R. I. P. No. 6
Jan. 15th, 2009 09:34 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pjthompsonNot to give him a number and take away his name, R. I. P. Patrick McGoohan, who died Tuesday at the age of 80 here in Los Angeles. He'd lived in Santa Monica for many years. He's survived by his wife of 57 years, children, and grandchildren.
I loved Mr. McGoohan's signature show, The Prisoner, an all-time culty classic. So sixties, yet unique even in that strange time. Although he always played such very serious characters, he had a terrific sense of humor.
I once, many years after The Prisoner had gone off the air, ran into him coming out of an upscale bar/restaurant in Santa Monica. The place no longer exists, but was modeled after an English eating establishment and many British ex-pats went there. I think there's a Houston's on that corner now, and maybe a California Pizza Kitchen next door. Alas.
Although it was around 12:30-1:00 in the afternoon, it was clear from he way he moved as he made his way onto the sidewalk that Mr. McGoohan had imbibed a considerable part of his lunch. He must have caught my look of wide-eyed recognition when he glanced up at me because he giggled before dropping his eyes again and poddling off down the street.
I resisted the urge to tag along after him gushing, "Mithter McGoohan, the Prithoner wath the betht thow ever!"
It may not have been the best show ever, but it was right up there. A strange and surreal piece of TV-making. As the NPR reporter mentioned this morning, a TV Guide poll once voted it No. 7 on the All-Time Cult Classics. "Too bad," said the reporter, "it didn't make it to No. 6."
I loved Mr. McGoohan's signature show, The Prisoner, an all-time culty classic. So sixties, yet unique even in that strange time. Although he always played such very serious characters, he had a terrific sense of humor.
I once, many years after The Prisoner had gone off the air, ran into him coming out of an upscale bar/restaurant in Santa Monica. The place no longer exists, but was modeled after an English eating establishment and many British ex-pats went there. I think there's a Houston's on that corner now, and maybe a California Pizza Kitchen next door. Alas.
Although it was around 12:30-1:00 in the afternoon, it was clear from he way he moved as he made his way onto the sidewalk that Mr. McGoohan had imbibed a considerable part of his lunch. He must have caught my look of wide-eyed recognition when he glanced up at me because he giggled before dropping his eyes again and poddling off down the street.
I resisted the urge to tag along after him gushing, "Mithter McGoohan, the Prithoner wath the betht thow ever!"
It may not have been the best show ever, but it was right up there. A strange and surreal piece of TV-making. As the NPR reporter mentioned this morning, a TV Guide poll once voted it No. 7 on the All-Time Cult Classics. "Too bad," said the reporter, "it didn't make it to No. 6."
