Kaldor City: a Magic Bullet Production

The Robots of  Death

By Fiona Moore

The Voc robots: one of the most enduring images in Doctor Who

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

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