In the end, Peter Hudson made a dozen appearances on Highlander, including showing up in five out of six season finales.
Hello. This is James. A voice from the past. It's been a long time! Whatever that means for someone like you, who would seem to be free of it. Time, I mean. Who can range unfettered across the pages of History, and rise up laughing after suffering mortal wounds. Or for me, come to that. Because, like it or not, understand it or not, you have only once been sure that I was finished, and that was the very first time, when my dear cousin, Joe, sent me spinning off the back of that boat into the sea. And you all thought I was gone for good. It was understandable. In other circumstances I would have called it human error, but in your case I don't feel justified. It's true they found my body down the coast. They cleaned me up and even gave me my last rites, or so they thought.
I can still see your face as you turned and recognised me again, the dust from my tombstone eddying around you, the sledgehammer poised for another strike. You had to prove I was dead, because you were so sure that I wasn't immortal. If I was really back, then the simple division of the world into recognisable mortals and immortals was thrown into question, the narrowing of the numbers of the powerful, ever fewer and ever stronger, down to the last, the one, would be jeopardized, YOUR POWER, MacLeod, would be undermined. And do you know what I saw in your eyes at that moment, one of the moments of my existence I have most cherished until today? I saw fear.
Later, when I lured you once again onto holy ground to finish you, once and for ever, I made a grave error. I underestimated the desperate strength that fear gave you. Your force was doubled as you rose up and ran me down, sent your blade sliding between my ribs towards. my heart. And then you hesitated. Even as I felt myself slipping away, I noticed it. And I knew you were asking yourself, "Should I take his head? This mortal I've found so hard to kill? Should I draw the sword that lies concealed behind me, so close it feels within me, and strike off that blond head, strike the light from those unsmiling eyes forever, and wait for the quickening I cannot believe will come? Then at least I will be sure."
Why didn't you do it, MacLeod? Was it foolish pride? Believing that if you, Duncan MacLeod, saw to it that I was dead then dead I must be, and for ever?
Or was it a terrible knowledge, growing inside you like a dark flower, even as you heard my rasping breath, that there could be no quickening, no sudden surge of raw power shuddering through your frame, but that I would be back? I think so, Duncan—I can call you Duncan, can't I? The last time I asked you, you didn't answer me—Deep in my soul I know it to be true.
There is a very fundamental difference between us, Duncan, and its repercussions are not, I think, those that most would expect. Let us get back to fundamentals. You are, in your way, a holy man. That's why you high-tailed it off to that little monastery to look for inner strength. But I, too, am a holy man in my way. My battle against your is for the soul of humanity. The experiences we have shared over the years have taught me what that vitally important difference is:
You are a prisoner.
You are admired, adored, envied for your remarkable powers. I will even admit, that in the beginning my own hatred of you was not devoid of envy. At the start. For hundreds of years you have been a warrior defending what you perceive to be good. And people think "what a gift, to live forever, to have no fear as the brief candle burns down." But I have come to learn the truth, which is that you are trapped. Trapped in time, trapped by time, going only one way, forward, ever forward, with the desires and aspirations of a mortal and the terrible solitude of always losing that which you cherish; and always going on to lose again. You are a man who tries to resist the terrible temptation to look back over his shoulder, searching for a last glimpse of something, someone, you have lost but cannot bear to lose. For ever.
I, on the other hand, who am not immortal in terms that you can understand, by my very mortality can do what you cannot. When I understood this, my envy of you died. I have learned over these years that the true power of immortality can only be attained by those for whom physical death is inevitable. Indeed, this is one of the lessons of the figure of Christ himself.
But access to immortality is a terribly dangerous thing, Duncan, because of the surging power, much greater, much more all-embracing than a quickening. And this is the power of Ahriman. Yes. We now must speak of good and evil. I believe that your brand of good, MacLeod, is limited, and dangerous, and I have shown you why. I have seen terrible things, Duncan, horrors I cannot begin to describe, which you will never know, unless you pass over to the other side, and that, you cannot do. The potential for evil out there, beyond the looking glass, is so huge as to make me deeply fearful, in a way that you have never made me fearful. I have seen Ahriman face to face. I have supped with him and, for a time, he beguiled me, won me over to use me against you and others like you.
And now we come to the reason for this missive. You see, Duncan, I have realised, that though my sentiments concerning immortals, and yourself in particular, were founded on genuine beliefs and were even justified, I was misguided. Far greater evils menace mankind than you. In fact, I have realised that, though you too are misguided and naive, your hostility to Ahriman is a thing of value in the middle-term. For he must be opposed. He must be fought against, overthrown and crushed in the dust if mankind is to have the slightest chance of survival in a civilized world. And that is why, Duncan, I wish to make a truce. We have fought hard and long and I can now admit that I have grown to respect you, despite, perhaps even because of, your weaknesses. I flatter myself to believe that you have a little respect for me, too.
Duncan, we must unite! Bury our hatred and unite to destroy the powers of the black rose, coloured by the blood of the innocent. There has been enough useless killing. In that you are right. If we do not unite, if we squander our forces on mutual hostility, Ahriman's plan will succeed and the planet will plunge into a darkness that even our most pessimistic prophets have not foreseen. Meet me, Duncan, and let us make a plan. I have learned much, and have much to tell. I have been told that you feel the time is come to retire from the battle, to hand your power on to another, just as yours was passed to you so long ago. This is something only you can know. But if you do so, Duncan, then that immortal will be even more vulnerable than you are. Make him come to me, to speak, to learn, to make vows. To conquer Ahriman.
I live in hope.
James
Pants
by Donna Lettow
ASSOCIATE CREATIVE CONSULTANT: Donna Lettow
"Creative Consultant" is a title that's used in television for a member of the writing staff who, for whatever reason, doesn't fit one of the traditionally defined writing jobs. Donna Lettow joined the Highlander staff as Script Coordinator at the beginning of season 3; she was promoted to Associate Creative Consultant at the start of season 6.
Regarding the evolution of "Pants," Donna tells us: "Not every television show has a staff archaeologist, but for seasons 4 through 6, Highlander had its 'Dr. Amy.' Sadly, every summer we would lose Amy for several months, as she went off to the ruins of Pompeii to teach field archaeology techniques... and to attempt to rescue the Immortals we all know are still buried there beneath the ash. Once we got over our initial jealousy of her other life, we missed her terribly, and would mail her story outlines from new episodes, stills from dailies, and occasional bits of foolishness to brighten the lonely nights she spent in a stifling tent with a dim flashlight and no TV. 'Pants' is a story I wrote for Dr. Amy while I was watching the 1996 Summer Olympics and wishing I could share them with her.
INT. JOE'S—DAY
MacLeod and Richie sit at the bar; Dawson's behind it. They're all transfixed by a television suspended from the ceiling at the end of the bar. Forget the blues, we're in Joe's Sports Bar.
MACLEOD
(intense)
Go! Go! Go!
RICHIE
C'mon... c'mon...
(standing)
Come
on!
No one notices Methos enter.
DAWSON
Run, boy! Move your ass!
METHOS
(oblivious to the TV)
Hi, guys.
The guys are oblivious to him, caught up in the race on the TV. They yell and cheer along with the crowd on the telly.
MACLEOD
GO! GO!
METHOS
(to Dawson)
How 'bout a beer?
DAWSON
(to the TV)
Watch it! He's coming up behind you!
METHOS
Ah, it's every man for himself, I see.
He edges past Dawson, begins to draw himself a beer as the race reaches its climax. From the guys' reactions, it's clear they each backed a different runner.
RICHIE
(imaginary high-fives)
Yessss!
DAWSON
Aw, he was robbed!
MACLEOD
(to Dawson)
Okay, Dawson, pay up.
DAWSON
What?
(off MacLeod's look)
Your guy came in second.
MACLEOD
Win, place or show--You know the rules.
Grumbling, Dawson opens the till and fishes out some money he begrudgingly hands to MacLeod.
DAWSON
Don't Spend it all in one place.
A national anthem begins to play. Richie watches the screen, a little starry-eyed.
RICHIE
Now that's what it's all about. You got your flag. You got your song. You got your medal and you're the fastest guy in the world. Life doesn't get any better than this.
Methos takes notice of the TV for the first time.
METHOS
(disinterested)
Watching the Olympics, huh?
RICHIE
(a little irritated)
Don't tell me. Been there, done that, right?
METHOS
(a wry smile)
Well, you could say I'm familiar with the commute between Marathon and Athens.
DAWSON
(grinning)
Don't let him fool you, Richie. I've seen the old Chronicles--this guy had laurel leaves out the whazoo. He's just being humble.
MACLEOD
Humble? Him? That'll be the day.
(Off Methos's feigned look of humility)
You probably wrote those Chronicles yourself.
RICHIE
(to Methos)
Then you should know all about the Olympic Spirit. Brotherhood... teamwork...
METHOS
Bullshit.
(beat)
All this neo-classicist Olympic flame crap is complete and utter bullshit.
(gesturing at the TV)
Petty nationalism, sacrificing your health for a piece of metal--where'd they get this stuff? That's not what it was about at all.
RICHIE
Okay, Mr. Podium-on-Mt. Olympus, what's it all about?
Methos points to the runner on the TV.
METHOS
Pants.
DAWSON
You just lost me.
MACLEOD
Oh, this should be good.
RICHIE
Pants?
METHOS
You heard me. Pants. Trousers. Or more precisely, the lack thereof.
DAWSON
(light bulb goes on)
Ahhh...
RICHIE
So you're telling me the true spirit of the Olympics is not about the "human drama of athletic competition," it's about not wearing pants.
(beat)
Sorry, professor, I'm not buying it.
METHOS
(rolling his eyes)
My, you are young.
(to Dawson)
Explain it to him, Joe. Make sure you use small words.
DAWSON
It's about women, Richie.
MACLEOD
So the entire Olympic movement started as a way to pick up chicks?
METHOS
Absolutely! And it worked brilliantly, too.
(off their dubious looks)
Think about it. You've just run 26 miles. You're a hero! You're hot, your muscles glistening with sweat, your virility hanging down to China, and there you are on the winner's platform in nothing but laurel leaves and a smile.
(beat)
No woman alive could resist that.
(reminiscing, with a smile)
Some days the Vestal Virgins would be so thick, you'd have to beat them off with sticks.
(re the TV)
No, Richie, this is but a pale imitation. Keep your medal, keep your record books, I'll take a priestess of Hera any day.
As Methos walks toward the door to leave--
RICHIE
(to MacLeod and Dawson)
Twenty—six miles? Man, that's gotta chafe.
Consone's Diary
Excerpted from "The Consone Journals
by Anthony De Longis
"OTAVIO CONSONE": Anthony De Longis
Very rarely were parts on Highlander cast for swordfighting ability. Guest stars were cast for their acting chops, in the belief that the skills of our star, swordmaster, and film editors could make the swordfights look good. And quite often they could. But when actor Anthony De Longis, a swordmaster in his own right, appeared as Lyman Kurlow in the second-season episode "Blackmail," everyone saw the difference. The final swordfight in that episode was a stunning showpiece, and Adrian Paul asked to have his extraordinary opponent brought back for a return engagement. The production team was happy to agree, and the writers and producers kept Anthony on their short "wish list," but it was three years before the ideal role was found—and again, it occurred in an unusual way. For as roles were not usually cast with swordfighting ability in mind, neither were scripts usually based on swordfighting styles. But when Anthony came to Head Writer David Abramowitz with a suggestion for a story revolving around the Spanish "Mysterious Circle," at the same time as Adrian Paul was studying flamenco dancing, something clicked.
The "Duende" episode features a number of complex rapier-and- dagger fights which could never have been accomplished without the skills Anthony and Adrian brought to the set. This episode stands out in the memory of many as one of Highlanders finest.
Regarding "Consone's Diary," Anthony De Longis reports:
"When Bill Panzer and Gillian Horvath invited me to contribute to this book I was delighted. I am thrilled to be a part of the Highlander family. I have had a lifelong love affair with the blade and the opportunity to offer my skills as actor and swordsman to the Highlander legacy has been one of the great rewards on my journey.
An Evening at Joe's Page 4