The Schizoid Man (S01E05)
Airdate: October 27th 1967
Written by: Terence Feely
Directed by: Pat Jackson
Running Time: 50 minutes
The Prisoner earned its enduring legendary status because its creators, spearheaded by the formidable Patrick McGoohan, relentlessly experimented with narrative structure, genre, and thematic depth in each instalment. Among these bold creative gambits, Terence Feely’s script for The Schizoid Man stands out as one of the most intellectually rigorous and psychologically intricate. It transcends the standard spy thriller framework to deliver a superbly constructed fusion of espionage tension and profound psychological drama, directly confronting the very essence of self. This episode presented, by far, the greatest acting challenge of the series for McGoohan himself, demanding not merely a performance but a complete, convincing fracturing of identity – a feat he executes with chilling precision.
This spirit of relentless innovation permeates both the production and the narrative. Just as McGoohan and his team laboured to devise fresh, conceptually daring plots for every new episode, so too do the fictional masters of the Village perpetually refine their psychological torture techniques in their obsessive quest to break Number Six and extract the elusive reason for his resignation. The Village operates as a laboratory of control, where conventional interrogation has long been abandoned in favour of ever more sophisticated assaults on the psyche. The Schizoid Man exemplifies this escalation, moving beyond mere physical coercion or blunt psychological pressure into the terrifying realm of manufactured reality.
The episode begins deceptively, presenting a Number Six seemingly adapting to Village life. He cultivates what appears to be genuine camaraderie, particularly with the Number Twenty-Four, Allyson (Jane Merrow). Her introduction – visiting Six’s cottage under the guise of testing questionable psychic abilities with Zener cards – initially suggests a potential vulnerability or point of human connection for the isolated protagonist. Yet, this apparent softening is merely the prelude to a far more insidious operation. The new Number Two (Anton Rodgers), younger and radiating a chillingly efficient bureaucratic ruthlessness, eschews parapsychology. Instead, he employs a method far more complex and diabolical: during Six’s sleep, he undergoes a series of strange procedures. Upon waking, the transformation is jarring – a moustache adorns his face, he uses left hand, and his culinary preferences are utterly altered. Summoned before Number Two, he is coldly informed he is now "Number Twelve," an agent meticulously conditioned to break the real Number Six by inducing a psychotic break through the ultimate confrontation: facing a doppelgänger.
The core brilliance of Feely’s script lies in the ensuing identity collision. "Number Twelve" meticulously assumes Number Six’s appearance and role, infiltrating his life. However, when he encounters the man claiming to be the true Number Six, the expected psychological collapse doesn’t occur. Instead, the confrontation becomes a fierce, mutual denial of legitimacy: each man adamantly asserts his own authenticity while branding the other an impostor. Their attempts to resolve the matter through competitive shooting and fencing – action sequences seamlessly integrated into the narrative’s psychological stakes, avoiding the empty spectacle common in contemporary spy fare – only heighten the confusion and tension. The Village’s final test, orchestrated by Number Two, ironically relies on Allyson’s purported psychic ability. Her pronouncement that "Number Twelve" is the impostor seems to confirm the original Six’s victory, shattering the fabricated identity.
Yet, the episode’s true masterstroke is the reversal. Just as "Number Twelve" appears utterly defeated and resigned to his manufactured reality, a seemingly insignificant detail – a bruise sustained during Allyson’s earlier psychic session – triggers a cascade of repressed memory. He recalls the aversion therapy used to overwrite his identity. Through sheer force of will, inducing an electric shock upon himself, he erases the conditioning. Confronting the impostor (revealed as "Curtis," a fellow agent), a violent struggle ensues, culminating in the accidental intervention of Rover. The inflatable guardian’s brutal crushing of Curtis is pivotal; it transforms Rover from a merely sinister plot device into a genuinely terrifying instrument of the Village’s absolute, lethal authority, irrevocably raising the stakes for Number Six’s future battles. Seizing the opportunity presented by Curtis’s death, Six adopts his identity, seemingly securing his escape via helicopter. The final, devastating twist – Number Two’s casual instruction to "give regards to Susan," referencing Curtis' dead wife – instantly exposes the ruse. This cruel, intimate knowledge confirms Six’s true identity, trapping him once more. The predictable nature of this final anchor back to the Village is undeniable, yet its execution, rooted in such specific, personal history, remains a powerful narrative punch.
Feely’s script was so labyrinthine that director Pat Jackson reportedly struggled to grasp its full complexity during production. Whether this confusion was genuine or apocryphal matters less than the result: Jackson steered the intricate plot with remarkable clarity. He allowed crucial details – the bruise, the subtle shifts in conditioned behaviour – to register for perceptive viewers long before Number Six himself could piece them together, rewarding attentive audiences with a sense of shared discovery. The episode also benefits immensely from exceptional performances. Anton Rodgers, as the youngest Number Two yet, embodies a terrifyingly plausible bureaucratic villain, his calm efficiency more unnerving than overt menace. Jane Merrow brings intriguing ambiguity to Allyson, suggesting depths beyond her apparent role as a mere agent, and her prior work with McGoohan on Danger Man lends a subtle, unspoken history to their scenes. However, the ultimate accolade must go to Patrick McGoohan. His dual performance – capturing the steely resolve of the original Six, the bewildered confusion of the conditioned "Twelve," and the dawning horror of the reawakened self – represents the series’ most demanding and accomplished acting achievement. He doesn’t just play two roles; he embodies the visceral terror of having one’s very self stolen and replaced.
The Schizoid Man is a cornerstone of The Prisoner’s legacy. It is far more than a clever spy story; it is a profound, unsettling exploration of identity as the ultimate battleground. In its relentless psychological assault and masterful execution, it stands as one of the series’ very finest hours, a testament to the bold, uncompromising vision that secured The Prisoner’s place in television history.
RATING: 7/10 (+++)
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