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that the great Patrick McGoohan died on January 13th at the age of 80.

McGoohan was an actor, yes, but so much more. 

Only two months ago, we were graced with the long overdue DVD release of one of the key McGoohan roles of my own childhood years — his turn as Dr. Syn: The Scarecrow of Romney Marsh for Disney, one of four parts he played for the studio (the others were for The Three Lives of Thomasina, 1964, the ill-conceived dino opus Baby: Secret of the Lost Legend, 1985, and Treasure Planet, 2002).

At that time, I wrote:

“Along with Secret Agent (the US TV syndication title for the excellent espionage 1960-62, 1964-66 TV series Danger Man), the Disney Dr. Syn starred the great Patrick McGoohan, whose career became so vital to my generation when his literally mind-bending series The Prisoner insinuated itself into the life-altering year 1968 with such unexpected potency. I’m a diehard McGoohan fan and have been for over 40 of my 53 years. For me, Dr. Syn was always the missing link between McGoohan’s Danger Man and The Prisoner, the previously impossible-to-revisit essential viewing experience that had carried my preteen fascination with McGoohan’s ideosyncratic work into a new realm. Thus, its appearance at last on DVD — and in its complete form! — is a revelation on a number of levels.”

That’s true, and if anything it prompts me to scrape up time in the next couple of weeks to revisit the film, amid re-viewings of McGoohan’s other roles and creations.

McGoohan’s other key television work has long been available on video and DVD, and both Danger Man and The Prisoner were recently re-released in improved transfers definitive collections, and are well worth seeing for the first time (and I envy you that experience if you’re among the uninitiated) or revisitation. The Prisoner in particular stands as one of the most challenging, enigmatic and imaginative creations for television ever, a heady and truly adult work that is Kafkaesque, Orwellian and McLuhanesque. It remains a potent primer for individualistic survival in the face of media-saturated controlled contemporary environments — and hence, one of the most audacious, prescient and essential works of its medium.

That The Prisoner was also emblematic of all that McGoohan believed in, stood for and stood against is the best testimony one can imagine leaving behind.

Alas, much of McGoohan’s legacy is not legally available in any form, and that is a great loss we hope may be addressed in the near future. I ache to see again his sole theatrical feature film directorial effort, his rock Othello (I kid you not), the stirring Catch My Soul (1974), starring Richie Havens as Othello, Season Hubley as Desdemona and the incredible Susan Tyrell as Emilia (she sings “Tickle His Fancy”) — sadly, it’s never been released legally in any format, and my memories (I saw it as a 20 year old) have both faded and no doubt lionized the experience. I treasure the beat video master I own of Alexis Kanner and Edmund Ward’s Kings and Desperate Men (1981) — Kanner and McGoohan previously collaborated on The Prisoner, natch — and that film remains as bold and uncompromising a work as any of his career.

McGoohan’s memorable roles in overlooked masterpieces like Don Siegel’s Escape from Alcatraz (1979) and fascinating but compromised works like David Cronenberg’s Scanners (1981) are worth savoring anew, and I reckon I’ll finally have to track down those Columbo episodes he had a strong hand in.

Here’s to Patrick McGoohan, and to Number Six — “Be seeing you,” forever.