There’s something quite humbling about having your nation’s number well and truly gotten by a television show aired in Britain in 1976, based on novels published in 1934 and 1935. But humbling isn’t the right word at all. Humiliating is closer to the mark. Two thousand years after the events of I, Claudius, the United States of America — the richest and most powerful empire in the history of the world — is crumbling before our eyes due to the every combination of greed, ambition, sadism, and degeneracy that brought mighty Rome low centuries ago. We, as a species, have learned nothing.
But that’s not quite fair, is it? You’ve learned something. I’ve learned something. People who have kept their minds and souls intact amidst the fascist onslaught, people who have remained human as the entire warship of the state and technology and capital aims its cannons at anything remotely human and fires — people like that, people like us, we’ve learned our lesson. We know that gerontocratic perverts like Emperor Tiberius, gibbering young psychopaths like Caligula, and scumbag secret police chiefs like Sejanus have been put in charge of our country, our future, our world — our children’s country, our children’s future, our children’s world. I think what we’d like to happen to these people in return is clear enough.
I, Claudius isn’t about everyday people like us, though.True, everyday people come into the story every now and then — in this very episode there’s a lengthy, hilarious aside in which a scribe passive-aggressively instructs his employees to erase the beautiful elephants they’ve drawn on Claudius’ manuscript about Carthage, seething about his rich client’s bad taste all the while. Even Sejanus is, in his way, closer to the masses than the Julio-Claudians, into whose ranks he’s been scheming to climb for years. But like George R.R. Martin (more on him in a moment) writing A Song of Ice and Fire, author Robert Graves and adapter Jack Pulman made a conscious choice to center royalty and aristocracy in their narrative.
But it’s the powerful who move the plot here. And look where they’ve moved it to. Justly titled “Reign of Terror,” this episode of I, Claudius is a cavalcade of cruelty — and I defy you to find a single reason why it couldn’t happen here tomorrow.
It goes ill for the Empire. Its ruler is a bitter old man who spends his time nursing ancient grudges and indulging in rape and pedophilia as pastimes. The whisperings of the ambitious head of his secret police drive him to ever greater acts of paranoia and violence. His inner circle includes even bigger, more sadistic perverts and murderers. The Senate goes along with it as innocent people are arrested without charge. The only ones who can put a stop to it all are either too old and enfeebled to act, or too complacent, or too cowardly.
Anyway, did you guys watch this episode of I, Claudius? Because things are pretty bad there, too.
Beautifully blocked even by I, Claudius standards, this episode makes the most of the Senate’s comparatively cavernous size, framing Piso pontificating in the foreground while Tiberius glowers beneath his imperial laurels in the back. Sejanus is constantly standing in the Emperor’s personal space, indicating who really wears the pants in the relationship. Caligula is a sinister presence throughout, a Lynchian entity in child form, lurking in the crowd or in the rear of the frame.
And that final scene with Piso and Plancina, ugh, my god! Stratford and Hamilton’s clinch, their desperate pressing of their heads and faces together as they resolve to die as one, is incandescently hot, the way doomed passion so often is. It makes Piso’s decision to back down feel like even more of a slap in the face. Did you not watch the scene you are currently in, dog? You’re caught in a bad romance, roll with it!
Photo: Acorn
But Piso’s uncertainty and terror are understandable. He now lives in a system where everything comes down to the decisions of a single man, a sovereign, a one-man maker of reality. Your safety as a Roman citizen, even a Roman Senator, ultimately depends not on laws or principles, but on remaining in the Emperor’s good graces.Humanity struggled for centuries to crawl out of this kind of moral morass, in which liberty and freedom enter freefall as the whims of dictators reward friends and punish enemies with impunity. It’s been recognized almost universally as evil for generation upon generation. I, Claudius was made for societies where, it was presumed, people agreed on this. But it’s just as good, if not better, in a society where they don’t.
To accurately describe the world is to sound insane. That’s the dilemma facing observers of America’s collapsing empire today. The corruption is so naked, the incompetence so comical, the sheer evil so gleeful and unrepentant, that describing the situation to others makes you come across as badly undermedicated. There’s an old saw that goes around lefty political spaces saying that when you explain Republican policies in black and white for people, they simply won’t believe you. Surely, no one could be that psychopathically cruel for so long and just get away with it.
Postumus Agrippa (John Castle) lives in a world that’s similarly askew. The dark secret at its center is right there in his own name: He’s the son who was born to the legendary war hero Marcus Agrippa posthumously. Why did Marcus Agrippa die, and his rival Marcellus before him? What of Postumus’ late brothers, Gaius and Lucius? Did the solitary exile of his mother Julia have a reason behind it beyond her infidelities? And what of Drusus, ally to the Republic, son of Empress Livia, and father of Postumus’ best friend, the twitching, limping, stuttering Claudius?
The answer has been obvious to us in the audience all along: Livia Drusilla is behind it all. She’s behind the deaths of Marcus, Marcellus, Gaius, Lucius, and Drusus, plus the exile of Livia, and as of now the exile of Postumus for attempting to rape Claudius’ married sister, the gorgeous Livilla (Patricia Quinn, aka Magenta from The Rocky Horror Picture Show). In this very episode we see Livia confront Livilla about the affair, then half-cajole, half-blackmail the younger woman into keeping it up long enough to frame Postumus. She’ll do anything, stop at nothing, to ensure her son Tiberius is next on the throne.
Photo: Acorn
But try telling this to Augustus, the greatest man in the history of the known world. He’s not such a bad guy, as far as it goes, but he’s not a person accustomed to being told he’s wrong. (By anyone but Livia, that is.) Now he’s been told that his beloved wife is responsible for the death or disappearance of half a dozen people he adored, including no fewer than five planned successors to the throne, plus the mother of three of them.
“For years, everyone around you has either died or disappeared. Do you think it was all an accident?” Well, you’d want to, wouldn’t you? Would you choose to accept the horrible truth? Or would you go on clinging to the world as you knew it, believing in your heart that it could never really change? We know how our own elites have reacted; Augustus reacts little differently.
It’s a brilliant narrative maneuver by screenwriter Jack Pulman, working off the novels by Robert Graves. Here we have the moment we’ve all been waiting for: Finally, someone exposes Livia as the serial killer she is to the only man who can do anything about it. But even as it’s happening, we know nothing will come of it, because unless you’ve been watching through the BBC’s cameras, there’s no way you’d accept Postumus’ word for it, not when he’s trying to save his own skin in the process.
Since the sets and set-ups are so limited on this show, it falls to blocking and camera placement and movement to create a sense of space, pacing, and momentum. Good Lord, does it ever do so in this episode. From the long take that sees Augustus stalk up and down a line of Julia’s accused lovers like a wolf selecting his prey, to the way the camera wheels around from a triumphant Livia to an enraged Augustus when the power shifts between them following Julia’s exile, these shots and staging decisions use physical space to convey the political and psychological hierarchy of the royal family — who’s on top and who’s beneath them, who’s the public face and who’s the force in the background. As a visual text, I, Claudius one of the most watchable shows I’ve ever seen, no frills required.
Drusus himself now occupies the command of the German legions Tiberius once oversaw. He’s a fine and honorable soldier as best we can tell, and a friend to Augustus as well. But while he serves the Empire, he’s no fan of it, nor of the all-powerful position it’s built around. In a letter to his brother after he returns to the front, Drusus writes of his worries:
A period of enforced rest due to a slight head wound has given me much time to ponder and reflect on the state of our beloved Rome. Such was the extent of the corruption and petty place-seeking that I found in Rome, that I have come to the conclusion that it is the inevitable consequence of the continued exercise of supreme power by Augustus.
The problem with building an enormous, largely unaccountable apparatus of power around one person, however good a guy he is, that power will eventually be inherited by someone who’s not such a good guy. Okay, so today we’re legalizing same sex marriage and talking about how the moral arc of the universe bends towards justice. That’s nice. We’ll get Shep Fairey to make a poster.
But what happens tomorrow? Perhaps the council of black-robed wizards who decide whether laws are legal or not will one day be dominated by right-wing lunatics. Perhaps the person placed at the apex of the richest and mightiest nation in human history will one day be a senile Nazi with an axe to grind against anyone who’s ever wronged him. Every opportunity we had to undermine the power of these institutions and didn’t take it was a waste of good fortune and a crime against the future.
Drusus already senses these problems arising, even with Augustus still on the throne. In argument with his mother, who resents both Drusus and her first husband for harboring hopes for the return of the Republic, Drusus asks her if she wants Rome to be reduced to the open corruption of “the Eastern potentates,” upon which their civilization had always looked down. He sees how quickly these things fall apart, even with someone decent at the top.
I, Claudius feels weighty. A cast consisting almost solely of British acting royalty. A story about the mighty Roman Empire and the legendary (or infamous) men and women whose strength and cunning held it together (or tore it apart). Dialogue with a knack for sounding both casually naturalistic and as precisely calibrated as the finest poetry. A profound influence on such New Golden Age/Peak TV giants as David Chase and George R.R. Martin. Its legacy as a staple of the highfalutin line-up of PBS, back when our own empire believed in improving its subjects’ lives somewhat. How do you wrap your mind around a show with a reputation this sterling and imposing? How do you wrestle this masterpiece to the ground?
You do it in a pit of mud, that’s how. Sexy, sudsy, sinister, spearheaded by a cast that makes an absolute feast out of every betrayal and bon mot, I, Claudius is aimed at the gut and the groin as much as it’s aimed at the noggin.
In the standard opening sequence of The Prisoner, the voice of the new Number Two tells Number Six that he and the masters of the Village want “information … information … information.” Some Number Twos deliver the latter two iterations of the word as if they’re a phrase: “In formation…in formation.” They want him to line up and march, like a good soldier.
The final episode of The Prisoner in every possible running order, “Fall Out” is named after a phrase with several meanings depending on whether it’s one word or two. “Fallout” means the often unfortunate ramifications of an action or event; more specifically, it also means the radioactive debris that rains down on the area surrounding a nuclear explosion. People “fall out” when they have a relationship-ending argument or disagreement. Objects “fall out” when they drop from a place they’d been secured.
In a way, all of those meanings apply to this episode, but none more so than this: Just as soldiers “fall in” when they get in line, they “fall out” when they break formation.
Far out even by Prisoner standards — far out even by “Once Upon a Time” standards, which was itself far out even by Prisoner standards — “Fall Out” is one of the most confrontational series finales ever aired. It’s a “Did you people think I was fucking around? Do you know what kind of show you’re dealing with here?” moment on par with the trial of the Seinfeld Four, Tony Soprano playing Journey at the diner, and the Lynchian un-resolutions of the two (!) Twin Peaks series finales. (The first one was so unresolved that the 25-year gap until Season 3 somehow felt logical — like, of course it would take everyone that long to recover from what happened at the end of Season 2.) It’s a finale that feels designed to be divisive.
You make a show like The Prisoner to make an episode like this.
Written and directed by creator and star Patrick McGoohan, the auteurist masterpiece “Once Upon a Time” is a clear move toward the series’ endgame, advancing the overarching plot (!), ending on a cliffhanger (!!!), and promising us that in the next episode both Number Six and we in the audience will, at long last, meet Number One (!!!!!!). That’s thrilling enough, and a textbook case of The Prisoner breaking the rules it’s established for itself in basically every way conceivable at one point or another.
But as important as all that is, as much as we’ve been waiting 16 episodes for it to happen, it pales in comparison to the execution. “Once Upon a Time” is one of the most boldly experimental episodes of television ever filmed. You’d have to fast forward to the finale of Twin Peaks Season 2 or the phantasmagorical eighth episode of Twin Peaks Season 3, I think, before you found anything comparable.
There have been other mightily sophisticated, groundbreaking, stylistically innovative shows that weren’t made by Patrick McGoohan, Mark Frost, or David Lynch, of course. But to cite two representative examples, The Sopranos‘ dream episodes are the clear product of the everyday mind of the main character, and Nicholas Winding Refn and Ed Brubaker’s magisterially bleak Too Old to Die Young operates in the same basic soporific register the entire time. Only in The Prisoner and Twin Peaks did things already start out “both wonderful and strange,” then somehow find a way to become wonderful and strange even by their own immeasurably lofty standards.
Throughout The Prisoner, Patrick McGoohan and his collaborators have been restless to the point of mania. Any rule they can break in their story of a lone intelligence operative pitted against unknowable and implacable forces, they break, even if it was their own rule to begin with. Episodes with different opening credits. Episodes with no opening credits. Every episode is about escape, until they aren’t. Every episode features Rover and the Announcer, until they don’t. Every episode has a new Number Two, except the ones that reuse old ones. Episodes that begin with twenty minutes of silence. Episodes in which Number Six is a suave secret agent in Paris. Episodes set in the Old West.
Seen in that light, “The Girl Who Was Death” is perhaps The Prisoner‘s boldest experiments yet. It alone dares to ask the question: What if an episode of The Prisoner was really, really stupid?
Stupid like a fox, of course. Working from a script by Terence Feely, director David Tomblin, a pivotal player in The Prisoner‘s production, knows that this screwball Swinging ’60s British super-spy pastiche is silly as hell.
Even though he’s doomed to be in the wrong body, even though he’s doomed to inevitably return to the Village to complete the procedure, even though he initially demurs rather than scare her away with the crazy-sounding truth, he has to convince her he’s the man she loves, and not through anything as dry as handwriting analysis. So after tracking her down at a party, he tells her to grab the receipt he needs to pick up the slides and meet him outside, where he’ll deliver a message from “Number Six”.
The message is a kiss. Boy, is it ever. In a long take, over electric guitar music that is almost ambient in its plaintiveness, he shows her who he is. “Who else could have given you that message?” he says afterwards. Oooh-whee, that is romance.
Photo: Prime Video
It’s also not Patrick McGoohan. Six finally scores (sex afterwards is faintly but legibly implied), including a big on-screen kiss, but he’s not Six as we know him. Remember, the devoutly Catholic star of this secret-agent show had a no-kissing clause.
Still, we needed this, I think he realized. We needed to know that there was more to Number Six’s life before the Village than a stint on Her Majesty’s Secret Service, a stormy resignation, and a stubborn refusal to explain why. We needed to know that he cared about someone other than himself, had other ideals beyond independence and personal liberty. Personally I think it’s safe to assume he does, that he soured on the work he was doing in some way. We know from “A. B. and C.” that he didn’t resign to sell out or switch sides. In “The Chimes of Big Ben” he began to explain his resignation by saying “I resigned because for a very long time, I—” before the eponymous bells toll. Some kind of moral reason is implicit.
But love? Love indicates he’s more than a man of principle. He’s a man. There’s a woman he loves waiting for him back home. There’s a life that’s been taken from him. If he can have that life back however briefly, in however strange a way, he’ll take it. If he can pay back the people who cruelly taunted him with it only to yank it away by helping Seltzman escape and trapping his enemy in the wrong body, he’ll do that too.
Throughout The Prisoner‘s many strange visits to the Village, the title sequence has remained comfortingly familiar. With its sound of thunder and spy-thriller soundtrack, the wordless depiction of Number Six’s resignation and abduction is a blast to watch, culminating with him rising from his forced slumber, looking out his front window, and seeing the Village for the first time. (And the episode title, too, which must be helpful for him.) Just like that, anyone tuning in for the first time knows the backstory.
Then comes the call-and-response voiceover face-off between Number Six and each episode’s Number Two. This part of the opening sequence sets up the show’s big mysteries in a handful of koanlike questions and mantralike answers. The ominous sight of Rover, the reveal of the new Number Two, Six raging at the sky while yelling “I am not a number, I am a free man!”, Two’s mocking laughter … it puts today’s “abstract substances coalesce and morph into various familiar things from the show you’re watching” trend to shame; that’s for sure. All told, those three minutes are one of The Prisoner‘s greatest achievements.
Naturally, they went and binned it. This is The Prisoner we’re talking about — a show that breaks every mold it can get its hands on, including its own. Even the credits are fair game.
All of this is a long way to say that when this episode opens with a cowboy on horseback in the Wild West instead of a secret agent in a sports car in London, I cheered “Hot damn!” These magnificent bastards did it again!
Despite all his scheming and note-planting and trust-undermining, Six doesn’t really do anything to take Number Two down in this episode. He’s not actually a plant; he’s not actually working for a top-secret new commander; he’s not actually conspiring with any of the other Villagers on either side of the invisible cage bars. He’s just … there, solid and unyielding as ever. Through sheer implacability, he forces Number Two to bang and bang and bang away until there’s nothing left of him. In boxing, this is called rope-a-dope, and they’ve done it time and time again to Number Six. Turnabout is fair play.
Now, I’ve done a lot of research about this by now, and anywhere it’s discussed, a blacksmith will eventually chime in and point out that hammers damage anvils all the time. Anecdotal counterexamples aside, you get the idea, right? Compared to the solid mass of an anvil, a hammer’s as flimsy as a conductor’s baton. Bang that thing as hard as you can and you’re more likely to break the hammer, or even your own arm, than you are the anvil itself. And what is Number Two in the end if not a broken arm of the Village body? Control’s strength is finite, but defiance’s is not. Tyranny is brittle. Oppression is the mask of fear.
The Prisoner is, no pun intended, a number of things. It’s both colorful episodic sci-fi and a bleak, Kafkaesque parable of persecution. It’s a work of dreamlike surrealism and an extended riff on swinging ’60s super-spy shows. And it’s a dystopia in miniature, its setting an eerily idyllic open-air prison instead of a gigantic closed society. Of course, at least one Number Two has suggested that the endgame for all of this can be summed up as “Today the Village, tomorrow the world.”
Of all the episodes we’ve watched, “A Change of Mind” is the one in which actor-auteur Patrick McGoohan — who once again directs under his “Joseph Serf” pseudonym — seems engaged most directly with the mid-20th century’s dystopian landmarks. Orwell’s 1984 looms large, of course, as it long has: faces of authority looming down from sloganeering posters, captives reconditioned to love their tormenters, a reassuring face replacing an image of terror in compulsory film viewing, even the Winston/O’Brien relationship between Number Six and several of the Number Twos.
The use of drugs and aversion therapy to induce reflexive compliance and nonviolence, meanwhile, is straight out of Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange, published five years prior. The show predates Stanley Kubrick’s infamous and stylistically influential adaptation of the novel and anticipates the director’s aesthetic approach, from its costumed droogs to its combined movie theater/torture chamber.
But McGoohan’s also firing live ammo here. Under the new Number Two (John Sharp, whose roles in The Wicker Man and Barry Lyndon yield a significant Prisoner-fan Venn diagram overlap), the Village’s methods of bringing antisocial, inadequate, disharmonious, UNMUTUAL Villagers to heel recall any number of real-world oppressions: Soviet show trials, McCarthyite purges, Maoist self-criticism sessions, the vicious conformity of little England or small-town America. The term used in the episode for its science-fictional mind-wiping procedure, “social conversion,” carries bitter echoes of the persecution of queer kids in the decades to come.
It begins in silence, and in silence it stays. Other than some unintelligible radio chatter and a couple of lines barked in German, 19 minutes pass after Number Six proclaims “I am not a number, I am a free man!” at the end of the opening sequence before anyone utters a single word. The Village is deserted, so there’s no one there to speak. The boat which Six builds and sails to freedom, sails all the way back to England in fact, houses exactly one passenger, and he has nothing to say to himself. Six’s first line of dialogue — the episode’s first line in English — is a question, to a Roma traveler he encounters on a seaside cliff. It’s just three words and just three syllables: “Where is this?”
That is the question, Number Six. That is the question.
In response, the Nazis swept into the village of Lidice, which was wrongfully suspected to have hid co-conspirators, and wiped it out. They executed 340 people, including every male resident over the age of 14, as well as 82 children, who were gassed to death after being transported to a concentration camp.
On May 27, 1942, members of the Czech resistance killed a monster. Though the assassination itself was a comedy of errors involving jammed machine guns and “close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades” grenade throws, Reich Protector Reynard Heidrich, the brutal overseer of Czechoslovakia and a prime mover of the Holocaust, died of his wounds several days later.
In this episode of The Prisoner, a clockmaker Villager played by actor Martin Miller, a Czech Jew, plots to assassinate the Village’s overseer, Number Two. In that context, I think Number Six can be forgiven for what he does, or doesn’t do, next.
Colin Gordon is a fascinating Number Two, with a more modish fashion sense and a general vibe of, let’s say, confirmed bachelorhood. Whereas previous Numbers Two who couldn’t get INFORMATION out of Number Six seemed content to mess with him a bit and call it a day afterwards, this one has been tasked with getting results in no uncertain terms, with consequences that are clearly grave should he fail. This gives the episode a previously entirely unused dramatic axis around which to spin. The look of terror he shoots the phone in the episode’s final shot is the finest moment to date for anyone in the role.
Meanwhile, McGoohan is an absolute hoot as the unflappable Six, confident he’s beating his warders at their own game. As 14, Sheila Allen plays a reluctant Dr. Frankenstein, driven past the point of safety by the demands of Number Two. (“Where’s your scientific enthusiasm?” he demands when she worries the procedure could hurt or kill the patient.) Along with Kath, Carell, and Bettine Le Beau in a momentary but memorable bit part as a French maid who catches Six’s eye, Allen is one of several smoldering guest stars, and there’s no crime in that: Even a spy thriller as serious-minded as The Americans understood the value of sex appeal in the spy game.
Visually, this is sumptuous stuff even by Prisoner standards. Director Pat Jackson’s inventive use of rear projection helps conjure up both the giant screen on which Six’s dreams are projected and the Champs-Élysées at twilight as C. drives Six to his secret rendezvous.
Dutch angles turn the third night at the party into a visual fight between Six’s consciousness and the weakened drug. The costuming, from C.’s dress to 14 and D.’s respective capes, remains colorful and creative.
In order to reach the Village’s boardroom and broadcast center, you have to put a tiny disc in a little slot. Once you do this, a tiny blue plastic hand emerges from a little box and grabs the disc, snatching it away and disappearing back into the box. After this point, you — and I should mention here that you’re dressed in a top hat and black coat with black sunglasses indoors — can pass unimpeded through the forcefield-protected entrance.
Is there a reason that a tiny little blue plastic hand has to emerge from a little box to grab a disc before you can get in there? Considering that virtually every inch of the Village is monitored by video and patrolled by guards both human and spherical in nature, no, not really. You could just have some guy wave you in after you show an ID card. You could have Rover the floating orb (who does not appear in this episode) act as bouncer. You could do pretty much anything. But The Prisoner chooses to have a tiny little blue plastic hand emerge from a little box to grab the disc and let you in.
Photo: Prime Video
Why? Well, the Village is very impressed with its technological prowess and, simultaneously, possessed by the aesthetic sensibility of an outsider artist — the better, perhaps, to bewilder the straightlaced cop types who become intelligence officials. This is a facility that seemingly spares no expense in creating elaborate, even baroque machines and procedures that Occam’s razor, if applied, would slice to ribbons. In that sense, the little blue plastic hand is exactly the kind of shit these weirdos would set up.
However, I think a different explanation gets to the heart of it. The Prisoner is based on a simple concept: What if you made a TV show that was interesting instead of uninteresting whenever a choice between the two was available?
I mean, yes, absolutely, you could have a guard stand in front of that hallway, letting people in based on an approved list of Numbers allowed to attend the board meeting or work in the broadcast center. Indeed, there’s a whole new cadre of guards invented in this episode for just this sort of work — grey-jumpsuited, helmeted, shades-indoors goons with white batons who’ll gladly beat the shit out of you if ordered. They’re literally standing around waiting to do a job like letting people in to a top-secret area.
But the little blue plastic hand that picks a disc up out of a slot and yoinks it back into its tiny black box? That’s something better than plausible: It’s bitchin’. It’s mint. It’s just some of the weirdest, coolest shit you’re gonna see on your screen this week, I guarantee. Would Patrick McGoohan and his Prisoner collaborators put it in quite these terms? No, probably not. But we’re free to call a spade a spade, you and I, and this show is cool as hell. It feels like it’s trying, really going for it, at all times and in all ways, and that is vanishingly rare.
Considering the amount of screen time the two Sixes share, the late-Sixties special effects that enable them to appear together in the same shot is shockingly effective. Their hand-to-hand combat in particular is very visceral, in part because of McGoohan’s fists-only fighting style, here doubled, but also because both men appear determined to be the only Six left standing by the end of it.
But could the doubling suggest something deeper? Whatever else it is, The Prisoner was made in the shadow of McGoohan’s previous super-spy TV hit, Danger Man. (That’s what Danger Mouse was parodying, if you didn’t know.) It’s no secret that McGoohan had grown bored with the role by the show’s fourth season; The Prisoner, developed with help from Danger Man Season 4 script editor Doug Markstein, is essentially McGoohan doing a revisionist version of the character he’d just finished playing. The biting cynicism, the distinct lack of heroic catharsis, the overall absence of globe-trotting derring-do, with mind-bending psychological torture in its place: It’s kind of like if Chris “Captain America” Evans created and starred as Homelander in The Boys. Is there a better visual metaphor for this than Patrick McGoohan, secret agent at large, duking it out with Patrick McGoohan, secret agent in chains?
(Also, are you familiar with a little show called Twin Peaks? Because I’ve got a feeling many of the trials and tribulations of the oft-doubled FBI Special Agent Dale Cooper can be tracked back to this episode.)
Still, the thing that really got to me had nothing to do with Six at all, but with Twelve, the traditional movie/TV secret-agent type sent to imprison him. Whoever he is, he had a wife who loved him, and who he subsequently lost, and — wait, did we just figure out why this person would agree to become another man in the first place? The surgery, the training, all of it: Is it the equivalent of Jim Carrey getting his memories erased in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, or Adam Scott taking on a very strange day job so he can forget about his late wife in Severance?
Even if you’re not buying this backstory (which I just made up as I wrote that paragraph), there’s no two ways about it: Number 12, Curtis, loved a woman named Susan, who loved him back, and now she’s gone. By the time we learn any of this we’ve already seen him be destroyed by Rover (now identified by this codename by both Six and Two, so there you go, official Orb name designated) in what looks to be excruciating fashion. It’s hard to empathize with the kind of person who’d work for the Village organization, or who’d try to break Six in this way. It’s hard for me, personally, to imagine that people with minds like that — fascists, I mean — can truly love the way real people can. But that’s the life he built for himself, and that’s the life that’s over now, and even Number Six is made to wrestle with that.
“I want him with whole heart, body, and soul,” Number Two says early on, while rejecting the usual offers to use more extreme methods to break Number Six. That is the way of fascism. It’s not enough to submit: You must embrace your own submission. That this itself is a destruction of heart and soul does not concern the regime. Your heart and soul are your masters’, and they will remake you in their grey and grinning image.
