Television Review: The General (The Prisoner, S1X06, 1967)

The General (S01E06)

Airdate: November 3rd 1967

Written by: Lewis Greifer
Directed by: Peter Graham Scott

Running Time: 50 minutes

The enduring cult status of The Prisoner over the decades stems significantly from its alignment with the anti-authoritarian and anti-establishment sentiments that defined the most numerous—and eventually most influential—demographic cohorts of its time: the Baby Boomers. For members of this generation, their first profound encounter with authoritarianism and the suffocating demands for conformity often occurred within the familiar walls of their schools. It is therefore unsurprising that one of the series' most incisive episodes, The General, directly confronts the oppressive nature of educational institutions. This episode stands as a particularly resonant critique from Patrick McGoohan's seminal work, capturing the generational frustration with systems designed to suppress individuality through rigid pedagogical methods that prioritise memorisation over genuine understanding.

Scriptwriter Lewis Greifer, credited under the pen name "Joshua Graham," drew direct inspiration from his own domestic sphere when crafting this episode. His young son's complaints about the school system's insistence on rote learning—forcing him to memorise facts without any meaningful comprehension of underlying concepts—provided the foundational spark for The General. This personal grievance transformed into a powerful allegory about institutional control, where education becomes indistinguishable from indoctrination. Greifer's insight was prescient; he recognised that the same mechanisms used to suppress critical thinking in classrooms could easily be repurposed for broader societal control, a theme that would resonate deeply with viewers who had themselves endured similar educational experiences.

In the Village, this educational tyranny manifests through Professor (played by Peter Howell), who claims to have invented "Speed Learn," a technique allegedly capable of compressing six months of academic material into fifteen seconds. Broadcast as a educational programme on Village television, the concept immediately raises Number Six's suspicions. He rightly perceives it as little more than a sophisticated guise for mind control, a suspicion dramatically confirmed when he discovers a tape recorder in which the Professor describes "Speed Learn" as an "abomination" that must be destroyed, operating under the authority of the mysterious figure known only as "the General." These suspicions deepen when Number Six encounters the Professor's art-loving wife (Betty McDowall), who initially maintains a happy facade claiming they came to the Village voluntarily, only to reveal her true hostility when provoked.

Meanwhile, Number Two (Colin Gordon, in a rare repeat appearance) grows increasingly concerned that Number Six will uncover the truth about "the General." Unbeknownst to him, his subordinate Number Twelve (John Castle) is secretly the Professor's ally, facilitating Number Six's acquisition of secret passes to attend Village board meetings. This enables Six to try sabotaging the next "Speed Learn" broadcast, though he is ultimately caught. In a moment of triumph, Number Two attempts to break Six by demanding he reveal his accomplice, casually suggesting he could extract the same information from "the General" instead. The climax reveals "the General" to be nothing more than a massive mainframe computer, presented as an infallible oracle capable of answering any question. Number Six, ever the contrarian, dares Number Two to allow him to pose a question that would prove the machine fallible. The arrogant Number Two agrees, only to witness "the General" catastrophically overload when Six asks the devastatingly simple question: "why." In the ensuing chaos, as the Professor attempts to prevent the computer's destruction, both he and Number Twelve are electrocuted. The episode concludes with Number Six delivering the tragic news to the Professor's wife, a moment that provides unexpected emotional weight to the otherwise cerebral narrative.

The The General unmistakably bears the imprint of its 1960s British production context, targeting the conservative, arrogant Establishment against which the younger generation was then rebelling. The ossified and oppressive education institutions depicted here mirror those that Lindsay Anderson would famously attack in his seminal film If.... the following year. However, McGoohan's approach to rebellion is notably more subtle and less violently extreme than Anderson's. The critique here is intellectual rather than physical, with Number Six weaponising philosophical inquiry against technological authoritarianism. John Castle's performance as Number Twelve subtly telegraphs his true allegiance through mere youthfulness—a visual shorthand suggesting that the younger generation instinctively recognises the tyranny of rote learning and resists it.

On the other hand, the episode's central concept—humanity's inhumanity embodied by a grand, seemingly infallible computer—feels dated and clichéd by contemporary standards. The image of a mainframe fed by punch cards now appears quaintly archaic, and Number Six's method of defeating it (posing an unanswerable philosophical question) bears uncomfortable resemblance to how Captain Kirk routinely defeated similar powerful computers in Star Trek: The Original Series. This diminishes the episode's uniqueness, making it feel less like a groundbreaking critique and more like a variation on a well-worn science fiction trope.

Director Peter Graham Scott delivers a generally solid, if uneven, execution. The episode suffers from pacing issues, particularly in its first half, where the audience struggles to comprehend what is truly happening amidst the deliberately confusing narrative structure. The character of the Professor's wife initially functions as a confusing red herring, her shifting allegiances muddying the waters unnecessarily. Yet this ambiguity ultimately serves a purpose, as her final interaction with Number Six provides the episode's most human moment, briefly revealing Six's capacity for compassion beneath his usual steely exterior.

An unusual aspect of production was the necessity to bring back Colin Gordon as Number Two, originally written for another actor. This created continuity problems, as Gordon's Number Two had been utterly humiliated and defeated by Number Six in the previous episode A. B. and C., making his continued position as Village administrator implausible. Nevertheless, Gordon maintains remarkable consistency in his portrayal, capturing the same arrogant hostility that characterised his earlier appearances. This consistency arguably strengthens the episode, as Gordon's Number Two feels like a genuine continuation of the Village's power structure rather than a new, disconnected authority figure.

Perhaps the most distinctive element of "The General" is Arthur Elms' dramatic and highly noticeable musical score. Elms employs sweeping orchestral arrangements that imbue the episode with a gravitas exceeding its actual substance. The music swells at moments that might otherwise feel mundane, creating an artificial sense of importance that occasionally borders on the melodramatic. While effective in establishing mood, this approach sometimes makes the episode sound larger and more meaningful than it truly is, compensating for narrative weaknesses with auditory grandeur.

At the end, The General is a fascinating, if flawed, entry in The Prisoner canon. Its critique of educational authoritarianism remains relevant, even if its technological fears now seem quaint. The episode's strength lies not in its plot mechanics—which feel increasingly dated—but in its philosophical core, where Number Six's simple question "why" represents the ultimate weapon against any system claiming infallibility. In an era where standardised testing and educational conformity remain contentious issues, The General continues to resonate, reminding us that true learning cannot be reduced to data points or compressed into fifteen-second bursts. The episode's enduring value lies in its assertion that the ability to question, to seek meaning beyond mere facts, constitutes the most subversive and ultimately human act of all—a message as vital today as it was in the 1960s.

RATING: 6/10 (++)

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