The Invisibles
Directed by Gerd Oswald; written by Joseph Stefano. Cast: Don Gordon (Luis Spain); Tony Mordente (Genero Planetta); George MacReady (Lawrence Hillmond); Neil Hamilton (General Hillary Clarke); Richard Dawson (Oliver Fair); Dee Hartford (Mrs. Clarke); Walter Burke (Recruiter). Broadcast February 3, 1964. Story: Masquerading (just barely) as a social leper, intelligence agent Luis Spain infiltrates a secret organization bent on world domination. He soon discovers that these "invisibles" have more to hide than he ever imagined: they're inhabited by belligerent alien parasites.

Consider this: the notion of a cohesive, unified human race is a hoax, and the best we can hope for in its place is tentative membership into any number of small, mutually exclusive cliques guided by elusive authorities and populated with desperate, bitterly evasive men. This bleak assessment, shared by the neurotic cast of characters in Joseph Stefano's "The Invisibles," drives one of The Outer Limits' darkest and most disquieting hours.

In many ways reminiscent of such "alien-invasion-from-within" standard bearers as Robert Heinlein's 1952 novel The Puppet Masters and Don Siegel and Daniel Mainwaring's film adaptation Invasion of the Body Snatchers from 1956 (not to mention The Outer Limits' own "Corpus Earthling"), "The Invisibles" transcends the elemental shocks of these fine works by focusing less on the invasion process and more on the underlying moral rot that facilitates it. The myriad crosses and double-crosses that occur, and the repeated images of discreet observation (characters routinely spy on each other from around corners, through half-open doors, from behind trees and from rooftops), help to build an atmosphere of secrecy and utter mistrust: everyone is watched and suspected and in turn watches and suspects, and no one is who he or she appears to be.

Stefano deftly weaves this motif of doubt and concealment into his overarching Outer Limits philosophy—namely, that the hope of a cohesive human community is nearly impossible in the face of our collective frailty and universal corruption. The Control Voice opening cuts to the quick when it speaks of men who have "never been invited to join society," and who "have never experienced love or friendship or formed any lasting or constructive relationship." The implicit judgement in such a statement—that there exists a caste of humans who remain permanently outside of some larger, more constructive society—is belied by the actions of the episode's ostensible hero, GIA agent Luis Spain. Spain makes his living as an emissary of that mythical society, and proves himself to be as wholly oblivious to the simple value of human companionship as those he's been ordered to persecute. He seems to find perverse joy in midnight meetings and clandestine telephone calls, and reveals a dishonesty and insidiousness that make the Invisibles seem almost harmless by comparison. This man, like the charter member of the Invisibles he pretends to be, is willing to settle for and even thrive on the comfort of inclusion, even if such inclusion requires him to lead a fruitless, secretive life dedicated to unquestioning action. If only because such inclusion has tempted us all, Spain may be the most morally ambiguous leading character in a series known for its morally ambiguous characters, including the sublimely ineffectual Richard Bellero, Jr., from "The Bellero Shield" and the repugnant Unified Earth strike-force in "Nightmare."

The "Spain as leper routine" (as the agent refers to his undercover façade) seems less like a routine the more we observe him. This is particularly true in his dealings with the wounded, childlike drifter Genero Planetta, whom Spain shamelessly exploits in his attempt to divine the Invisibles' master plan. Early on, Spain refers to Planetta's desire for friendship as his "neurotic soft-spot," and institutes a "kid brother ploy" to gain his trust (Spain and the other GIA agents show a fetishistic preoccupation with such phrases, which comfort them as only insider jargon can). In the end, however, Spain has no one to turn to but Planetta, and, fortunately for him, Genero overcomes his anger and sense of betrayal to heroically save the agent's life. (Sadly, it never occurs to the duplicitous Spain to repay Planetta's magnanimity, as the bullet-ridden finale bears out.) Initially the weakest character in "The Invisibles," Genero proves himself to be genuinely strong and humane: not only does he rescue Spain from the lurking creature intended for the agent, he also has the courage to openly acknowledge what he's seeking and reveal to Spain—and to us—his simple need for intimacy. "I liked you!" he cries at Spain, in what is at once the episode's most uncomfortable and most poignant moment. His expression of pained rejection recalls the earlier scene in which Castle, whose inoculation to the parasites has failed, dejectedly inquires as to whether Spain and Planetta have been issued uniforms (a subtle implication that the military holds the same appeal as the GIA and the Invisibles).

Such parallels abound in "The Invisibles," and Stefano links the GIA and the Invisibles at virtually every turn. When both Governor Hillmond and General Clarke are overcome by their devotion to the aliens (in uproarious fits of near-religious fervor), their cries to a "master" are little different from Spain's frequent telephone calls to his unseen GIA chief. These sequences underscore the lure of an authoritative force to which the disaffected agents and alien disciples will readily submit, and serve to further erode any differentiation between the two organizations. Spain puts it bluntly when he meets Johnny outside the Invisibles' compound: "Daddy doesn't know I'm out." Which daddy, we wonder, is he referring to—his or theirs?

Even as Stefano exposes the kinship between the seemingly villainous Invisibles and the supposedly heroic GIA, he introduces an element of homophobia into their perplexing relationship. While the intelligence agency's bullying pursuit of the alien initiates is a powerful metaphor for the blind persecution of the unconventional by those who adhere to a fictive norm, the depiction of the Invisibles as a gang of predatory dandies is potentially troubling. The GIA agents may be portrayed as comically aggressive men who speak in a nervous, formalized code to one another (when they speak to each other at all), but it is the Invisibles who giddily prey on the socially disenfranchised and coax them into joining their team. Such a notion of homosexual proselytizing is absurd today, and it's difficult to imagine that Joseph Stefano was insensitive enough to give it credit in 1964; perhaps it's simply his way of making us feel uncomfortable without really understanding why (the homosexuality is, after all, quite underplayed), and of emphasizing the absurdity of suppressing one's true nature no matter whose wrath displaying it openly might invoke. Nevertheless, many of the characterizations are stereotypically gay (Mrs. Clarke's secretary, Oliver Fair, is particularly fey), and whole sequences rely on our unease with gay sexuality (the alien inoculation process, in which the recruits lie face down as the creatures mount their backs, is only the most overt example). Whatever the intent and no matter how indelicate it may seem today, this subtextual element helps make "The Invisibles" as audacious an episode as Stefano's "Don't Open Till Doomsday," which also managed to sneak subversively sexual content past network censors and audiences alike. "Daddy doesn't know I'm out" indeed....

"The Invisibles" pulls off its daring premise with the help of a superlative cast and crew. Don Gordon's tense portrayal of Spain is among the series' finest performances: he perfectly captures the dim unease of a man who's only marginally aware of his role in a witch-hunt, and who has submersed himself so deeply in deception that his true identity has been all but abandoned. In spite of this, Gordon's recreation of the pain of Spain's broken ankle is so nauseatingly effective that we are forced to feel pity for the man, no matter what we know of his actions; it's a complex performance that's difficult to forget. George MacReady also brings his unique brand of cultured hysteria to the role of Governor Hillmond, and his aforementioned alien-induced rapture is a high point of the film. Neil Hamilton is equally fine as the unctuous General Clarke, and Richard Dawson's campy Oliver Fair adds an unexpected vibrancy to the episode's latter half. Such vibrancy can also be credited to Gerd Oswald's crackling direction, which, as usual, complements Stefano's story beautifully; his fluid tracking shots and frenetic pacing help give "The Invisibles" its unusually edgy tone. Attentive viewers are also rewarded with some evocativly symbolic character names, many of which are so deliberately unsubtle that Stefano surely intended for them to make us laugh. "Spain" plays on the word "pain" (a sensation the agent is well acquainted with by film's end), while "Planetta" is simply a variation of the Latin "Planeta," meaning "to wander." Other designations are more plainly indicative of distinguishing personality traits: the cuckolded, powerless Clarke is saddled with a traditionally female name, "Hillary" (which also echoes "Hillmond"), while his wife's effeminate secretary is "fair." Other names aren't as easy to decipher: Genero is assigned by the Invisibles to the "Sforza Water and Power Plant," with "Sforza" being the Latin for "to force." Is Stefano implying something significant here, or is he simply having fun at the expense of over-eager viewers willing to take such symbols too seriously? (A final Latin phrase here—mea culpa.)

It's safe to say that Stefano is up to something more subversive than obfuscation for its own sake, however. Perhaps by inviting us to uncover such purposely vague "clues" and feel a certain sense of superiority for having done so, Stefano is making us experience firsthand the sterile appeal of the hidden and obscure that drives this episode. It's a frightening thought that makes this sublimely uncomfortable film truly sobering, for it implies that we may be more susceptible to the dizzying subterfuge at work in "The Invisibles" than we would ever care to admit. Touché, Mr. Stefano.

—MH

Nightmare
Directed by John Erman; written by Joseph Stefano. Cast: Ed Nelson (Col. Luke Stone); James Shigeta (Major Wong); Martin Sheen (Pvt. Arthur Dix); Bill Gunn (Lt. James Willowmore); David Frankham (Capt. Terrence Brookman); Bernard Kates (Lt. Ezra Kruge); John Anderson (Ebonite Interrogator); Whit Bissell (Commanding General). Broadcast December 2, 1963. Story: An apparent war between Earth and the planet Ebon sets the stage for torture, betrayal, and paranoia among six human prisoners, their Ebonite captors—and the startling force behind the struggle.

This well-known episode is typical of the series: an embarassment of riches in virtually every sense, it offers such a feast of ideas and achievements that any attempt at a complete breakdown would result in just that. While the delineation of motif, structure, and technical aspects (a useful method of analysis) can take on a rote "verse-chorus-verse" predictability that bleeds attention from something truly masterful, reducing focus to a few stand-out elements seems a pale response in the face of such abundance—never moreso than with "Nightmare." There is no easy way out, then: a fitting dilemma, considering the no-win terror posed by the narrative at hand; another simultaneously enthralling and repellent ordeal within The Outer Limits.

Among other things, we are asked: can anything be learned from systematized violence and deception? What remains when duty and patriotism are necessarily cast aside? Offering more questions than answers (a series specialty, to be sure), "Nightmare" raises political doubt, but it is more a sociological reckoning than a pre-Watergate lesson in mistrust. It is, as well, true to its title—coercion, guilt, capitulation, and the gut-aching power of fear are prominent here, as they are in the sweaty thrashings of adult bad dreams. And gargoyles: the Ebonites, led by Anderson's light-depleting interrogator, appear to have fallen from the high stone battlements of a Gothic cathedral, or, more accurately, from a monster-filled childhood fright dream. It's complete, then: the nightmares of social reality and of dreamtime, of adulthood and youth. Faced with that, the regressive Private Dix makes pathetic sense. You might want your mom, too.

Of methodical design, this story could have easily succumbed to contrivance if not for Stefano's careful blending of emotional and intellectual impact. The set-up—a Unified Earth army of multi-ethnic composition, cooperating for survival—was not the hackneyed devise that would later plague episodic television ("Approaching warp five, Captain..."); Stefano adds the element to his usual heady brew of psychoanalysis and existential dread. The result is a vigorous exploration of the limits of group allegiance, of imposed vs. "natural" identity, and the confounding, difficult struggle to trust across (or within) boundaries. That the characters represent the subdivisions of Earth is an artful and meaningful stroke, not an arbitrary attempt to appease viewer demographics, and no pat conclusions are offered; we are left knowing only that it is hard—to fight, to trust and obey, to cooperate. It's no consolation that pertinent authority (here, the military) is so entrenched in antagonistic role-playing that an accidental attack becomes the platform for experimentation in soul-conquering. Ebon struck first, perhaps, but Stefano suggests that fragile and defensive Earth, too predictably, struck worse. Although it's tempting to view "Nightmare" as a diatribe against the administrative abuse of power, such a reading is simplistic and belongs more to the cynical current era than to the time of the show's production. Rather, as Stefano often insinuated, our humanity defines our institutions (at least as much as the opposite is true); alternately glorious and profane experience and intent are reflected as culture. Such conventions, the "unreal games" the Control Voice speaks of, are not inherently benevolent or evil, though we humans can be (sometimes concurrently, as Nelson's stolid, mistaken Col. Stone makes clear). It's a bad dream, then: decry these customs at your own risk—you'll spoil the whole game.

This has been called the show's finest hour; it's the debut of noted television director Erman, a Daystar executive who followed Leslie Stevens to The Outer Limits with the intention of directing. Stefano, rather inexplicably, didn't care for the finished product; Erman quit the series after "Nightmare", accurately doubting that he'd be given the chance to direct again. Just as inexplicably, Erman badmouthed the episode in lectures given at San Diego State University in the 1970s, bemoaning the small budget and smaller set—one of the show's distinctive features—while generally praising the series' personnel (though, again unaccountably, he has no acclaim for cinematographer John Nickolaus). Disputes aside, the episode remains a masterwork of detail and character. The combination of lighting, make-up, sound effects, and music render the Ebonites among the series' most genuinely alien, and frightening; Anderson's ultimately benevolent Interrogator literally sucks light from the room as he enters the prison compound, with a presence felt as much as observed (an admirable feat in filmed drama). The ensemble cast of Unified Earth POW's succeeds, even when unchecked by their first-time director: the late Gunn, a painter and filmmaker whose Ganja and Hess (1973) is a well-regarded voodoo epic (and a Black American film which manages to avoid the patronizing trappings of its era), tends to overdraw Willowmore, though he never loses the character, or audience sympathy. Sheen, as the repulsive, racist Dix, similarly lets loose with both barrels and still manages to inspire compassion, while the taciturn, frequently underestimated Nelson comes off well as a creature of habit and discipline undone by the madness of his mission. Shigeta, the episode's acting stand-out along with the (literally) oddly-shaded performance of Anderson, makes Wong a subversive of the heart—he recites poetry, a crime unto itself to the militaristic minds controlling the harsh experiment; he's the logical one to be marked for death, given the counter-logic of the situation.

A star turn in a different realm, Dominic Frontiere's bizarre, singular score deserves attention. The composer's contribution to the show as a whole is immeasurable: from the grabby pulse of the opening theme to the uplifting swell of the closing suite, and with every distinctive cue in between, Frontiere gave The Outer Limits an aural character perfectly harmonized with the emblematic visual and thematic style of the show. For "Nightmare", he largely abandoned the orchestral sound he usually employed, utilizing instead an eerie blend of electric guitar, harp, flute, and electronic dirge. The effect is alien and intimidating, and doubtless intended to unnerve; it does so, in spades. When Harry Lubin, an altogether more conventional composer, took over scoring duties for the series' second season, Frontiere's work on this episode seemed to influence Lubin's incidental cues considerably. If he had to crib from somebody, he picked the right musician; it actually lends a thread (granted, a slender one) of consistency between the seasons. Frontiere's work could never be topped, though, and his score for "Nightmare" ranks among his best. It's available on GNP Crescendo Records' compilation recording of music and sound from the show (conceived and produced by Neil Norman, and unfortunately including the banal music from the severely dated episode "The Hundred Days of the Dragon"); to date, it's the only volume in a proposed series. This score was re-used and expanded upon in various later installments, always to good effect.

The questions raised earlier are never answered outright. In The Outer Limits (essentially, Stefano's universe), the speculation is the thing; if it betrays ugliness, it almost always raises hope as well. In "Nightmare", it's painted as the ability to awaken—to end the bad dream, to communicate across a dark void of guile and ignorance, of primitive response and thoughtless custom. The Ebonite Interrogator steps forward and identifies himself: the prospect of reason, driven by the same impulse that spares Wong from execution by his peers. He is not so different from the varied mix of men he is compelled to brutalize (both the torture and the remorse highlight that fact). The nightmare ends when the belligerent charade becomes apparent, and the notion of "alien" takes on an entirely altered meaning—not who, but why. Not "them": rather, us.

—DCH

Corpus Earthling
Directed by Gerd Oswald; written by Orin Borsten (additional material by Joseph Stefano and Lou Morheim). Cast: Robert Culp (Paul Cameron); Salome Jens (Laurie Cameron); Barry Atwater (Jonas Temple); Ken Renard (Landlord); David Garner (Doctor). Broadcast November 18, 1963. Story: After suffering a nasty bump on the head, Dr. Paul Cameron is able to overhear the invasion plans of two inconspicuous, rock-like alien life forms. They take umbrage at his eavesdropping, and make plans accordingly....

For a variety of intriguing reasons, the first season of The Outer Limits was immersed in the language and style of horror films. From its dark, expressionistic cinematography to those (crassly misinterpreted) "bears," the series traded in images and emotions familiar to anyone who's seen films as diverse as Jack Clayton's evocative The Innocents (1961) and the workmanlike Night of the Blood Beast (Bernard Kowalski, 1958). In other words, practically everyone.

In one sense, these gothic trappings allowed the series to pursue complex storylines with little interference from censors or the network; presumably, those who would object to such subversive episodes as "Don't Open Till Doomsday" or "The Bellero Shield" were unfamiliar with anything approaching subtlety in a weekly television show, or found the potent sexual and political undercurrents of these films somehow mitigated by their baroque, underlit and monster-laden settings. Such components also helped to ensure an audience, and managed to draw viewers who may not have ordinarily tuned in to a "serious" drama series. But the horror elements were also central to Joseph Stefano's vision of the series, and its powerful tensions and bizarre, often ambiguous imagery set the tone for a consistent body of work in which the human race struggled with its identity in the face of darkly overwhelming, barely comprehendible forces. Unjustly criticized for catering to adolescents, The Outer Limits in truth appeals to those mature enough to acknowledge the imaginative appeal to be found only in a sense of dread.

Nevertheless, the series didn't deal in genuine horror stories on a regular basis. During its first season, only a handful of episodes were structured as traditional, unambiguous "man vs. monster" stories, and most of those (like "Specimen: Unknown") were among the season's worst. The show thrived instead on more intricate explorations of human nature, and on the horrific and admirable potential found therein. What to make then of "Corpus Earthling"? Still very much in the Stefano vein of moral cautionary tale, this episode is also a horror film that throws the characteristic hopefulness of the series into serious question; it's a disturbing detour about which even Stefano had misgivings (perhaps not surprisingly). This isn't to imply that "Corpus Earthling" is simplistic or without subtleties, because it's not. It is, however, a terrifying reminder that while we as a species may encompass extraordinary impulses along with all those baser ones, there's no guarantee that we can access them and make ourselves somehow more whole—or less vulnerable to mysterious voices.

The horror, at least to the characters involved, is all in Paul Cameron's "defective," metal-plated head. The alien conversations he overhears are as classically delusional (with their implications of control and incitement to suicide) as his reactions—and the reactions of his wife Laurie and her colleague Jonas Temple—are predictable; Jonas puts it most bluntly when he tells Paul that he's suffering from "a kind of hallucination that's not at all uncommon." But such equivocation fails to put Paul at ease, and, fully believing he's heard what he thinks he's heard yet also realizing that it's quite impossible, he understandably begins to doubt his sanity. Despite Jonas and Laurie's assurances that he's only suffering from exhaustion (and the first half of the episode abounds with such assurances), Paul begins a downward spiral into a genuine paranoia that ultimately leads to the destruction of everything he cares for.

But what exactly is it that Paul cares for? What do these three characters value most? Perhaps the answers to these question provide the key to Paul's undoing, and to the depth of the horror at play in "Corpus Earthling." As scientists, Paul, Laurie and Jonas are thoroughly grounded in the rational world: they believe only what they can prove empirically. Yet Laurie and Jonas, despite their seemingly endless prodding, heating and microscopic observation of rocks, have no real affinity for the natural world from which the stones come; they are stiff and rock-like themselves, and seem able only to catalogue their specimens dutifully and hollowly. Paul, a surgeon, seems as incapable of understanding the subtleties of the human system as Laurie and Jonas do of comprehending their precious rocks; he makes reference to the "iron constitution" of his latest patient, who has unexpectedly survived a delicate operation with little or no surgical intervention from Paul. These three are stubbornly devoid of any interest or trust in the non-rational world, and it eludes and confounds them completely. To compensate, they choose either to ignore this realm or explain it away in rational terms—Temple even manages (rather miraculously) to hit upon the exact nature of the alien beings in this way, a common science fiction trope that's used to wonderfully ironic effect here. It's this fundamental absence that ultimately leads them to their downfall, for what Paul experiences flies in the face of their values. In refusing to believe his own ears and go beyond his dependence on the explicable, Paul is unable to categorize what he's overheard in any concrete, familiar way. His only option is to flee the familiar altogether, along with Laurie, and their destination proves to be more potentially liberating than he could ever hope for—or that any travel brochure could ever promise.

It's significant that the two seek refuge in Mexico. Primarily because of its religious intensity and strong indigenous traditions, Mexico is often interpreted by foreign observers as a place where superstition reigns; it is, in that sense, a land of voices where Paul's "affliction" is less cut and dried. Whether or not you choose to accept such a view of Mexico is beside the point within the context of "Corpus Earthling," where the country is made to embody a sense of magic and mystery and embrace the non-rational in a way that Paul, Laurie and Jonas could never comprehend. (Thankfully, this is imparted with subtlety and respect, and the episode never sinks to stereotypes or gross generalizations.) This point is driven home by the fires the landlord tends near the cabaña he rents to Paul and Laurie. Though he burns the fires to protect himself from the possessed (wisely, it turns out), the landlord never indicates that he has any better an understanding of the mystical forces at work than do the North Americans—he simply accepts their existence. When Paul inquires if the fires are a ritual, he reveals an arrogant lack of acceptance on his part that also belies a stunning naïvete about the place of ritual in his own life. What, after all, are his elaborate preparation of the injection he gives to Laurie and Jonas' constant poking at the Bunsen-burner oven other than (largely ineffectual) rituals? Paul is compelled to fit the landlord's actions into some sort of rational context just as he himself has been labeled insane, and when Laurie is possessed by the second alien he cannot bring himself to address the inexplicable threat to his wife and come to her aid. Instead, he abandons her in panic and terror. When the landlord finally tracks Paul down and convinces him to help Laurie, his supplication is the single selfless act in the entire episode.

Yet it's too late for Paul to save Laurie or Jonas, and when they perish he's left with nothing. It's only coincidence that his actions also spare the earth from an apparent alien invasion; such salvation changes little for him anyway. Paul's slaying of Laurie makes for one of the darkest and most painful Outer Limits finales, and the fact that his loss could have been avoided had he been able to trust his instincts makes it that much harder. Those instincts, however, were clearly corrupted by his hyperrational inability to comprehend—or at least acknowledge—the otherworldly conversations he was privy to. In another culture (Mexico, perhaps), Paul's ability to hear such voices might have been viewed as a gift, and made him a prophet or hero—or at least allowed him to remain a husband. Instead, he ends up as far from God or Laurie as he can possibly be.

The tight, four-character structure of "Corpus Earthling" is unusual for The Outer Limits, and, unlike many episodes, puts the focus more on the actors than on the writing (which is excellent and understated). Fortunately, the casting choices are appropriate and even inspired. Robert Culp, the lead actor to make the most appearances on the show, is convincing as Paul Cameron, and is unafraid to appear genuinely vulnerable and terrified. Culp makes Paul's paranoia truly oppressive, and he's completely, frighteningly believable as a man unconvinced of his own sanity. It's a strong performance that's uncomfortable to watch, and Culp should to be commended for his daring understanding of the role. Salome Jens and Barry Atwater are equally impressive, and Gerd Oswald deftly exploits their natural coldness and distance as actors. Atwater is particularly effective in the scene in which Jonas Temple is taken over by the alien creature: his painful, helpless writhing ranks with Don Gordon's agonized depiction of a broken ankle in "The Invisibles" and Bruce Dern's pathetic death-shrieks in "The Zanti Misfits" (The Outer Limits seemed to place an unusual emphasis on the verisimilitude of mock pain during this period). The oddest bit of casting is that of Ken Renard as the Mexican landlord. The actor (who went on to appear in True Grit in 1969) is effective and dignified in the role, but he appears more Carib than Mestizo. This would hardly be out of the question and it's not a distraction, but it does lead one to wonder why a Latino actor wasn't chosen for the role.

Oswald's direction and Conrad Hall's photography are, as usual, exemplary. The low angle shots in Temple's lab and later in the cabaña are straight out of classic 1930's horror cinema, yet also resemble the odd, off-kilter perspective of comic book frames. Too, the camera takes on a "rock's eye-view" at certain points that helps zero in on Paul's horrific realization that something is terribly wrong. Borsten and Oswald add a subtle touch midway through the film as Paul and Laurie sit at home in the dark, waiting for some sort of imminent disaster. The setting gives the distinct impression that the two have been in the same spot since daylight, and have in their fear and tension let the sun set on them. The scene heightens the paranoia quotient considerably, and despite what we may have heard in the lab, we also begin to doubt Paul's emotional stability. The rock creatures who harass him are, in a way, atypical of other Outer Limits aliens: they're conniving, bigoted and utterly without sympathy or redeeming qualities (except perhaps that they're relatively easy to destroy). The squid-like beings are more representative of the series, however, in that they're peripheral to the story, and the Project Unlimited puppet design is fittingly nondescript and invests the aliens with a low-key menace perfect for the episode.

"Corpus Earthling" deals in a kind of horror that The Outer Limits rarely explored. Though larger social issues loom, as they inevitably do in all quality episodes, they're much less tangible and feel further off; this lack of a moral foothold makes the episode all the more disturbing. Paul Cameron and the other characters are as effectively cut off from their societal and cultural anchors as they are their natural instincts, and the implication that this is no less than the human condition is terrifying. After viewing the episode, one can't help but recall Paul's desperate lament early on: "I've been trying to push this out of my head, but I can't...." Push all you want—"Corpus Earthling" isn't going anywhere.

—MH

Copyright © 1998–2001 Mark Holcomb & David C. Holcomb. All rights reserved.