Free for All (S01E04)
Airdate: October 20th 1967
Written by: Paddy Fitz
Directed by: Patrick McGoohan
Running Time: 50 minutes
Patrick McGoohan’s The Prisoner arrived on 1960s television screens not merely as a programme, but as a defiant rupture in the established order of broadcast entertainment. Its very existence represented a bold refusal to be corralled by the easily defined genre conventions that dominated the era – the first three episodes alone pivoted dizzyingly from intense psychological drama through Cold War spy thriller tropes into outright science fiction. With the fourth instalment, Free for All, McGoohan, serving as star, executive producer, writer (under pen name „Paddy Fitz”), and director, sought to broaden the Village’s conceptual scope yet further, venturing headlong into the treacherous terrain of political satire. It was, undoubtedly, his most ambitious narrative leap to that point in the series. Yet, for all its audacity, Free for All stands as the first significant misstep, a complex, often bewildering episode whose potent central idea is ultimately undermined by its own execution, failing to land with the precision and power of its predecessors.
The episode commences with the introduction of a new Number Two, portrayed by Eric Portman. He informs Number Six that, in its perverse mimicry of the outside world, the Village holds elections, and suggests Six should stand as a candidate. Should he win, Number Two coyly implies, Six might even succeed him. Reluctantly, seeing a potential chink in the Village’s armour – perhaps a platform for escape or leverage – Six agrees. He is then assigned an assistant, the enigmatic Number Fifty-Eight (Rachel Herbert), an eccentric woman who either cannot or pointedly refuses to speak English, communicating only in a stream of Slavic-sounding gibberish while shadowing his every move with unnerving, cheerful devotion. The campaign unfolds with Six positioning himself as the champion of freedom, railing against the Village’s inherent tyranny. Yet, his message falls on deaf ears; prospective voters remain indifferent, seemingly oblivious to the very concept of liberty he espouses. After another predictably thwarted escape attempt, Six undergoes a grotesque scene where the Labour Exchange manager (George Benson) subjects him to a crude form of brainwashing, compelling him to parrot meaningless, vacuous promises. Later, discovering Number Two illicitly imbibing in a hidden cave, Six hears his rival’s whispered confession of hatred for the Village – a fleeting moment of apparent kinship. But this proves another trap. Drugged once more, Six is coerced into participating in the election he subsequently wins with suspicious ease. As he ascends to assume the role of Number Two, poised to incite rebellion among the villagers, Number Fifty-Eight delivers a stinging slap and reveals herself as the true Number Two. Six is then viciously beaten by her underlings, the brutal lesson delivered: the entire electoral charade was an elaborate, sadistic psychological operation designed solely to break his spirit and extract the elusive secret he guards.
McGoohan’s intention here is clear and potent. He seizes upon the election premise, a detail established in the very first episode (Arrival, not as mere plot device, but as a scalpel to dissect the real-world political systems the Village satirically reflects. His view of Western-style democracy, as modelled by the Village’s regime, is scathingly unflattering. The election is presented as an absolute sham, its result preordained and easily manipulated. More damningly, it is revealed not even as a hollow ritual, but as a deliberate instrument of psychological torture – a means to degrade and control. The fundamental differences between candidates are rendered utterly meaningless. Six’s genuine appeals to freedom and individual liberty are ignored; the villagers only endorse him when, brainwashed, he repeats the same empty platitudes as his opponent, behaving like a herd of compliant sheep. McGoohan reserves particular contempt for the media apparatus sustaining this illusion. The Village’s newspaper, Tally Ho, features reporters who brazenly and deliberately misquote Number Six, twisting his truth into propaganda that serves the regime – a stark commentary on media complicity in manufactured consent.
This cynical vision was likely forged in the specific political climate of post-WW2 Britain. McGoohan appears to critique the era’s stifling "Butskellite" consensus, where the Labour and Conservative parties pursued largely indistinguishable economic and social policies, rendering electoral choices between them feel increasingly hollow and meaningless for the average citizen. While Free for All would have resonated powerfully with 1960s British viewers familiar with this political stagnation, its core anxieties feel startlingly prescient today. In an age marked by extreme public cynicism towards electoral processes, where blatant media manipulation, the weaponisation of social media algorithms, the banning of candidates, the annulment of results under dubious pretexts, and the revolving door of ostensibly opposing parties relentlessly pursuing near-identical destructive policies have become commonplace, McGoohan’s vision of democracy as a controlled spectacle for psychological management feels less like dated satire and more like an uncomfortably accurate prophecy.
Regrettably, McGoohan’s ambitious political thesis founders on the rocks of his own stylistic choices. His writing and direction for this episode lack the taut control evident in earlier instalments. Instead of sharp political allegory, the style veers into the excessively grotesque and surreal, firmly embedding The Prisoner within the psychedelic excesses of the late 1960s – a move that ultimately dilutes the political message. The dialogue often feels stilted and unnatural, failing to carry the weight of the ideas. Key plot points, particularly the middle-section escape attempt, feel contrived and predictable, seemingly inserted merely to inject artificial action into proceedings that would otherwise rely solely on dialogue and psychological tension. This stylistic overreach makes the episode confusing where it should be clarifying, obscuring the sharp political critique beneath a layer of bewildering imagery and illogical sequences. The very elements meant to heighten the satire – the absurdity, the surrealism – end up muddying the waters, making the episode feel more like a psychedelic head-trip than a focused political dissection.
Amidst this uneven execution, Rachel Herbert’s performance as Number Fifty-Eight stands out as a masterclass in unsettling ambiguity. Her portrayal of the excessively cheerful, gibberish-speaking assistant is brilliantly sinister. The constant, unnerving smile and incomprehensible chatter create profound disquiet; her very presence feels like a violation. While her eventual unmasking as the true Number Two delivers the episode’s most shocking moment, few viewers are likely to be genuinely surprised. Herbert imbues the character with such palpable, underlying menace from the outset that the revelation feels inevitable, a testament to her skill in conveying threat beneath a facade of absurdity. It is perhaps the episode’s strongest element, a flicker of genuine brilliance in an otherwise muddled endeavour.
At the end of the day, Free for All remains a fascinating, deeply flawed artifact. McGoohan’s ambition to dissect the machinery of democratic illusion was bold and, in retrospect, remarkably foresighted. The core concept – elections as psychological manipulation rather than genuine choice – is arguably The Prisoner’s most enduringly relevant political insight. Yet, the episode’s failure lies in its execution. Overwhelmed by its own psychedelic tendencies, hampered by weak dialogue, and burdened by confusing, contrived sequences, it stumbles where it should stride. It lacks the crystalline focus and visceral impact of previous episodes. While its thematic resonance with contemporary democratic crises is undeniable and chilling, Free for All ultimately serves as a cautionary tale about ambition outpacing artistry. It is a vital, if deeply imperfect, chapter in The Prisoner’s legacy – a reminder that even the most potent ideas can be lost when drowned in surreal excess. McGoohan aimed for the jugular of political complacency but, in this instance, landed a glancing, confusing blow. The Village’s election was indeed a sham; unfortunately, the episode itself risks becoming one too – a hollow spectacle of missed potential.
RATING: 5/10 (++)
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