Television Review: Hammer into Anvil (The Prisoner, S1X10, 1967)

Hammer into Anvil (S01E10)

Airdate: December 1st 1967

Written by: Roger Waddis
Directed by: Pat Jackson

Running Time: 50 minutes

The episodes of The Prisoner varied considerably in quality, often for reasons beyond mere budgetary constraints or production values. More perceptive viewers would inevitably find greater depth and satisfaction in those installments that abandoned flashy gadgets, high-concept narratives, or speculative fiction tropes in favour of something far more fundamental and psychologically authentic. Hammer into Anvil, one such episode, is unsurprisingly regarded by critics and fans alike as among the finest achievements of the entire series—a testament to the enduring power of human drama over technological spectacle.

The episode introduces us to a particularly chilling new Number Two, brilliantly portrayed by Patrick Cargill, whose character immediately distinguishes himself from his predecessors through an overtly mean and deeply sadistic streak. This malevolence is established with devastating efficiency in the opening sequence, where he attempts to extract information from Number 73 (Hillary Dwyer), a young woman brought to the Village Hospital. Rather than employing conventional interrogation methods, this Number Two resorts to psychological cruelty of the most insidious kind—he deliberately informs her of her husband's infidelities, knowing full well the emotional devastation this would cause. The tragic consequence—her distraught leap from the hospital window to her death—establishes the episode's unflinching examination of human cruelty and its consequences.

This tragedy is witnessed by Number Six, who confronts Number Two directly, declaring that he would ultimately pay for his crime. Number Two, his authority affronted by such defiance, later summons Number Six to his office, employing thugs to ensure compliance. During this tense confrontation, Number Two articulates his brutal philosophy: one must be either "a hammer or an anvil" in life, and he intends to remain the hammer. What might have escalated into physical torture is abruptly interrupted by a phone call from Number Two's superiors—a call that visibly distresses him and plants a crucial seed of doubt in Number Six's mind regarding his adversary's vulnerability.

Seizing this opportunity, Number Six begins to orchestrate an elaborate psychological campaign, deliberately behaving in ways designed to arouse suspicion. His visit to the Village's record shop, where he acquires six copies of George Bizet's L'Arlésienne, appears inexplicable until he makes notes while listening—notes that are subsequently intercepted and interpreted by Number Two as coded messages to a mysterious superior regarding the "unstable" leadership of the Village. This incident, coupled with other calculated oddities in Number Six's behaviour, slowly convinces Number Two that his prisoner is actually a plant sent to observe and ultimately replace him. The absence of concrete evidence only intensifies Number Two's paranoia, leading him to suspect even his most loyal enforcer, Number Fourteen (Basil Hoskins), of complicity in this imagined conspiracy. His behaviour becomes increasingly erratic and desperate, culminating in Number Six witnessing the complete unraveling of a man whose fears have become self-fulfilling prophecies, leaving him a broken shell stripped of his coveted position.

Hammer into Anvil stands as one of the most unusual episodes in The Prisoner canon, primarily for its remarkable realism and its foundation in straightforward human psychology rather than the series' typical surreal or futuristic conceits. Its author, Roger Waddis, was himself an unconventional choice—a respected poet and card-carrying member of the Communist Party of Great Britain—whose background perhaps informed the episode's focus on power dynamics and psychological manipulation over technological gimmickry.

Nevertheless, the episode works exceptionally well precisely because of its simplicity—the elegant concept of turning the tables within the Village's oppressive hierarchy, transforming the persecutor into the persecuted. Number Six, for once, is portrayed not merely as a defiant captive but as an intelligent, perceptive, and genuinely resourceful strategist who weaponises his adversary's own paranoia against him. This delivers one of the series' rare examples of karmic justice, contributing significantly to the episode's enduring popularity among fans who appreciated seeing the Village's machinery of control momentarily subverted from within.

Much of the episode's power rests on the formidable shoulders of Patrick Cargill, whose performance here represents a dramatic departure from his earlier appearance as Number Six's former colleague Thorpe in Many Happy Returns. The script cleverly positions Number Two as the de facto protagonist, showing events largely from his increasingly paranoid perspective, thus providing Cargill with extraordinary opportunities to demonstrate his considerable range—from cold authority to desperate vulnerability. It's fascinating to note that Cargill would soon achieve widespread fame as the very different, affable protagonist of the popular sitcom Father, Dear Father, showcasing his versatility across dramatic and comedic genres.

Another commendable aspect lies in the episode's sophisticated use of high culture rather than popular references. Characters quote Goethe and Cervantes in their native languages, lending authenticity to their intellectual battles. The musical choices are equally thoughtful—the use of Bizet's L'Arlésienne is particularly clever, as this composition was originally written as incidental music for Alphonse Daudet's play about a man driven to suicide over his wife's infidelity—a thematic echo of the episode's opening tragedy that adds layers of meaning to Number Six's psychological warfare.

Admittedly, the episode is not without its flaws. While it features several physical confrontations, one sequence involving "kosho"—a fictional martial art complete with helmets, bizarre costumes, and trampolines—feels jarringly out of place, belonging more to the realm of American Gladiators than to this otherwise serious and thought-provoking examination of power and paranoia. This single misstep, however, does little to diminish the overall impact of an episode that remains a masterclass in psychological drama, proving that sometimes the most effective weapons in the battle for freedom are not gadgets or violence, but the careful manipulation of a tyrant's own fears.

RATING: 8/10 (+++)

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