Television Review: Dance of the Dead (The Prisoner, S1X08, 1967)

Dance of the Dead (S01E08)

Airdate: November 17th 1967

Written by: Anthony Skene
Directed by: Don Chaffey

Running Time: 50 minutes

In the precarious ecosystem of cult television, timing often proves the decisive factor that separates enduring classics from forgettable curiosities. This principle applies with particular poignancy to The Prisoner's Dance of the Dead, an episode whose fundamental flaws stem not from inherent deficiencies in conception, but rather from its unfortunate position as the eighth instalment in the broadcast sequence. Had this surreal carnival of psychological manipulation appeared earlier in Patrick McGoohan's groundbreaking series, its experimental nature might have been embraced as bold innovation; instead, arriving when audiences had already absorbed the programme's core mythology, it feels like a perplexing detour rather than a meaningful progression.

The episode revolves around the Village's persistent efforts to break Number Six's formidable resistance. The newly introduced Doctor (Duncan MacRae) presents a supposedly revolutionary technique involving neural stimulation and psychological manipulation that would, in theory, compel Six to surrender his secrets willingly. Central to this approach is Roland Walter Dutton (Alan White), an old colleague of Six's who has already undergone the procedure. However, the method's devastating side effects—evident in Dutton's deteriorating mental state—render him useless to the Village's cause, serving as a cautionary spectacle of the technique's destructive potential.

This very consequence makes the new Number Two (May Morris) deeply reluctant to authorise the Doctor's methods. Preferring a more subtle approach, she orchestrates a psychological game designed to lower Six's defences through human connection. She positions Number Forty Two (Norma West), a young woman working as Six's observer and an ardent believer in the Village's philosophy, as both surveillance asset and potential emotional vulnerability. Forty Two's genuine disapproval of Six's rebellious nature creates a fascinating tension—she represents the Village's ideal citizen, indoctrinated yet human, caught between duty and dawning awareness.

Meanwhile, Number Six continues his relentless pursuit of escape. He has discerned a crucial pattern: the Village's surveillance apparatus mysteriously deactivates at night, with residents apparently compelled to sleep. Determined to exploit this vulnerability, Six forces himself to stay awake and slips undetected to the beach. His freedom proves fleeting when the ever-present Rover intercepts him, rendering him unconscious. Awakening at dawn, he discovers a corpse washed ashore, its possessions including a transistor radio broadcasting an enigmatic message. In a characteristically ingenious move, Six conceals the body in a cave, fills its pockets with information about his imprisonment, and attaches a lifebuoy, hoping the currents will carry his message beyond the Village's invisible boundaries.

The episode's centrepiece—a grotesque Carnival—transforms the Village into a theatre of absurdist horror. While residents don elaborate costumes, Six is deliberately given only his standard attire, marking him as an outsider. He is subjected to a kangaroo court presided over by a three-member panel including the Doctor, charged with the ultimate crime of non-conformity. Sentenced to death by "the people," Six narrowly escapes lynching, only to face Number Two's chilling declaration that his resistance is meaningless because "he is already dead"—a line rich with existential dread that resonates far beyond its immediate context.

Written by Anthony Skene and directed by Don Chaffey—with his extensive background in genre cinema—the episode occupies an unusual space within The Prisoner canon. Less concerned with science fiction mechanics or conventional spy thriller elements, it functions primarily as allegory and surreal spectacle. Heavily influenced by semi-surreal psychological thrillers like The Manchurian Candidate, Dance of the Dead leans into the psychedelic aesthetic that defined Britain's Swinging Sixties. Yet this embrace of contemporary trends contributes to its narrative weaknesses; the plot becomes increasingly convoluted and ultimately unsatisfying, sacrificing coherence for atmospheric effect.

Compounding these issues is a probable continuity problem arising from production scheduling. Though the fourth episode filmed, its delayed broadcast positioned it after viewers had already witnessed Number Six's established resistance and several escape attempts. This creates dissonance when Six repeatedly references having "only recently" arrived in the Village—a detail that might have worked effectively earlier in the series but feels jarring in its eventual slot.

Despite these structural and narrative shortcomings, the episode showcases exceptional craftsmanship in direction and performance. Chaffey's visual flair elevates the material, particularly during the Carnival sequences, which achieve a genuinely unsettling quality through inventive costuming and choreography. The episode also deserves credit for its unusually strong emphasis on female characters within the male-dominated landscape of 1960s television. May Morris delivers a nuanced performance as one of the series' rare female Number Twos, balancing authority with vulnerability. Norma West equally impresses as Number Forty Two, particularly in an uncomfortable scene where Number Two attempts to offer her as a sexual companion to Six—a proposition that visibly distresses both parties, revealing the human cost of the Village's psychological warfare.

The late Duncan MacRae, in one of his final screen appearances before his death months prior to broadcast, provides another layer of gravitas as the morally compromised Doctor. His performance captures the tragic dimension of a man who believes in his methods even as he witnesses their devastating consequences.

Dance of the Dead ultimately represents The Prisoner at its most artistically ambitious yet narratively disjointed. Its failure stems not from lack of vision but from unfortunate positioning within the series' broadcast schedule, arriving when audiences craved progression rather than regression. The episode's surreal qualities, which might have established tone in an earlier slot, instead disrupt narrative momentum. Nevertheless, its visual inventiveness, strong performances, and willingness to experiment with form ensure it remains a fascinating, if flawed, component of one of television's most enduring cult phenomena—a reminder that even missteps in genius often contain fragments of brilliance waiting to be rediscovered. timing can be as crucial as execution in the world of television.

RATING: 5/10 (++)

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