“‘(…) Of the unnecessary pleasures and desires, some seem to me to be unlawful. They are probably innate in everyone, but if disciplined by law and by the better desires, with the assistance of reason, they may in some men be entirely eradicated, or at least left few and weak, while in other men they are stronger and more numerous’.
‘And what are those desires?’ he asked.
‘Those that are active during sleep,’ I answered. ‘When the rest of the soul, the reasoning, gentle, and ruling part of it, is asleep, then the bestial and savage part, when it has had its fill of food or wine, begins to leap about, pushes sleep aside, and tries to go and gratify its instincts. You know how in such a state it will dare everything, as though it were freed and released from all shame or discernment. It does not shrink from attempting incestual intercourse, in its dream, with a mother or with any man or god or beast. It is ready for any deed of blood, and there is no unhallowed food it will not eat. In a word, it falls short of no extreme of folly or shamelessness’”
Plato, The Republic, Book IX, 571, Dent, London, 1976, p269.
“As for the robot, as its name implies, it works; end of the theatre, beginning of human mechanics. The automaton is the analogon of man and remains responsive to him (even playing draughts with him!). The machine is the equivalent of man, appropriating him to itself as an equal in the unity of a functional process. This sums up the difference between first- and second-order simulacra.
(…) The robot no longer questions appearances, its only truth is its mechanical efficiency. It no longer needs to resemble man, to whom it is inevitably compared. The infamous metaphysical difference which gives the automaton mystery and charm no longer exists: the robot emphasises this difference for its own benefit. Being and appearance are founded on a single substance of production and labour. The first-order simulacrum never abolishes the difference: it presupposes the dispute always in evidence between the simulacrum and the real (a particularly subtle game in trompe-l’oeil painting, but all art thrives on this difference). The second-order simulacrum simplifies the problem by the absorption of appearances, or by the liquidation of the real, whichever you prefer. In any case it erects a reality without images, without echo, without mirrors, without appearances: such indeed is labour, such is the machine, such is the entire industrial system of production in that it is radically opposed to the principle of theatrical illusion. No more semblance or dissemblance, no more God or Man, only an immanent logic of the principle of operativity”
Jean Baudrillard, Symbolic Exchange and Death, Sage, London, 1993 (original French edition 1976), pp53-4.
“Knowledge that comes from immersion in timeless ideas is a glimpse of eternity. It washes off the pollution of quotidianity which wears off and condemns to dissolution everything durable. No other human activity can achieve this, each being branded with indelible mark of transience”
Zygmunt Bauman, Mortality, Immortality and Other Life Strategies, Polity Press, Cambridge, 1992, p62.
“At the time of Plato immortality was the lot of the rulers, and rulers alone. Now the rulers face a challenge. To justify their immortality, they have to show credentials: they have to prove that they have visited the land of the durable, that they have stood face to face with the ideas as they truly and forever are. They must justify their entitlement to immortality in terms in which only philosophers are past masters. They stand little chance in this game. In as far as the rulers set the archetype of immortality (and made it into their sole property), in as far as rule and immortality had been rendered synonymous, it is the sages, these few who converse with the eternal, who ought to be rulers” (Zygmunt Bauman, op. cit., p63).
“Almost single-handedly, a frame was created for all future discourse; the one ‘meta-narrative’ that survived all vicissitudes of history and is unlikely ever to lose its attraction and binding power, as it is that meta-narrative which establishes the raison d’ être of all narrative and all narrators. The bond between immortality, power and knowledge as, simultaneously, the legitimation and the constantly renewed accomplishment of discourse, is that raison d’ être. And the bond was tied by Plato. A bid was made for the philosophers’ right to rule; the bid was justified by reference to the philosophers’ sole access to the eternal; and the philosophers’ own hope for immortality was firmly grounded in the boldly and uncompromisingly asserted monopoly of that access. The outcome was a divide, simultaneously ontological and social. Social – a divide between the ‘multitude’ and their ‘common beliefs’, and ‘the few’ with their ‘knowledge of the eternal’. And ontological – between the transient and the durable, things and ideas, crafts and arts” (Zygmunt Bauman, op. cit., p64).
I was first exposed to Forbidden Planet at a tender and impressionable age in the golden days of BBC2’s evening sci-fi seasons (which showcased such iconic works as Them!; The Day the Earth Stood Still; When Worlds Collide and The Incredible Shrinking Man with its unforgettable spider battle, which has still not lost the power to send shivers down the spine). The collective memory of watching Doctor Who battle the Daleks and the Cybermen from behind the sofa or covering the eyes defensively to exclude all stimuli to the imagination bar the soundtrack did not apply as I sat in the armchair’s accommodating lap transfixed (one of the distinctive features of Forbidden Planet is its unique score of “electronic tonalities”, atmospheric, ethereal and narrative with recognisable themes, such as the beast’s ponderous and sinister approach, repeated strategically to maximum effect). Long before CGI revolutionised special effects, it left an indelible impression on my Father, the inversion of the cliché with earth men (as opposed to implacable invaders intent on laying waste to human civilization before exercising unchallenged dominion over the Earth) exploring the mysteries of the universe in a flying saucer holding a particular appeal for him. Over fifty years on, the film’s austere beauty has not faded (indeed its enormous influence on the genre subsequently is invariably commented upon by critics – when the crew take up their positions on the pads during deceleration to be cocooned in a beam of light my immediate association is with the transporter in Star Trek, where the uniforms also play a cameo role in the original pilot). Its attention to detail, hallmark of the best sci-fi, effortlessly conveys an alternate reality without distracting from the plot (unlike many of the extravaganzas of today, which substitute shots of jaw-dropping technical brilliance for story line and character development, condemning them to remain forever cold, empty and flat). I had been allowed to stay up past my bedtime specially. The indulgence shown and the closeness we felt (my Mother detested sci-fi, placing herself in voluntary exile in the neighbouring room when he invested in cable with its channels dedicated round the clock to his passion – he has always been a light sleeper) have rendered the film’s place in my affections unassailable. Not that I have absorbed all his tastes: country and western music I still find as enjoyable as being tied to a chair and forced to listen while a dozen sadistic manicurists slowly drag their immaculately polished nails down the surface of a blackboard. A print of the original poster remains the only image adorning the walls of my most private retreat, the bedroom.
The very title, with its connotations of Eden and forbidden fruit, sets out one of the principle themes (itself one of the central preoccupations of our culture). Knowledge, once tasted, has appalling consequences: unsullied innocence can never be restored.
“United Planets” cruiser C-57D (cf. United Nations, a neat shorthand for the end of antagonism on earth and between worlds, perhaps a template for the later United Federation of Planets) is sent on a rescue mission to search for survivors of the Bellerophon expedition, which had been sent to assess the suitability of the remote Altair IV for colonisation. Scanned as they draw near, they are warned off by Morbius who urges them to turn back in spite of insisting that he is in no danger. On landing Commander Adams and his men are met by Robby the robot who conveys them to the philologist’s residence in the midst of an exotic garden where, after lunch, they meet his daughter, Alta. Awaiting new orders having been informed that the remainder of the party had fallen victim to a mysterious force, an act of sabotage prevents the ship from transmitting further messages. Keen to send them on their way as quickly as possible, Morbius assists by instructing Robby to manufacture the spare parts they require. However, his plans are frustrated by the brutal murder of the chief engineer. Seeking to confront Morbius, Adams and his close friend Doctor Ostrow gain access to his study, much to the scientist’s annoyance. In an attempt to convince them of the vital nature of his research and the indispensability of his uninterrupted presence on Altair IV, Morbius reveals that the planet was once inhabited by a race of super beings, the Krell and takes his guests on a tour of the subterranean facilities, the only remaining evidence of the vanished civilization. When Adams is on the point of blurting out that the new situation will necessitate more serious outside intervention (a military takeover), Ostrow changes the subject. That evening, an invisible creature immune to firepower and protective fences launches a ferocious attack, costing the lives of Lieutenant Farmer (the Commander’s would-be rival for Alta’s affections) and two others. Determined to discover more about the threat, Adams and Ostrow find entry to the house barred by Robby. Alta overrides her Father’s injunction to the robot to admit no one (“Emergency cancellation Archimedes”) and while Adams is absorbed in persuading Alta to accompany him to safety Ostrow unravels the truth about the beast. Unable to face up to his culpability, Morbius finally renounces his evil self when Alta sides with Adams. With his final breath Morbius impresses upon them that they must travel two hundred million miles before the self-destruct sequence he initiates with Adams’ help blows Altair IV apart.
“Prepare your minds for a new scale of physical scientific values, gentlemen”.
The film marks the end of undiluted technological optimism: the Krell had reached an unimaginable pinnacle of achievement, beyond the grasp of the human mind, defying all known natural laws. The sheer scale of their machinery is mind-boggling: the 8,000 cubic miles of its fabric contain 7,800 levels and 400 ventilation shafts beyond the one Morbius shows to his visitors (the scene on the walkway when the human figures are reduced to puny antlike insignificance imitated most recently in Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow during the dénouement on board Totenkopf’s rocket); 9,200 thermo-nuclear reactors (“the harnessed power of an exploding planetary system”), yet the Krell’s triumph proved to be their undoing. Forbidden Planet introduces a note of ambivalence towards technology – it cannot resolve all the problems of the human condition (giving rise instead to new problems of its own). We should not therefore pin all our hopes on it. In Replications: A Robotic History of the Science Fiction Film (University of Illinois Press, Urbana and Chicago, 1995), J. P. Telotte draws attention to the loss of faith in the benevolence of science in the long shadow cast by the mushroom cloud: “Like most science fiction films, Forbidden Planet demonstrates a fundamental sort of double vision, one rooted in its generic concerns. (…) it by turns accepts the attractions and lures of science and technology, finding in them something which is awe-inspiring and promising, and rejects those same attractions, as it foregrounds the more extreme and even dangerous forms they can take. In fact, while this film seems to tantalize us with images of the scientific wonders and creations to be found on the distant planet Altair IV, it concludes with its characters abandoning the technologically advanced world of the Krell – the planet’s original inhabitants – and with the destruction of this planet whose technology has provided so many of the movie’s attractions. The film thus works from a fairly common double vision of its futuristic world – and a double vision made all the more necessary by the forces of the 1950s, when economic prosperity and the great consumer access to modern technology it facilitated were invariably tempered by cold war fears, especially the looming potential for a technological self-destruction, a nuclear holocaust. In keeping with this spirit, then, Forbidden Planet admits the lure of the mechanisms and constructs it parades before us, only to pull back, like so many other science fiction films, from that lure, as if it had reassessed the very images or signs with which it so powerfully speaks” (p115).
The commitment to progress itself has faltered.
Krell society was very concerned with nurturing the intellect and testing it, hubris on their part, the fatal flaw that brings about their demise. Over-cultivation of one quality at the expense of all others is not healthy, as Morbius who possesses more brainpower than any human, demonstrates: he is too caught up in his quest to squander precious time on feelings. In this sense, Forbidden Planet represents an affirmation of the emotional, of the limits of our ordinary being.
“It looks after us like a mother”.
Alta has been isolated from the pollution of social enmeshing/entanglement. Both she and her Father are free to pursue study without distraction: Robby carries out the domestic tasks. Although he insists that the concept of gender is meaningless when applied to him, Robby is male. Technology “personified” he suffers no pain although he is self-aware and is cheerfully compliant when going about his tasks. Like an old stove, his surfaces are appealingly curved and smooth. The archetypal robot butler, he is reconciled to his functions and limitations, content to potter round the house and run up dresses for Alta (cf. the Crapola Inc. talking toaster in Red Dwarf, which, although aware of its limitations, is irritatingly – and comically – incapable of rising above them). He is the physical embodiment of the liberating effects of technology, as they describe him, the “housewife’s dream” (it is useful to remember the 1950s context when domestic appliances – twin-tubs, vacuum cleaners and so on – were heralded with enthusiasm as labour saving devices designed to transform drudgery into leisure and the assumption that women’s role was ideally restricted to the home and the delights of housework still held sway). Robby’s virtues do not stop at diligence: he also evinces “absolute, selfless obedience”. Having shown the deadly efficiency of the disposal unit, a household disintegrator beam (no waste, no pollution), Morbius tells Robby to put arm in. Without the slightest hesitation he shuffles forward, prevented from harm when Morbius belays the order.
“If you do not speak English, I am at your disposal with 187 other languages, along with their various dialects and sub-tongues”.
Robby’s elegant and refined speech patterns reflect Morbius’ original profession as a linguist. Star Trek’s conceit that communication problems could be solved by a “universal translator” staved off the accusation of American imperialism (together with the growing fan contingent willing to put in the effort to master the artificial Klingon tongue developed as a concession to multiculturalism as well as a means of enhancing realism), culminating in the inclusion of an interpreter in the crew of Enterprise. In greeting the new arrivals, Robby is being entirely consistent, as Morbius had already spoken to Adams before they landed. Although the line is intended to impress upon the audience just how sophisticated Robby is, his willingness to admit that there are more forms of human expression than the lingua franca of commerce (and big budget film productions) is refreshing.
“Yet this robot of yours is beyond the combined resources of all Earth’s physical science”.
Morbius dismisses Robby as nothing more than a harmless toy (“I tinkered him together myself”). The robot is immensely strong, effortlessly balancing panels of solid lead shielding on one hand (isotope 217, the whole thing hardly comes to ten tons, he informs us). Telotte acknowledges Robby’s significance within the genre: “In light of this emphasis on the simulacra and the film’s own ‘double’ vision, it is fitting that one of the Forbidden Planet’s most significant and popular characters – and probably its most memorable – is that mechanical double, Robby the Robot. He is important partly because of his sheer likeability – a trait that helped prepare the way for the almost loveable (and even more marketable) robots of the Star Wars films. While Robby pointedly has superhuman powers, he is invariably human-centred and clearly under human control. The benevolent and tireless servant, he is programmed to aid humankind with his prodigious strength and special talents, even as he is also rendered innocuous by a built-in safety factor, recalling Asimov’s basic ‘Laws of Robotics’, that keeps him from harming humans. In this respect, he marks a significant turning-point from the largely sinister roles to which film robots had previously been relegated (…). In contrast, Robby is consistently benevolent – helpful, humorous, and nearly magical in his powers – in short, almost all we might hope our technological creations to be” (op. cit., pp118-9).
And: “Again, Robby the Robot is key, for this fascinating technological double survives as a reminder of all that has happened and an emblem of how much we are ultimately tied to the technological and its powers. Robby, in fact, is harnessed to replace the ship’s navigator, who had been killed by Morbius’s double. The technological, we are reassured, might yet help us to find our way” (op. cit., p125).
Robby symbolises manageable technology, saved because the humans can cope with him, he can be controlled and meekly does our bidding, unlike the murderous, unpredictable monster from the Id (technology in our own likeness). Robby possesses language (socially constituted and socially acquired through inter-communication), indeed, a surfeit of languages – we can communicate with him directly and with our conscious, rational minds which operate in accordance with all the internalized laws and accommodations to others, the taboos and self-imposed restraints – in short, which follow the precepts of morality: you can “reason with” Robby, but not with the buried, subterranean machine. The latter admonishes us that technology is neither benign nor malevolent in itself: the machine does not distinguish between good and bad, right and wrong, it exists merely to respond to promptings, satisfying the dark desires of the uncolonized, pre-social mind, revealing the repressed. It is sinister and menacing precisely because it can never be switched off (this is one of the aspects I found most disturbing when small – similarly G lost a night’s sleep after The Blob because he knew that nothing could stop it from oozing under the crack at the bottom of the bolted door – proof that even the most outdated effects can still have an impact if coupled with a frightening idea). Moreover, it is self-maintaining and self-sustaining, completely independent. Morbius enthuses that he has reason to believe it recently carried out a minor alteration to itself. The reason/unreason dichotomy is presented in tangible contrast: Robby, a product of Morbius’ conscious mind, has built-in safety mechanisms, socially determined inhibitions, reassuring us that society’s disciplines and impositions are not arbitrary or without merit, whereas his counterpart, the monster from the Id is bloody and vengeful, lacking precisely the social element, untamed and selfish – Durkheim would have approved of this vision. We learn nothing about the Krell’s social organization, whether it was egalitarian or hierarchical, only that as a species they were technologically-oriented. Nor are we given any real notion of what they might have looked like (the free rein left to us to speculate, to fill in the gaps, to visualise with our mind’s eye is uncharacteristic of the sci-fi medium, which revels in its realisations of the fantastic).
Hidden away, the inaccessibility of the Krell complex is twofold: it is physically concealed, the sole entrance to it through Morbius’ study, an architectural parallel to the notion of the sub-conscious. Only the elect can penetrate its secret knowledge. Even with his artificially boosted intellect, Morbius (who has something of the alchemist or sorcerer about him) has not been able to decipher the Krell alphabet in its entirety, in spite of training in rigorous investigation and a naturally higher IQ. The Commander and his crew registered little more on the gauges than the rutting deer: their uninitiated minds cannot hope to comprehend the machine’s intricate workings. To us, it assumes the appearance of magic, in much the same way as we cannot fathom how the ungainly bulk of a Jumbo jet can take off, or how an e-mail can reach its destination thousands of miles away the instant we have clicked on the mouse.
“I cannot be answerable for the safety of your ship or your crew”.
Morbius is a willing recluse – had he wanted to be rescued or reincorporated into society he would have employed his enhanced intelligence in order to contact earth or one of the colonies. He prefers isolation to the inevitable distraction of company: “How ironic that a simple scholar with no ambition beyond a modest measure of seclusion should out of a clear sky find himself besieged by an army of fellow creatures, all grimly determined to be of service to him”. There is society to constrain Morbius – he is the uncontested ruler of his world, a privilege he is not about to relinquish.
“Another one of them new worlds. No beer, no women, no pool parlours, nothing. Nothing to do but throw rocks at tin cans and we gotta bring our own tin cans”.
“I don’t know, I think a man could get used to this [sky] and grow to love it”.
Of the crew members, only Doc Ostrow has a special affinity for the new surroundings and is marked out as the most intelligent crew member, Morbius’ foil: they are the two characters with academic titles, though one is in medicine (denoting healing, succour in distress and empathy), the other in philology (words, concepts, signs, language). Morbius recalls the fate of his comrades who one by one “succumbed to a sort of a planetary force here, some dark, terrible, incomprehensible force. Only my wife and I were immune”. He accounts for their special status thus: “My wife and I differed only in our special love for this new world and our boundless longing to make a home here far from the scurry and strife of humankind”. The doctor is linked to Morbius early on when he feels the pierce of the whistle, which Alta uses to summon the deer and the tiger (which do not molest each other, the Biblical indicator of paradise as the lion lies with the lamb), “beyond the pitch of human hearing” Morbius often hears it himself. Ostrow is tactful and fluent in the language of science: “To tell the truth, I sometimes still miss the conversation of gentlemen such as yourself, Doctor”. Morbius’ pre-educator IQ is 183, whilst the Doctor’s is 161. The Commander is less bright and more impulsive. The Doctor is discrete, withdrawing tactfully to let the Commander be on his own with Alta – he doesn’t play gooseberry. Ostrow is willing to sacrifice himself for his friend and the rest of the crew. He possesses the empathy that Morbius has lost. Morbius fails to see the obvious, so intimately familiar is he with the Krells’ own thought that he falls into the same trap as they did. Once he is forced to confront his own guilt he is able to rediscover his own humanity and regain a sense of proportion.
Farmer: It’s nothing really personal, just a kiss.
Alta [sceptically]: But why should people want to kiss each other?
Farmer: Well, it’s an old custom. All of the really high civilizations go in for it.
Alta: But it’s so silly.
Farmer: But it’s good for you, though; it stimulates the whole system. As a matter of fact, you can’t be in tip-top health without it.
Alta: Really, I didn’t know that.
Farmer: I’d be only too happy to show you.
Alta: Well, thank you very much Lieutenant.
Farmer: No trouble at all.
[Alta is stiff and unresponsive]
Alta: Is that all there is to it?
Farmer: Well, you’ve sort of got to stick with it.
Alta: Just once more, do you mind?
Farmer: Not at all.
Alta: I don’t know, Lieutenant, there must be something seriously the matter with me because honestly I haven’t noticed the least bit of stimulation.
Farmer [with injured pride]: Honey, let’s do this thing right.
Alta: Commander, the Lieutenant and I were just trying to get a little healthy stimulation from hugging and kissing, that’s all.
Adams: Oh, that’s all? It’s so easy for you, isn’t it? There’s no feelings, no emotions, you – eh, nothing human would ever enter your mind. Well, it so happens that I’m in command of eighteen competitively selected, super perfect physical specimens with an average age of 24.6 who have been locked up in hyperspace for 378 days.
I have always had a soft spot for Altaira. When sex barges its way into her life, she ceases to be “pure” and her relationship with her Father (up to the advent of the visitors her only male contact) is no longer harmonious, a transition indicated by the sudden change in behaviour of the tiger. Previously “tame as a kitten” around her it is vaporized by the Commander as it tries to pounce on her from the rock (“He didn’t recognise me”). Its symbolic function is analogous to that of the unicorn in medieval art: “Outside the range of my daughter’s influence it’s still a deadly wild beast”. Once her virginal chastity is assailed she is no longer able to soothe it and so it reverts to its natural ferocity. Cleaving unto Adams, transferring her primary allegiance to him, she defies Morbius’ authority (the seeds of rebellion are sown at their first encounter – Morbius is dismayed when she puts in an appearance towards the end of lunch, reminding her that he had specifically requested her not to join them. She deflects his reproach with a sweet smile remarking that he did not mention her staying away during coffee. Later when she accompanies Robby as he delivers the materials to the ship, she shows similar coyness by staying in the tractor: “He did tell me not to go near the ship. After all, this isn’t very near”). Society, the desire for a soul mate and loving nurture, is what constrains, hobbles and regulates women. Women are diminished by their sexual involvement with men, exchanging autonomy for the dependence that masquerades as equal partnership.
Untainted by patriarchal culture, Alta is fiercely intelligent without being embarrassed or afraid to show it. Although girlish she is by no means irrational, neither intimidated by men nor impressed by rank she blends curiosity with detachment. Never having been taught that she is inferior, she is far from shy – playfulness exudes from her. The predatory Lieutenant Farmer is the first to exploit her ignorance. She is bemused by “chivalry”, being treated like a child by Farmer who insists on pouring her coffee (“But you keep helping me. After all, you’re not Robby”), completely oblivious to the overtones when Farmer stakes out his claim by cautioning her against spending time alone with the Commander whom he describes as notorious throughout seven planetary systems: “Yes, I can see. Why, his eyes almost had fire in them”. Unaware of her own attractiveness, Alta for the most part (except when she is trying to please the Commander by covering up her manifest charms before the connection between them – “ownership”, or belonging – is established) wears skimpy, ultra-mini skirts. She has not picked up the message that her body is something to be ashamed of or covered up, nor has she fallen foul of a social prejudice concerning appropriate feminine conduct.
Alta [pouting with annoyance at the thought that the Commander does not like her]: Then why don’t you kiss me, like everybody else does?
Adams: Hasn’t your Father taught you anything at all?
Alta: Well, he says I’m terribly ignorant, but I have had poetry, mathematics, logic, physics, geology and bi-
Adams: -ology? Of course, that’s mostly on the theoretical side
Alta: Well, so far. What’s wrong with theory?
Adams: This.
Normally decisive and accustomed to being in charge, the Commander becomes tongue-tied and shy in Alta’s presence, like an awkward teenager. The ideology of Mr. Right comes into play (albeit in palatable form): Alta is unaffected by the advances of the others, passion stirred in her only when she embraces the man she loves. The reciprocity of her feelings is succinctly conveyed by her putting her arms around Adams’ neck and pulling him close. The awakening of her sexuality constitutes the turning-point in the film, after which the monster is unleashed in earnest. Morbius has taken care of her intellectual development, but neglected her emotional side: he has curbed her inquisitiveness about Earth by being less than honest with her about males. She does not feel she has been missing out, never having been exposed to temptation. No longer girl yet not quite woman, she exasperates the Commander (the precision with which he recites the number of days he and his men have been cooped up in hyperspace indicating that he is not immune to frustration himself).
Adams: Well, look at yourself, see you can’t run around like that in front of men, particularly not a space wolf like Farmer, so for Pete’s sake go home and put on something, anything.
Alta: What’s wrong with my clothes? I designed them myself.
When Alta provides Robby with the specifications for her new dress (which must “fit in all the right places”) he enquires whether she wants it to be radiation-proof (“Just eye-proof will do”), offering her diamonds or emeralds instead of the star sapphires, which take a week to crystallise. What would qualify on Earth as fabulous wealth is quite meaningless on Altair IV and they are quite blasé about it in a manner reminiscent of Utopia: “In the meantime silver and gold, the raw materials of money, get no more respect from anyone than their intrinsic value deserves – which is obviously far less than that of iron. Without iron human life is simply impossible, just as it is without fire or water – but we could easily do without silver and gold, if it weren’t for the idiotic concept of scarcity value. And yet kind Mother Nature has deliberately placed all her greatest blessings, like earth, air, and water, right under our noses, and tucked away out of sight the things that are no use to us.
(…) plates and drinking-vessels, though beautifully designed, are made of quite cheap stuff like glass or earthenware. But silver and gold are the normal materials, in private houses as well as communal dining-halls, for the humblest items of domestic equipment, such as chamber-pots. They also use chains and fetters of solid gold to immobilize slaves, and anyone who commits a really shameful crime is forced to go about with gold rings on his ears and fingers, a gold necklace round his neck, and a crown of gold on his head. (…)
It’s much the same with jewels. There are pearls to be found on the beaches, diamonds and garnets on certain types of rock – but they never bother to look for them. However, if they happen to come across one, they pick it up and polish it for some toddler to wear. At first, children are terribly proud of such jewellery – until they’re old enough to register that it’s only worn in the nursery. Then, without any prompting from their parents, but purely as a matter of self-respect, they give it up – just as our children grow out of things like dolls, and conkers, and lucky charms” (Thomas More, Utopia, Penguin, Harmondsworth, 1965, pp86-7).
“In times long past, this planet was the home of a mighty and noble race of beings, which called themselves the Krell. Ethically, as well as technologically, they were a million years ahead of human kind. For in unlocking the mysteries of nature, they had conquered even their baser selves and when in the course of aeons they had abolished sickness and insanity, crime and all injustice they turned, still with high benevolence, outward toward space. Long before the dawn of man’s history they had walked our Earth and brought back many biological specimens. (…) The heights they had reached. But then, seemingly on the threshold of some supreme accomplishment, which was to have crowned their entire history, this all but divine race perished in a single night. In the 2,000 centuries since that unexplained catastrophe, even their cloud-piercing towers of glass and porcelain and adamantine steel have crumbled back into the soil of Altair IV and nothing, absolutely nothing, remains above ground”.
“Recently, I have turned up some rather puzzling indications that in those final days before their annihilation the Krell had been applying their entire racial energies to a new project, one which they actually seemed to hope might somehow free them once and for all from any dependence on physical instrumentalities”.
Like all great science fiction, Forbidden Planet contains a profound meditation on the human condition, a critical sociology of the present in disguise. Robby’s ability to replicate any substance introduced into his aperture is child’s play in comparison with the Krell machinery’s ability to instantaneously project solid matter anywhere on the planet on demand as the Commander explains. In a supreme irony, the Krell’s yearned for salvation proved to be their ruin. Thought would subdue the material world with all its unhappy constraints, leaving the philosophers free to devote themselves entirely to contemplation. Whatever they wished for would materialize, conventional technology thereby superseded. Yet the underground (devil-rousing, underworld) machine was a machine nevertheless, without sentience. No matter how far they had evolved, mentally and socially, the Krell could not escape their animal, base origins: the taint cannot be bred out – it persists. Neither can we deny our origins altogether: we remain eternally flesh-bound. Humans are not worthy to be custodians of such power – certainly not the military or petty bureaucrats and in this respect we must have sympathy for Morbius’ unyielding stance: “(…) and I have come to the unalterable conclusion that mankind is unfit, as yet, to receive such knowledge, such almost limitless power”. It would be immediately turned to nefarious purposes. Where Morbius goes wrong is to assume in his arrogance that philosophers are automatically qualified to dictate to ordinary people.
Even Morbius (perhaps a corruption of Morpheus, the Greek God of dreams, although Telotte interprets it thus: “Morbius’s name seems to combine the Latin morbidus and morbus, words that translate as ‘sickly’ and as ‘sickness’ and ‘disease’. At the same time, it recalls the Möbius strip, which turns upon itself to create a visual effect whereby its outside edge is also its inside. It thereby suggests a self-enclosed representational world, wherein the thing becomes its own double as it forms a spiral – and a spiral that, like the doubling in this film, leads nowhere, only back to itself. The implications of the naming in this film extend beyond Morbius, though. We should note as well Alta (or Altaira, as she is once named), which suggests ‘other’, and Commander Adams, who seems very much an Adamic figure when he is paired with Alta in the Eden-like garden outside her home”, op. cit., p129) cannot exorcise his primitive urges – the strain of renouncing the beast kills him. The monster acts as an instrument of vengeance, reason toppled by primitive instinct, torn apart. It is quite literally a walking nightmare.
Our dreams fade before our eyes: technology is not synonymous with liberation. Since Utopia can never be attained, it is better to take refuge in love and decency. Everyday life has a place and an intrinsic value. Although the philosophers are marginalized the film is not anti-intellectual as such, its conclusion more that intellect without compassion is undesirable: Morbius is so obsessed by his work, to salvaging the glories of the Krell that his response becomes callous, as his exclamation on seeing the Doctor’s slumped corpse betray: “The fool, the meddling idiot, as though his ape’s brain could contain the secrets of the Krell” (forgetting that he himself is a mere primate’s descendent). His epitaph for the Doctor’s noble sacrifice is likewise singularly inappropriate: “He was warned, and now he’s paid. Let him be buried with the other victims of human greed and folly”. The mad scientist is characterised by excess and Morbius’ excess is one of devotion, his lack of proportion manifested in his claim to a monopoly on wisdom and beneficence.
Our mastery of creation may be unchallenged, we may have begun to chart and explore the universe, but we have not progressed nearly as far as we like to pretend. Our tragedy resides in being able to imagine a world free of strife and injustice whilst it constantly eludes us. Thus the film closes on a melancholy note, with a sense of regret and wistfulness. The Krell furnaces incinerate Altair IV with all its wonders. Man must expel himself from paradise: “It’s true it will remind us that we are, after all, not God”.
