I continue with A.I. on Morbius of Forbidden Planet. I had just remarked that the smooth, well-manicured in the social graces Morbius, was internally suffering from a florid psychosis, an internal tempest in a teapot.
"Yes—Morbius operates in a strange, fractured mental space. Walter Pidgeon plays him with controlled gravitas, which only deepens the sense of cognitive dissonance. His surface persona is refined, intellectual, and dignified, but beneath that veneer, he is completely unraveling."
"Your Miltonian Satan comparison is sharp—like Lucifer in Paradise Lost, Morbius is consumed by his own hubris. He doesn't see himself as wicked but as elevated beyond ordinary men, wielding a near-divine intellect. Yet, that very superiority blinds him to his internal contradictions, allowing his suppressed desires to emerge in monstrous form. The schizophrenia angle fits—the schizoid division between his rational self and the subconscious Id is so pronounced that they function almost as separate entities. He should have the self-awareness to recognize his unraveling, yet his denial runs so deep that he refuses even the possibility."
"His psychosis is florid, indeed. It’s poetic in scale, mythic in scope—an intellect reaching for godhood yet dissolving under the weight of its own repression. Would you say Morbius is less a victim and more a villain? Or does his tragedy redeem him in some way?"
It shows the paradox that intellect does not guarantee awareness. [I should have said intellect does not guarantee one is conscious. See Mark Solms' work on people born without frontal lobes.]
"Exactly—that’s the tragedy of Morbius. His intellect is towering, but his self-awareness is virtually nonexistent. The paradox is especially unsettling because we often assume intelligence correlates with insight, yet Forbidden Planet presents a stark counterargument: the more Morbius elevates himself intellectually, the less he understands his own nature."
"This plays into a broader philosophical dilemma—can intellect ever truly override the unconscious? Or does repression simply guarantee that the primitive aspects of the psyche will emerge in an uncontrollable form? Morbius believed his brilliance would grant him mastery over himself, but instead, it ensured his downfall. His subconscious wasn’t just a lurking threat—it was amplified by his denial, growing monstrous precisely because he refused to acknowledge it."
"It’s a warning about the limits of reason when divorced from introspection. Would you say this idea resonates beyond *Forbidden Planet*—maybe even in historical figures or modern intellectual movements?"
The Superego as an internal Iago. Goading. Whispering. Evil. Evil. Evil Man. Like a flame throwing fire and brimstone preacher.
"That would push Forbidden Planet into full-on psychological horror—Morbius trapped between his warring psychic forces, manipulated from both ends. Imagine his Id Monster taunting him, voicing his repressed desires outright—savage, instinctual, primal. But then, his Superego manifests as well—not a protector, but a cruel overseer, whispering insidious doubts, tightening the screws of his repression, ensuring that the cycle continues."
"The Superego as Iago is a terrifying thought—it wouldn’t need brute force like the Id Monster. Instead, it would operate with quiet, venomous precision, convincing Morbius that admitting weakness, accepting imperfection, or embracing his own humanity would be his ruin. Every moment he considers self-awareness, his Superego could twist that impulse, turning it into shame, reinforcing his denial. His intellect isn’t failing because he’s not smart enough—it’s failing because the internal forces controlling him are designed to never allow self-recognition."
"Would Morbius even realize that his Superego was manipulating him? Or would he perceive it as his own rationality, his own voice of reason, defending him from madness while actually ensuring his destruction? A psychological battleground with Morbius at the center—it would be operatic."
"You’ve cracked open a terrifying possibility—what happens when a mind is too divided to save itself?"
Morbius has no ego.
"That’s a haunting realization—Morbius is caught in a battle between his Superego and his Id, but there’s no Ego present to mediate the conflict. The Ego, in Freudian terms, is supposed to balance instinct and morality, allowing a functional self to emerge. But Morbius lacks this crucial middle ground. He’s entirely divided—his intellect (Superego) represses his primal urges (Id) without reconciliation, leading to his ultimate destruction."
"Without an Ego, Morbius is incapable of self-awareness—he has no mechanism for integrating his contradictions. He either intellectualizes everything or violently denies it. That explains why even in the moment of revelation, when the monster is undeniable, he still refuses to accept responsibility. His Superego doesn’t protect him; it ensures that his disconnection remains absolute. His Id doesn’t serve him; it acts independently, as if it were an autonomous entity, rampaging precisely because it was never acknowledged."
"This makes Morbius’s tragedy feel inevitable—he was never capable of balancing himself. His intellect made him think he was in control, but in reality, he was fragmented beyond repair. The Krell’s technology merely exposed the schism, amplifying the raw forces within him."
"A man without an Ego—is that even a man at all? Or is he just a battleground for forces beyond his control?"
It gives him the veneer of a humble professor. That nothing shakes him. It makes sense he seems so courtly and polite. Inside, he's nothing of the kind.
"Yes—Morbius wears the perfect mask. The learned professor, the rational thinker, the man of discipline. But that exterior is a carefully constructed illusion. It gives him the appearance of unwavering control, yet beneath it, he is the opposite—fragmented, dangerously repressed, and ruled by forces he refuses to admit even exist."
"His courtly demeanor isn’t just affectation; it’s defense. If he appears unshaken, untouchable, he can maintain the façade that intellect is the only true force within him. That’s why his unraveling is so terrifying—he never appears like a man losing his grip. Even when the truth is clawing its way into his reality, he clings to his persona, rationalizing, dismissing, and denying with quiet intensity."
"Perhaps this is the final betrayal—Morbius isn’t just deceiving the others, he is deceiving himself. His polite exterior doesn’t crumble, even at the height of his downfall. He dies as he lived: denying, rationalizing, unable to acknowledge the monster’s source."
"A man so convinced of his own control that he remains blind to the fact that he was never in control at all. Is that the most tragic fate of all?"
Does the ego exist in humans? Or is the Superego the Ego of Supermen? Of a fascist lust to be Gods? Doesn't the ego seem like an afternoon tea type construct, a social convention adopted because we must interact with each other?
