A version of this article was originally published in
Celestial Toyroom Issue 304
No matter the
Doctor Who
tale
currently in fashion, people still come back to
“The Robots
of Death” as a favourite re-watch. It’s not always
rated as number one, but it features consistently in their top ten.
I, myself, strongly appreciate all aspects of this adventure, which is
why I wrote a monograph in 2020 for
The Black Archive
on the social and cinematic zeitgeist that influenced its creation, as
well as contributing to the development of the
Kaldor City spin-off audio dramas for Magic Bullet Productions.
The story has a lot in common with the
‘Base-Under-Siege’ genre of
Doctor Who, and in
particular the Patrick Troughton serial
“The
Moonbase”. Both feature a multiethnic crew in an
isolated location, robotic creatures picking people off one by one and
the Doctor having to solve a mystery to clear his own name. Yet
“The Robots of Death” is regarded by most as a
genuine classic, whilst
“The Moonbase” is usually
considered merely enjoyable hokum.
To the viewer, the most obvious explanation lies in the styling of the
piece. Rather cleverly, the design eschewed its audience’s
expectations of how the future should look, instead taking its
inspiration from the past — in this instance the Art Deco
period. Indeed, the beautifully sculptured humanoid features of the
robots make them far more intimidating as killers than if they had
resembled the Quarks from “The Dominators” or
Robbie of
Forbidden
Planet (1956), whilst the humans, with their elaborate
hats and effete makeup, are given an unreal formality, belying the
viciousness under the surface.
The designers also picked up on the tale’s subtle referencing
of Fritz Lang's
Metropolis (1927) in the Storm Mine interior, contrasting
the soft, organic leisure environment of the crew quarters, with the
spare, industrial setting of the Control Deck. Equally, the costumes
allude to Lang's embattled elite, whilst their mechanical servants
recall Lang's insane ‘Maria’ robot.
Much of the credit must go to the director Michael E. Briant, who
worked closely with designer Kenneth Sharp, costume designer Elizabeth
Waller, and make-up artist Ann Briggs to create this stunning
aesthetic. However, there is more to tell.
David
Collings plays Poul, the vulnerable detective who falls prey
to robophobia, in a manner reminiscent of Gustav Fröhlich as
Freder, from
Metropolis
— a man driven spectacularly mad when confronted with the
‘Maria’ robot's crimes. The sequences in Toos'
cabin also bear a disturbing resemblance to film-noir rape/murder
scenes, and the repeated shots of robots at work add to the sense of
menace.
Both
“The Robots of Death” and “The
Moonbase” herald a multicultural future by employing an
ethnically diverse set of characters, although in the latter, the
self-consciousness of the exercise reduces the crew of the eponymous
base to nothing more than a collection of stereotypes: a Frenchman who
prances about in a neck scarf, an easygoing Black American, an aloof
Scandinavian, a no-nonsense Englishman. And there’s not a
woman in sight. By contrast, there is nothing in
Chris
Boucher's story to suggest Cass should be Asian, Zilda Black,
or Toos female, while
Brian Croucher, who would most likely have been
doomed to play a cheeky Cockney had he appeared in “The
Moonbase”, is cast against type as a dangerous aristocratic
fop. Add in the director's decision to include a variety of ethnic
groups and accents — meaning, for the most part, the cast is
made up of talented unknowns — and the suspense is greatly
increased because our expectations of the characters’
motivations are either confounded or non-existent.
Boucher’s
superbly crafted script is another element setting it off from its
closest cousin. Inherently, its narrative, as with “The
Moonbase”, requires periodic info-dumps:
Boucher
however, incorporates these adroitly into character development. In an
early scene, Dask delivers a key plot point about the way the robots
are programmed but this jointly serves to mark him as the sort of
tedious pedant who would ruin a good joke by detailing its
implausibilities. Uvanov's hair-trigger paranoid rants are also perfect
vehicles to explain important aspects of the Storm Mine and of the
society from which it springs.
The crew is depicted bickering and backbiting (something familiar to
anyone who has worked in an isolated small group, and yet oddly lacking
in “The Moonbase”) while the slang deployed is
close enough to our own to seem natural, and yet different enough to
give a surreal impression. Similarly, the cast makes casual references
to the planet's history and culture — Kaldor City, robot
masseurs, Founding Families — rattling these and specific
technical terms off until they come across as ordinary and familiar,
without boring viewers with unnecessary expositions or technobabble.
As well as callbacks to
Metropolis (mad genius uses a beautiful robot
to foment rebellion against the denominative city’s upper
class) the plot is also reminiscent of the original robot story, the
1920 play R.U.R. (female protagonist initiates a robot rebellion
through a humanitarian effort to give them souls). Further influences
are present, with Boucher explicitly alluding to Asimov's
The Caves of Steel
and his robot novel cycle.
Of course, this is nothing new: virtually all
Doctor Who
adventures can be said to have drawn upon earlier literary and
cinematic works. Even so, it is the way these references are combined
and explored to create a unique riff on the idea of a robot uprising
that makes this serial stand out. “The Robots of
Death” is neither
The
Caves of Steel,
Metropolis,
or
R.U.R.,
but something which builds upon them all. In contrast to its
progenitors, it has striking elements of the psychological novel in its
characterisation and storytelling.
This attention to cognitive detail is noticeable. Whereas
“The Moonbase” focuses less on traumatic stress
reactions than cool science fiction concepts such as weather regulating
stations or scary monsters, “Robots”, by contrast,
draws its main strength from the portraits of a crew under fire, in
particular the characters of Uvanov, Poul and Taren Capel.
Skilfully portrayed by
Russell Hunter. Uvanov is an engaging character. For all his
irascibility, it is his bewilderment and paranoia that allows him to
interpret ongoing events to the viewer. His class-based insecurity is
apparent from his very first scene with Zilda and, later on, drives him
to pin the murder on the Doctor and Leela rather than investigate
further and risk losing his hold over the crew. However, we find it
difficult to blame him, because his impulse is very relatable: how many
of us, after all, would react any better under the same circumstances?
At the start of the serial, we see
Uvanov losing a game of chess to one
of the very robots shortly to go on a murdering spree —
demonstrating a lack of logic and strategy that will nearly cost him
his life. Once pointed in the right direction, however, this flaw
becomes a strength as Uvanov discovers his inner anarchist as he goes
on the offensive.
Poul, in many ways, exemplifies a social condition often reflected in
the works of Agatha Christie (to which “Robots” is
frequently compared) where household servants formed a symbolic fifth
column. Hired as subordinates, they nevertheless, acquire an intimate
knowledge of their employers’ vulnerabilities, resulting in
Christie’s numerous cast of murdering butlers and housemaids.
This irony initiates the true horror for both the crew of Storm Mine
Four and Christie’s readers — that the menace comes
from within.
Robophobia, we’re informed, is a pathological fear of robots
induced by their lack of body language. Poul describes them as
“walking dead” and Leela designates them
“creepy mechanical men” making it clear the panic
is caused by the automatons looking human but not responding as such.
The scene where Poul and the Doctor reenact Chub's death is noteworthy
because, while Poul takes the presence of robots for granted, on
another level, the possibility of a robot running amok has evidently
crossed his mind. He is not unintelligent; he has seen the wounds
inflicted upon the earlier victims; but his quick denial of the
Doctor's suggestion a robot could be the murderer implies
he’s not so much dismissing the idea as denying it as a
possibility he fears. More than any other character, Poul represents
the social paralysis which would result from a robot revolution.
In this respect, it is somewhat ironic that the only machine on Storm
Mime Four capable of rebellion is Poul’s undercover
accomplice, the robot detective
D84. Described in Boucher’s
sequel novel as “an experimental model”. D84
appears to develop empathic, emotional, and indeed imaginative
qualities during its pedagogical relationship with the Doctor. In
contrast, its fellow robots are simply tools which have been
reprogrammed by an outside agency to turn on the human crew.
Of all the characters in the story, Taren Capel (chillingly brought to
life by
David
Bailie) is the most complex. By rights, some of the mystery
should be ruined because sharp-eyed trouser-spotters can identify the
murderer during Part Two. In actuality, it doesn't matter if we realise
Dask is responsible, for his motives remain to be discovered, and this
slow unfolding of the multiple facets of his character drives the main
thrust of the narrative.
The Doctor's aside to the camera, describing Capel as a “very
mad scientist”, reveals the kernel of the villain’s
mindset, and yet Capel is much more than Doctor Frankenstein, or even
Fritz Lang's deranged scientist Rotwang, who by his own admission is
motivated by jealousy and unrequited love.
In fact, Capel's actions contradict his spoken ethos: although he
idealises the calm and discipline of robots, he is visibly a sadist,
taking pleasure in the psychological manipulation of his crewmates and
the physical torture of the Doctor. Sadism, as a mental condition, is
linked to a fear of losing control and a need to dominate people, so
Capel's fascination probably stems from a desire to be in charge.
Robots, unlike people, will do his bidding.
However, there are additional elements to Capel bearing exploration.
The scientist has a confused identity, manifesting as three separate
personae (the Latin word persona, significantly, means “a
mask”). The first, a consciously manufactured self, is
“Dask”, calm, composed, and rather pedantic; the
second, the person who Capel thinks of as his true self, an idealised
human machine who adopts robotic speech cadences and costume. Yet
beneath these exteriors lies his true nature, a raging psychopath.
Interestingly, the Doctor calls Capel “Dask” during
their final scenes, telling him “You look ridiculous in that
outfit. Not half the robot your father was.” He is exposing
Capel's personae as masks; painting his face still leaves his essence
unchanged. “Dask's” reply to this is a fit of
snarling fury. His death ultimately comes through a loss of identity
— by having his voice distorted by helium gas, Capel is
stripped of the very trait which enables the robots to distinguish him.
The reason for Capel's insanity, however, can be found in the parallels
drawn throughout the script between himself and Poul.
Capel and Poul (whose names are derived from science-fiction writers
Karel Čapek and Poul Anderson) are outsiders in disguise, their true
‘identities’ tied up with a secret held by one or
more of the robots on the Mine. Visually, Capel's death mimics Poul's
descent into neurosis an episode earlier as he too falls to his knees
before a robot, in screaming, senseless dread.
There is a parallel, too, between Poul's instant refusal to accept a
robot could be responsible for Chub's death and Capel's quick denial of
their dependency on humans for their existence. The two characters have
more in common than simple madness.
As with Poul, Capel's mental instability is not innate, but imposed
from the outside.
When Leela finds him hiding in the robot morgue, Poul, in panicked
delirium, attempts to betray her to the robots, convinced accepting her
help will cause the robots to view him as an enemy. He further assumes
he will be immune from attack if he keeps still and hidden. Similarly,
Capel's behaviour can be seen as an attempt to ingratiate himself with
the robots; he dresses like a robot, repeatedly calls them
“my brothers” and offers assistance they do not
request. At the end of the story, as a robot's hands close to his
throat, he cries out, not “I am your brother,” but
“I am your master”, again implying a terrified
attempt to assert control over an unstoppable force.
His murder at the hands of a robot parroting the phrase “Kill
the humans” must be for Capel the most frightening and
humiliating death imaginable.
One of the few background details we know about Capel is he was raised
by robots. For most people, images of strength and control are taken
from our early experiences of those who brought us up. By drawing
parallels between Poul and his quarry, Boucher has hidden the
explanation for Capel's mental breakdown in plain sight.
It is Capel's robophobia, not his megalomania, which triggers the
unfolding of events on Storm Mine Four, although the second is
symptomatic of the first.
In sum, “The Robots of Death” stands far ahead of
its closest relatives because its design and direction combine with
clever scripting and sharp insight into character, elevating it above
the level of “The Moonbase” and placing it on a
parallel with the SF classic novels and films it references.
However, the most compelling theme is the one concealed within the
character of Taren Capel: the deaths are not instigated by the robots
themselves, but by the complexities that spring from human nature.
Voc Head photograph copyright Andy
Hopkinson