers–standard politician stuff about tightening security and fighting for freedom–when McGoohan uniformally replies with “No comment”. And the “interview” is available in print about a minute later.
Furthermore, McGoohan now has an assistant that he doesn’t trust or want, a fetching brunette (Rachel Herbert) in a French maid outfit, who doesn’t seem to speak a word of English. (Someone smarter than me will have to tell you what language she’s speaking. All I know is that it doesn’t sound like French.)
At first, McGoohan is himself. He outright states that he’s running for office because he wants to dismantle The Village and set everyone free. The crowds don’t react to that in the slightest–McGoohan oddly seems to stand alone in his desire to escape his lush and sunny prison–but he’s still a cause celebre.
His supporters don’t seem to be earned as much as they are mysteriously provided.
Something’s wrong. We are in Twin Peaks Red Room territory. Nothing is rational.
Things go even more wrong when McGoohan is summoned to a meeting of silent, staring, unresponsive people in top hats (or “tailor’s dummies”, as our hero calls them) and then gets dropped into an underground level of The Village in which he receives a good brainwashing.
It’s an extraordinary sequence in which a friendly faced gentlemen tells McGoohan to relax because he “could be a friend” and then proceeds to tell him that The Village knows everything about him. They know when he’s lying. They know his motives. They’ve got his whole psychologial profile down cold. Ever since he arrived in this place, McGoohan has been reduced him to a man of very simple desires: escape from The Village and learn who’s in charge of it. And they’re not only prepared for whatever he might do, but they know exactly how to appeal to him and lead him on. They can fuck with his head all day.
McGoohan emerges from this shaken and with an understanding that he needs to keep his strategies closer to the vest.
So, instead of a manic truth-teller, McGoohan becomes a real politician, mouthing platitudes with a smile on his face.
Behind the scenes, he’s a nervous wreck. When he sees a potential escape opportunity in the form of a motorboat, he takes it.
Bill, the deadly weather balloon thwarts that one.
The story takes more twists from there that I’d rather not spoil except to say that this is one of the CREEPIER episodes of The Prisoner so far. You could talk about it as a satire of political campaigns, for sure, but what sticks with me is its screaming, desperate paranoia.
We’re starting to get the feeling that maybe the entire village is a ruse intended to screw with this one guy. In that light, everyone becomes sinister. Even the background extras. McGoohan can trust no one, even the people he trusts to be useless.
Four episodes in and Patrick McGoohan is more and more alone as we go along. He can shout and make a scene and no one else even so much as flinches. It’s very uncomfortable. Eerie, too.
Four episodes in and the idea of hiring a different actor to play “Number Two” each time also feels all the more inspired. There’s only one villain in this series–and they have a different face (sometimes two different faces) in every episode.
We can’t even depend on the bad guy.
Also, what kind of explosive information is in McGoohan’s head that’s worth all of this trouble? And why is it so important to him to never reveal it?
I’m not even sure that I want to know.
The Prisoner is a series about being frighteningly alone, but you can’t make seventeen episodes of a television series of one guy puttering about, so you surround him with people. Old men. Fat women. Slick and proper gentlemen. Average dweebs. Dwarfs. Attractive ladies. Tough guys. The whole panorama.
And every single one of them is in on the same strange plot. Against one person.