The Prisoner's Dilemma

I originally posted this in the alt.prisoner newsgroup. These are my thoughts on the meaning of The Prisoner, the enigmatic British TV show from the late 1960s. I say there's a very good reason the meaning of the show is ambiguous. I advance the theory that The Prisoner has two authors and they don't agree on what the show means.

The Prisoner left three questions hanging. Who is Number One? Who's running the Village? Why did you resign?

The Prisoner never really answered those questions. The reason -- there was more than one show. There was Patrick McGoohan's Prisoner. He didn't care about the answers. There was George Markstein's Prisoner. He cared--but he never got to give the answers in his head.

Patrick McGoohan (PMG) wanted to create an allegory. But he’s not the one who thought of the concept in the first place -- executive story consultant George Markstein was, based on his experiences in realworld espionage (including intelligence that something very much like the Village existed).

Markstein didn't want an allegory. He wanted to tell a realistic tale. To Markstein, it was all very real, and the questions the show asked were important. To Markstein, the Village was a physical place obeying all Aristotelian unities. This matters... Because, to me, he’s as much the “auteur” of “the Prisoner” as PMG.

Which leaves us in a situation of two very brainy, very creative dudes with very different ideas about what The Prisoner was. As I said, it's as if there were two shows: Markstein’s version, a coldwar drama about a real person in a real place; McGoohan’s version, an existential allegory wrapped in a pitch shrouded in pop existentialism.

So, if The Prisoner was really two shows, if you’re looking for answers to its questions, you really should be looking for two sets of answers. It all boils down to what each of the two brains behind it had in mind. Intention is everything...

(And to hell with the “intentional fallacy” and the rest of that postmodern crap.)

The problem I have now is I have to start with one or another. If I start with McGoohan's version, Markstein’s realworld conception will seem pedestrian and simpleminded. If I start with Markstein, PMG’s allegory will seem like a bag of symbolic wind...

Markstein’s realistic concept tends to get drowned out -- so let’s start there.

What follows is an educated guess -- as the show never got a chance to deal with its original, realistic, implications. Here’s my hunch of what Markstein had in mind...

I think it’s fairly obvious if you think about it.

The Village is an experiment in mind control and a society based on mind control -- a turnkey Utopia built from the ground up. Supposedly it’s a prison for those who “know too much or too little,” but that doesn’t make much sense if you think about it. The place is too expensive, too difficult to maintain if that’s all it is. Why go to so much trouble? Hell, you don’t see the Chinese party bosses slapping up a model community for the student demonstrators out on the Mongolian border somewhere. Truncheon, jackboot and “the room” are as effective as they ever were...

It makes sense that the stated reason for the Village is a pretext, that what it’s really for is what everybody’s working so hard to make it: a model society, like the “Noble Experiment” that Oglethorpe attempted to create in colony of Georgia.

Which leads to what the concept of a model society is -- namely a pretty damn peaceful place where everybody’s material needs are satisfied and there’s lots of community spirit and togetherness.

“Can’t we all just get along?”

Sure, Rodney. Come to the Village.

This togetherness is maintained by beyond state-of-the-art technology, particularly, but not limited to, mind control technology.

Rover seems to be a form of artificial intelligence; "Speedlearn" is surely lightyears ahead of Hooked on Phonics; the General had Bill Gates beat in 1967.

These folks are good. Beyond good.

Which leads to the question of who They are...

It’s obviously an elite group within the intelligence community and, as this is the Cold War era, that means either the Russians, the West (i.e.: the Americans) or a combination of both.

It has to be both.

If only one side possessed this mind control technology and also ran the Village -- that technology is so advanced they could easily destroy (or utterly control) the other side. If both sides possessed this technology, the Village would have been penetrated. There’s an alliance...

Since this alliance hasn’t consolidated world control yet, it’s more likely a conspiracy from below and not a cabal from above. This isn’t the putative leaders of East and West, but a shadow conspiracy working under their noses. Who are They?

The most likely hypothesis (if you forget the allegory and simply consider the world being shown to you) is that it’s a consortium of spies, research psychologists and scientists from both sides of the Iron Curtain who decided to form common cause -- and create a model for a utopian society to test and refine -- before that model could be applied to the whole world. Before the world blows itself up...

They’re trying to engineer Utopia. They’re trying to get everybody to get along. The spy prison scenario is a pretext...

Though if you can turn spies into totally mutual Villagers you can do it to anybody.

And spies are, of coure, the ideal change agents to send back into their respective governments.

Which means that the character of the Prisoner is either:

*The ultimate make-or-break test subject. He’s either what he seems to be -- a refusnik British spy with a bad conscience -- or quite possibly one of the original conspirators -- identity erased and reconstructed as in “Total Recall.”

*Someone sent in from outside the conspiracy in order to crack the conspiracy. (He resigned in order to get captured -- which is what They suspect.)

*One of the original conspirators -- the person who thought it up, as a matter of fact -- who finally decided to opt out. (Which is why they keep asking “Why did you resign?” Which is why it’s so important...) And why he has to destroy the Village -- namely because he realizes that the cure (of a mind controlled society) is worse than the disease (human violence and self-destructiveness).

I think the latter is more dramatically interesting. I think that what Markstein had in mind for the last two episodes was to reveal all this -- and have the Prisoner character destroy the experiment he had once created -- the model Village where mind-control technology allows humanity to live in peace. The utopian folly which, even in its prototype form, was already starting to turn ugly...

Obviously I’m no damn mind reader -- but considering the premises of the show (if seen realistically) -- I think this is where Markstein was taking these premises. (Story has logic which is something you know if you’ve ever sat next to someone playing “Guess the Movie.” screaming Ooooh! Ooooh! I know! Verbal is Kaiser Soze!) Markstein was setting up a mousetrap (detective story-style) and
the cues to the trap he planned to spring were there, starting with the first episode. When the questions were asked: Why did you resign? Who is Number #1 ...? Which side are you on? -- it’s safe to say Markstein had answers in mind, whether McGoohan did or not.

In Markstein’s mind, the story was flowing to a realistic end in synch with its realistic beginning.

Watch “Arrival.” Watch it as if you’re watching it for the first time. Then play “Guess the Movie.” Ask yourself where this story is going. What it’s hinting. Then watch “Fall Out.”

Different tone, mood...different everything.

My ending fits his hints. Right or wrong, we’ll never know...

Since, as most of you probably know, sometime before “the Girl Who Was Death,” McGoohan and Markstein had a falling out over the ending of the show. Markstein left (or was fired). McGoohan got to do it his way -- totally.

Chances are there was a loud, shouting story conference. Markstein was pushing the idea that the Prisoner should be #1 -- saying this is what he’d intended all the time. McGoohan, who’s gone a few nights without sleep and is totally wired on speed, keeps saying it’s a stupid idea and cutting him off. Markstein persists. It gets ugly...

McGOOHAN: You’re always saying that and I’m always saying I don’t want that. Don’t
you listen? It’s an allegory. I see it as an allegory.

MARKSTEIN: It’s also a story.

McGOOHAN: Right. You mean a spy story. (contemptuously) We’ll have Harry Lime in the doorway and tell them the Butler did it.

MARKSTEIN: Let me just tell you what I...

McGOOHAN: (shouting) I don’t want to hear it, George. (louder) IT’S A BLOODY STUPID
IDEA AND I DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT. I’m sorry if that offends you but you have no idea what I’m trying to do here, how hard I’m working, all the -- everyone’s fighting me, everyone’s against me, everyone’s trying to bring me down and I’m holding it together -- IT’S ON MY BACK, NOT YOURS -- why do you think I’m doing this, hmmm? Number One is you, Number One is me, he, she, it, everyman, all and nothing at all -- I don’t want to give them your stupid little answers and spell it out for them -- no one understands what I’m trying to do, I thought you’d understand but... (losing steam) I’m sorry I screamed at you like that but you understand the strain I’m under...

MARKSTEIN: I understand the strain you’re under. You always say that, you know.

McGOOHAN: Excuse me?

MARKSTEIN: I try to talk about the story and where it’s going. You scream at me. Then you apologize and then you tell me you’re under a strain and the subject is changed and we never talk about the ending. Over and over again we have the same dialog, the same conversation. Line for line, word for word.

McGOOHAN: That’s very amusing, George. Now if...

MARKSTEIN: We don’t talk about the story -- we talk about not talking about it. Once again you spend 15 minutes talking about talking all to prevent me from saying something that would take about 5 minutes. We do all this talking about not talking.

McGOOHAN: Which is another way of saying you’ve wasted a great deal of my time. And I don’t have time for this.

MARKSTEIN: Of course you don’t. And, of course, once again we don’t talk about the ending.

McGOOHAN: I don’t want to talk about the ending.

MARKSTEIN: And I’ve been trying for nearly a year.

McGOOHAN: (shouting again) And I’ve been telling you I DON’T WANT TO LISTEN for nearly a year.

MARKSTEIN: Tell me your idea?

McGOOHAN:  I don’t have any.

MARKSTEIN: You...

McGOOHAN: The ending will happen.

MARKSTEIN: That’s what I’m afraid of.

McGOOHAN: What are you afraid of?

MARKSTEIN: The ending that happens when the ending happens -- your ending. It’s a cheat.

McGOOHAN: (amused) George...it doesn’t exist yet...I don’t even know what I’m doing yet...and you know it’s a cheat?

MARKSTEIN: I know.

McGOOHAN: Why?

MARKSTEIN: I know you. You want to play Felini. Big scenes and jump cuts and screaming and symbolism and nothing makes sense. So it’s all just a big dream and nothing makes sense and everybody walks away with questions and, congratulations, there is now more avant garde crap in the world.

McGOOHAN: (amused but angry) And that’s what I’m going to do? You know this?

MARKSTEIN: I know you.

McGOOHAN: Who am I, George?

MARKSTEIN: You’re Mister Avant Garde filmmaker and you think stories are for stupid people. You won’t tell them why he resigned, what it was for, who runs it, anything -- but you’ll make a big noise. That’s you, that’s what you want...

McGOOHAN: Is that it?

MARKSTEIN doesn’t say anything.

McGOOHAN: I mean...don’t stop now. Perhaps you’ve left something out? Tell me what
you think. Tell me everything. I yelled at you -- now you can yell at me. I’m
not going to fire you.

MARKSTEIN still keeps his mouth shut.

McGOOHAN: You seem to have such a clear idea of what I’m going to write for the ending -- perhaps you could write that down and save us all a great deal of time.

MARKSTEIN: You can’t cheat the audience.

McGOOHAN: Or pander to them.

MARKSTEIN: Stop talking like your bloody character!

(McGOOHAN starts laughing)

MARKSTEIN: It’s not funny -- you think it’s funny? You think I’m funny? It’s a joke to you?
(McGOOHAN still laughing)

MARKSTEIN: It’s not a joke to me, Pat. I believe in this place -- I believe in the Prisoner -- I believe in the story. The people who watch believe in the story. I just want to tell the story.

McGOOHAN: Of course you do. (long silence) But it’s my story.

MARKSTEIN: No it isn’t.

McGOOHAN: It’s my money.


At which point, Markstein walks out. He resigns.


Ironically, he never explains his reasons in public. The world never knows why he resigned.

The Big Lebowski

It’s one of the funniest movies of all time. It’s a Zen koan shrouded in a mystery wrapped inside a bowling alley. It’s a Coen Brothers movie, so you're in for surrealistic ride. Roller-coaster thrills aside, the movie is a essentially a character study.

No, no the title character. The other Lebowski.

In his heroic 1960s past, Jeff Lebowski (Jeff Bridges) was a member of the Seattle Seven and a co-author of the uncompromised first draft of the Port Huron Statement. In his unheroic 1991 present, he’s a pot-smoking, white-Russian drinking slacker who lives in LA and writes 69¢ checks for milk at Ralph's. He's a Holy Fool who even looks like Jesus — if Jesus went around in a bathrobe and boxer shorts. He bowls in his spare time — which is pretty much all his time. Title character or not, he hates the name on his birth certificate and goes by the handle "Dude."

Unfortunately, the Dude happens to have the same name as a bloated millionaire -- the "Big" Lebowski of the title. The millionaire's barely-legal trophy wife (a spoiled porn star) owes money to a mobbed-up porn king. (aka Jackie Treehorn, played by Ben Gazarra.) He sends thugs to collect from her rich old man, and they barge into the Dude’s shitty apartment by mistake. The thugs realize their error, but not before stuffing the Dude’s head in a toilet and peeing on his rug. (Which really tied the room together.) Folks in the screenwriting dodge call this sorta thing an inciting incident.

Egged on by his militaristic bowling buddy (John Goodman), the Dude vows to right this wrong. As a consequence he gets sucked into a convoluted Alice in Wonderland journey through the dark side of sunny SoCal, encountering German Nihilists, an avant garde artist nutcase (Julianne Moore) who wants his sperm, the porn king himself in a James Bond villain estate, and several hallucinations — including a spoof of a Busby Berkeley musical that’s worth the price of admission. Various kidnappings, ransoms, embezzlement, doublecrosses, beatings and fights ensue.

The plot's hard to follow — but that's part of the joke. It took a couple of viewings, but I finally realized this is a parody of a Raymond Chandler novel set in seedy LA and environs. Basically, the Dude is Phillip Marlowe — minus the detective skills. Brilliant Marlowe gets the crap beaten out of him, then solves the case. The Dude, pot-addled though he may be, has the same experience. His Taoist, go-with-the-flow philosophy brings him out of the Chandleresque rabbit hole in one piece.

The Dude not only abides. He prevails.

A game for fools

So, back in the era of John Travolta and Pet Rocks, I graduated from UVA with a BA in English and a portfolio of my cartoons for The Declaration -- the university's weekly newspaper. Circa 1978, I showed up at The Sarasota Herald Tribune to see if they could use me as an illustrator.

The editor I talked to laughed.

Let me show you something, he said.

And he took me into the back room. It was something like the warehouse in Citizen Kane, a huge, dusty warehouse space rimmed with steel girders. One wall, it seemed, was filled to the top with bolted in industrial metal shelves. These shelves were stuffed to bursting with clip art books.

The man reached out and grabbed one of the books

And started flipping.

Here, a chef twirling a pizza. Here a chef twirling a mustache. Here, a chef twirling his mustache and a pizza. Here, a whole page of "YOU CAN DO IT YOURSELF" illustrations, right next to a page of "HIRE THE EXPERT" illustrations. Damn hypocrites.

Showing me those clipart books was the editor's not-so-polite way of saying: We don't need no steenking illustrators. We've got all the art we could ever need for next to nothing.

But maybe that's changing. In the future that is.

Predicting the future is, obviously, a game for fools.

I am that fool.

We're in the middle of an extremely bloody revolution though it's easy to miss because, in most cases, what's being bled isn't blood but money. The revolution is the revolution of digital imaging and what that means is, well...

Consider, by way of analogy, the world of music.

Once upon a time if you were a musician you played music and, if you were lucky enough, you were paid. There was nothing else.

Then Edison invented the phonograph.

Slowly, very slowly, the recorded-music industry came into being.

And, in less than a century, live musical performance is only a small subset of the music industry.

The same thing happened to acting. Once upon a time if you acted it was on stage -- or nowhere.

Then, once again, here comes Edison, this time with the movies...

But this kind of thing hasn't happened to the visual arts world -- not exactly -- even though there's printing...

Because printing to painting just ain't the same as a CD of a musical performance is to a performance...

The visual arts world is divided into two harshly opposed camps, namely commercial artists and fine artists.

Fine artists make static objects: paintings, sculpture, drawings. An object. One. You buy it and hang it on your wall or put it in your garden.

There may be reproductions, but the reproductions are very different and controlled via the whole dance of signed and number prints, limited editions, etc...

And then there are artists who do illustrations, artists who draw cartoons, artists who, by and large, feed what they're doing into the world of print.

The original ain't as important as the result -- though, in some cases, the original art may become valuable -- to begin with, it's just a tool, often disposable.

And it's often hard to tell -- even if you're the artists -- what's the original and what's the copy. You do an ink line drawing, copy it, then shade the copy. Which one's the original?

The particular cruelty of this, for static visual artists in general and cartoonists in particular, is the devaluation of what you do -- because what it's going into is, essentially, disposable -- and, unlike high-profile forgeries in the fine arts world -- what any cartoonist does is very easily duplicated. This has the effect of making it very easy to steal. This also has the effect of allowing a handful of high-profile cartoonists to dominate the print market.

Each week, the daily newspaper gets a bundle of cartoons from the syndicates. Some are editorials, some are syndicated strips. Each packet (depending on the syndicate and a formula based on circulation) costs the newspaper anywhere from $25-$60.

Which means, essentially, that approximately 30 to 50 cartoonists can handle the daily cartooning needs for a nation of 250 million people.

Illustration is a different world, as are magazine cartooning and illustration. What these worlds have in common is fierce competition and a very, very limited supply of jobs.

Enter the digital revolution.

It's changing things, so slowly that it's hard to notice...

What it's doing, first of all, is allowing illustrators to be illustrators.

Marketing directors, editors, publishers and advertising agency honchos of course don't want this. What they want is $8 an hour grunts who, like busy machines, will grind out page after page of completed mechanicals, slapping clip art into the empty holes whenever possible--never their own work, because that's not what the grunts are being paid $8 an hour for.

But clip art is digital now.

Which means you can modify it -- easily. Flop it, distort it, clone it, colorize it. All that clip art has become digital which, instantly, turns it into one big swipe file -- opening up more possibilities of showing what you can do, or learning what you do better enough to move on.

The second thing it's doing is opening up more space for cartoonists and illustrators to get their stuff out their -- an alternative to the nosebleed world of fine arts, and the nasty, poor, brutish and short world of commercial art-for-print.

Bringing in the Sleaze

There I am at the Y, staving off the inevitable decay of the body. Running. They've got this B.F. Skinnerite carrot-stick stimulus-response bank of video monitors in front of the running machines. It's set up so each machine has a tube in front of it; you listen via earphones. They call it "Cardio Theater," but it's, essentially, "Sexual Torture Theater." Right now, there's this bump-and-grind Hawaiian bodybuilder chick. "Konalicious" or something. Big workout session on the beach. She's

SCENE MISSING

And now it's time for the old showers, yas. Up above the lockers, the wall-mounted, Orwellian TV tube is showing vidclips of Perfect Weddings. The gleeful, shouting announcer says …

ANNOUNCER: ...expense you plan to outlay for the wedding, it's a good rule of thumb to figure at least 15 to 25 percent should go towards documenting the wedding. Try to document as much as possible -- and don't skimp on the photographs! A good mat is only a few dollars more than a cheap one. And, these days, documentation also includes videography. You'll find...

Into the shower I go, washing the human stink off me, including grass and lawncrap as I hit the gym directly from lawnwork, stinky bastard that I am. Leaves, dirt, sweat: down the drain it goes like Zhora's snakescales in Blade Runner spiraling down...

Watch her take the pleasure from the serpent that once corrupted man...

Shower done. Back in the locker area. Shining white wedding images still flashing on the tube. Two yuppies are talking:

YUPPIE: My daddy always said it's as easy to fall in love with a rich girl as it is a poor one.

YUPPIE #2: Yeah, well. I'd try to find a good-looking rich girl if I could...

YUPPIE: That don't matter after awhile.

YUPPIE #2: And you can always pay to make 'em look beautiful. A little liposuction...

YUPPIE: I don't think I'd do that.

YUPPIE #2: You wouldn't?

YUPPIE: Nah. The good-looking ones are too high-maintenance...

Hahahaha.

Well, just another slice of life, I guess.

And on the ride home I found myself singing . . .

"Bringing in the Sleaze"
(to the tune of "Bringing in the Sheaves")

Join in Satan's chorus
Whores and finks are for us
Ask your agent Morris...
Bringing in the sleaze!

Paybacks, deals and favors...
Contracts full of waivers...
There must be slaves and slavers
Bringing in the sleaze!

Bringing in the sleaze
Bringing in the sleaze
We shall come rejoicing
Bringing in the sleaze!

ADDITIONAL OBSCENE VERSES MISSING

Animal Farm

Saw Animal Farm -- the cartoon -- the other day. (A friend of mine had a traumatic experience watching this as a kid. He's thinking it's a cute cartoon show and all of a sudden the animals are killing each other and there's blood on the snow. Wait a minute. That's not very funny...) And now I finally saw it. It's extremely well done, but what I didn't realize...

They changed the ending.

Orwell's book had the pig overlords getting together with human farmers; the animals outside the conference looked from one to another, couldn't tell the difference. The film had the animals acting like the old bad farmer. The animals outside saw them turn into that guy -- but only in their minds...

And all the animals outside rose up against the bad old pigs in a pure hokem cornball close.

I guess it was the cold war era -- and the filmmakers didn't feel safe to say "Communist pigs are no better than Capitalist pigs" because of that implied oink, oink, oink...

If the shit fits, kick it dept.

While we're on the subject, with my massive voice character actor experience and background in failed animation projects, I would've been ideal for the role of Mr. Hankey, South Park's talking turd. It's not such a leap from talking penis to talking turd, after all. Almost got it, too.

Back in '97, Mike Peters got me the call -- told me to expect it. So I'm waiting by the phone like the ugly chick before the dance. Ring-ring. Caller ID sez: South Park Studios, NYC area code. I pick up ...

Herro. This South Park Studios.

Not Parker and Stone, but some underling with a thick Japanese accent. I managed to spit out one vowel. I ...

We know who you are. Crazy Marty. Mike say you perfect. No send cassette. That not good enough. You come in person. We have studio, OK? We pay for plane ticket 'cause you poor, starving loser. Mike say.

Opportunity knocks. Wow.

Next day, they Fed-Ex'ed me the script, a brief character bio and a non-disclosure agreement. I filled out the forms, learned my lines. I almost flew out to the audition, but changed my mind at the last minute. From a method actor standpoint, it's hard to grasp the character's motivation. The Shaman Penis? I became that part. But Mr. Hankey? I could do the voice, sure. But it's not enough to talk like a turd. I must become the turd. My father always said I was, but it didn't feel right so I called, cancelled the gig and apologized. The Japanese guy again. That OK. Apology not necessary. You never work again. I thanked him, and stayed home and watched cartoons.

Ironically, I felt like shit. But I couldn't lie to myself. I could act like a shit. But I could never become a shit.

Besides which, John Kricfalusi would probably kick the shit out of me.

OK, obscure reference ...

From E! Online. Posted Dec. 22, 1997 --


John Kricfalusi Dumps On Comedy Central
Last week's holiday episode of South Park featured a singing, dancing piece of human feces called Mr. Hankey the Christmas Poo. This "Yule-log" airing scored an extremely impressive 5.4 rating for Comedy Central--unusually high for cable.

But Kricfalusi--now marketing his 'toons on the Internet--says his bowel-spawned character, Nutty the Friendly Dump, must have inspired the Mr. Hankey concept.

"I got nine messages on my answering machine from people who said [South Park] took like 10 of your ideas and put them into one episode," Kricfalusi tells E! Online.

The secret of "South Park" is ...

It's a buncha cute little construction paper cut-out kids in a cute cartoon show.

Various media critics suggest the show's cute, deliberately amateurish animation style lets Matt Parker and Trey Stone get away with their disgusting over-the-top satire. (Kenny's violent death every week, talking turds, etc.) I say it's the other way around.

All the torture, mutilations, fire, death, anal-probes and cuss words give cool young adults (who'd never be caught dead watching, say, a Peanuts special) permission to enjoy watching a cute cartoon show. It's a warm batch of nostalgia disguised as sulfuric acid.

Teens and twentysomethings can return to the happy days of childhood, and keep their Rage Against the Machine CD collection. To be fair, Parker and Stone can happily throw sulfuric acid on all the targets they hate. Which seems to be everyone involved in show biz, marketing and the relentless popculture churn besides Parker and Stone.

This gave me the wrong impression at first. The endless GenX popcult references. Brian Boitano, Scott Baio, blahblah. Who the fuck are these people? I didn't watch their shows. Why the fuck should I care?

I assumed it was star-fucking. Trendy name-dropping. Parker and Stone, stroking their GenX audience. Hey, you get the references! That's how cool you are! Wrong. Now I get it. Parker and Stone are slapping their audience in the face. You're obsessed with actors and TV shows? You're a bunch of fucking idiots. You think trends are important? You're a bunch of fucking lemmings. But they have it both ways. There's shameless nostalgia too. Stone and Parker clearly dig The Cure.

They also dig satire. Multilayered, intelligent satire that refuses to be pinned down to a left/right position. OK, the animation sucks ass. But it's some of the smartest, funniest comedy writing on television. Call me crazy, but I detect a Monty Python influence. On American TV?

They get away with it. The show's cute.

As R. Crumb observed long ago, you can get away with anything if it's cute.