The world being what it is, it feels a trifle irresponsible to spend so much ink on something that isn't a desperate defense of dying democracy. At the same time, there is such a thing as trying to enjoy life, if for no other reason than one's own mental health. There are times when the pit of despair is just too despairing. With that in mind, here's some Doctor Who. . .
Robot Revolution – 6/10
I will probably never be reconciled to Disnified Doctor Who. The intrusive music, the bloated, virtually
unrecognizable theme. . .the cartoony robots, the spaceships right out of Toy Story, the ultra self conscious and cloying attempts at contrived whimsy – someone really wants it to look like some long-lost Micky Mouse cartoon, and it makes me want to pull my hair out. That’s how it’s going to be from here on in.
Which is too bad, because beneath all that crap is a decent story. Once they get to the rebel base, and the Doctor starts doing his Doctor thing, it’s not that bad. Killer robots and underground rebellions - parallels with Terminator (or Captain Power and the Soldiers of the Future maybe? Nah. . . ), notwithstanding, it’s a pretty straightforward upward revolt against the forces of dominant evil, for which I’ve always been a sucker. In the hands of a different set designer, background musician, not hell-bent on making everything so damned cute, it might have been kinda cool.
And of course, there’s Russel T. Davies, who doesn’t know how not to be sanctimonious. Platitudes are delivered with all the subtlety of a peppermint buttplug. Of course the Doctor can’t just say “let’s go home” at the end; he needs to rattle on about “destiny” and display the emotional intelligence of an eight-year old, whom the program is trying very hard to appeal to. Between that and the tiresome beginning, the decent story is kind of sandwiched. But I suppose I should be grateful that it’s there, and hasn’t been completely overrun with cotton candy just yet, despite the best efforts of the bean counters.
Lux – 7/10
Okie doke – since Doctor Who is a Disney franchise now, it was only a matter of time before it got its very own Who Framed Roger Rabbit. Credit where it’s due, it is immensely clever. It’s fun and exciting, and it’s a blast to listen to Gatwa spout technobabble. As the Doctor and Belinda have to almost literally tear down the fourth wall to escape their predicament, it becomes, probably inevitably, the single most meta episode ever.
I have mixed feelings about meta things. They can be mind-blowing or indulgent, largely depending on the execution. Lux falls somewhere in between, a cute little in-joke that is amusing, but falls well short of what the possibilities allow. Davies chose to spoof the fanbase (not without affection) rather than get into anything truly metaphysical. I suppose we’re meant to recognize ourselves and chuckle – yes, yes, I know I’m amongst the worst – but I gotta say, if the Doctor himself appeared in my living room, I’d rather talk about the secrets of the universe than gush about. That said, I probably would not have so helpfully recognized the solution like they did – you know, it being completely arbitrary and all.
Disappointing how there are no musings on the immortality of fictional characters – how they don’t really die as long as their fictions are remembered. Maybe that would be too meta.
Funny how these meta-fans criticize Davies’ plot holes – on some level he must be aware of them. Alas, he chooses not to fill them. Fortunately, they’re not so egregious here.
No, what’s truly egregious is that bloody Murray Gold muzak, which is more treacly, intrusive, cliched, overwrought manipulative, and damned irritating than ever. Whether its schmaltzy violins or tinkly pianos or blaring horns obliterating the natural mood, it makes several scenes all but unwatchable. It has utterly ruined the main theme. He clearly wants to be Danny Elfman, but Danny Elfman is not the one to emulate. Besides which, there is appropriateness to purpose: the raging timpanis of Basil Paledorus are great for Conan, the martial marches of Akira Ikifube are great for Godzilla, the Wagnerian blasts of John Williams are great for Star Wars as are James Horner for all its imitators, melodramatic space operas all, in the almost literal sense: none of these would work for the altogether more cerebral Doctor Who. My God, could someone turn him down?
The Well - 8/10
Right-o, here’s what we’re going to do for the peace of mind of all parties concerned: let’s just ignore the pre-credit scenes of all stories from here on in. Just pretend they don’t exist because they all routinely suck. Then, we can get on to the real story, which so far has been pretty good.
The Well is definitely a win for style -over substance – but what style! A spooky dark planet with a 
mystery to solve, and a massively high body count to go with it. We haven’t had this kind of out-and out space-slasher since, when, Oxygen? If the story is more basic than it appears to be, and its connection with Midnight tenuous at best, the atmosphere is a triumph, dark, tense, and at times, genuinely scary. At least until Murray Gold’s shrieky string section kicks in, diffusing the tension like a leaf blower to a sand-sculpture. Ye Gods, can we please bring back Segun Akinola? At least he respected Delia Derbyshire’s theme!
Credit must go to co-writer Sharma Angel Walfall presumably injecting some guts into the proceedings.
Lucky Day 2/10
For the first time in forty years - in forever really – I skipped the intro. I can’t do it anymore, sorry. I should have skipped the episode. I did skip large segments of it.
Pity about Conrad. I liked him. I suppose we were supposed to. He was more than a bit of a buffoon, but I was attracted to his burning curiosity and open mindedness – qualities I admire. I thought he’d have made a good companion, and yes, I thought he and Ruby made a cute couple. I suppose that’s what’s supposed to have given the story its dramatic punch. Instead, I felt it to be more of a bait-and-switch, following an agonizing sixteen minutes of set up.
I suppose I should be grateful that the schmaltz was undermined in such brutal fashion, but that’s not what I wanted. I didn’t begrudge Ruby her boyfriend; I just didn’t want to be stuck in an elevator with them. And for God’s sake, I didn’t want her suffer. It was squirmy and awkward and uncomfortable, and didn’t at all make up for the torturous sixteen minutes. It felt mean.
And how about this throwaway bit of dialogue:
“Was he [the Doctor] your boyfriend?”
Notice: once again, it’s entirely the sexuality of the character/ actor that determines whether the Doctor
fucks his companions. NOT because he’s an ALIEN!!!! Not because he’s more than A THOUSAND YEARS OLD!!!!! No one ever brings that up. Why tf not?
Anyway, if Pete McTighe’s script offered a much needed take down of conspiracy fantasists and online post-trutherism, well that’s great, but it also made for miserable television.
The Story and the Engine – 8/10
Holy shit, did he really name his ship “Nexus”? Bugger all, that was a key term from MY latest fiction! Bloody hell, it was the title! Granted, it was always a tentative title, but now I’ll have to come with another one.
But onto the story: we are taken to the heart of bustling Lagos, where an interdimensional spider-shaped vessel fueled by fiction is disguising as a barbershop. It’s an inspired, almost brilliant idea that makes for immensely entertaining television. Here’s the thing: I rather like stories, and have always been a sucker for stories about stories. So something like this has me in from the beginning. It’s rather reminiscent of “Rings of Akhnaten” in terms of this theme (another, much maligned, tale I just melted for): some big malignant entity craves stories, and who knows more stories than the Doctor? I suppose I could quibble with the Doctor’s contention that a night in the life of Belinda is more compelling than his adventures with Cybermen and Ice Warriors – it ain’t.
A more serious quibble might be that there are altogether too many mini-climaxes, so many long, drawn out triumphalist speeches underneath Murray Gold’s ear-splitting score - and I cannot emphasise enough, for the fifth time in a row, how much this hackwork ruins the episodes (who knows how they might have been under a more sensitive artist). It feels like the episode spends nearly a third of its running time ending itself. When things are going so well, what’s the hurry?
I’m also not thrilled about the Doctor hobnobbing with “gods” – we’re in full mythological territory now, but then again, we have been for quite some time. The abandonment of rationalism is something I deeply mourn.
Interstellar Song Contest 7/10
Argh! It looks like music won’t be getting any better between now and 2925, and I’ll be stuck with drum machines forever. Argh!
Alas, alak, if we could side-step the episode for a moment, I wonder if some audience members who balk at values espoused in episodes from fifty years ago might similarly bat an eyelid at the presumption inherent in this on that human culture, to say nothing of Western pop-culture, will not only survive but remain fundamentally unchanged for nine hundred years. I grudgingly accept that to mention it is to rather curmudgeoningly overlook the (undeniable) joys of the story, but I can’t help myself: it is a grumble I have with virtually every show of this nature, not just Disney-Who. Granted, it is impossible to predict the future, and not the purpose of every story to do so, but disappointing how few even bother to try.
Ce serra, the story is otherwise a hoot, mandatory sentimental drek (as probably mandated by Head Office) notwithstanding. I was tickled by the idea of some scruffy rocker type hijacking the futuristic Euro-vision, and the actor Freddie Fox’s superficial resemblance to a young Thomas Gabriel Fischer even more so, but it is probably for the best that the story did not go down this road. Besides which, the character states quite unequivocally that his favourite music is pop: I choose to believe that he meant it and was not just making an incredibly morbid pun. I would be willing to bet that far more mass murders have been committed by pop fans than rockers, but am in no mood to compile that data.
Back to the point, I was distracted from this train of thought by what I thought might have been the biggest onscreen body count in – nevermind Doctor Who, in television history. I’m glad it wasn’t – the spectacle of a hundred thousand dead human beings (and other species) floating around like so much glitter was truly nasty.
As per usual, schmaltzy violins ensure we never break out into autonomous emotion, and we are somewhat encouraged to believe that a song can halt a world-wide corporate genocide. Don’t get me wrong, I believe in the power of Song – just not that one. That, and how tacky is it to suggest our pop-culture habits have the power to influence such things? Sheesh, they'll be saying Rock concerts can cure Third-World hunger next. . .
Whatever. Gatwa’s a blast, Sethu’s earned my respect, and if I don’t particularly like these song contests, at least I take comfort know that in that space station’s museum, there is probably an exhibit for Lordi.
(Yes, yes, this isn’t Eurovision, but don’t YOU get technical on me!)
Wish World – 5/10
One of these days, I will avoid the spoilers.
I think I managed to miss one of them, but it was so damned obvious it was hardly a surprise. The other one might have been, but I’ll never know. I’m takin’ it all in stride now. It’s almost like the big reveals don’t work anymore. We’ve come a long way from the time Derek Jacobi revealed himself as the Master. For one thing, they’re all practically unrecognizable, often sharing not much more than the namesake of the originals (I think only Davros got through unscathed). That, and it’s almost become routine. Who’s left I wonder? The Black Guardian most obviously. But who else? The Meddling Monk? Morbius? The Graf Vinder K?
How is this new reinvention? Well, Archie Panjabi is a delectable Rani. She drips evil, and megalomania, and even somehow delivers her lines like Kate Omara used to, even though her latent sexiness is miles away from Omara’s virtually robotic psychopath. Possibly we’re meant to think of Michelle Gomez’s Missy instead, though I doubt Missy would have the patience for. . .whatever the fuck this is.
Damned if I know what she’s up to strutting about in that celestial Fred-Flinstone palace. Something about getting all the energies aligned so that the Seventh Son of Seventh Son (no Iron Maiden in the soundtrack? Wasted opportunity!) becomes the Wish Master god who creates a world only so that it can implode and crack open the fabric of reality and unleash Omega. . . but she’s failed to notice a differently-abled encampment underneath who will doubtless be key to unravelling her plans.
I’ve almost stopped paying attention. There are so many disparate elements – Conrad, baby Poppy, two Ranis, the Wish God baby, the wheelchair Underground, a really big clock – I can’t tell you how it all adds-up, and pretty past caring because I’ve learned from hard experience that it probably won’t add up. None of it will matter because none of it ever does. The Rani will go “blah blah blah *something bad happens”. The Doctor will go “blah blah blah *something good happens” and it will end with long sentimental goodbyes amidst an ear-splitting violin assault. Destroying the world yet again will have no lasting consequences. It won’t make any sense because it never does.
Last year’s emergence of Sutekh was at least cool. This is just a blob. I don’t know why the Rani wants to bring back Omega. I don’t know how Conrad reading “Dr. Who” stories to the world every night contributes to the her plan. Nor did I catch how her indulging Conrad’s retrograde fantasies serves her purpose; something about. . . oh why bother?
Taking the piss out of post-war American suburban utopia is old hat. It’s been done a hundred times from Stepford Wives to Wandavision. It reeks of complacency and smugness. It’s easier to satirize a long-dead social illusion from some seventy-five years ago than to turn the mirror on one’s own society. As for the mental slavery – the illusory world of false memories, false histories, and false contentment, well it all seems a retread of “Lie of the Land”. And we all know how badly that particular Hindenberg crashed and burned. . .
Still; breaking through illusions, confronting doubts, defying the gods and thinking the unthinkable in defiance of the State are themes near and dear to my heart (why then am I not a bigger Matrix fan? Long story. . .). “Tables don’t do that” is a kinda neat moment. It made me long for a longer story which could unfold at a more natural pace and wasn’t so obviously a set-up for something that had been foreshadowed since last year. As is, it doesn’t amount to anything: the Rani breaks the illusion for him, which makes me wonder why she bothered putting him through it in the first place. (and of course we're meant to think "What was that dude on TV?" Oh god, more cryptic foreshadowing? We'll probably have to wait 'till the end of next year to find out grand canonically shattering moment that's going to be. . .)
Overall, I get the sense that there’s nothing new here, just the usual overblown setup to the traditional end-of-season letdown. I can’t get excited because I know nothing of consequence will happen. Magic will save the day and none of it will have mattered. Call me cynical, but hey, I’ve learned to recognize patterns.
(And just suppose the next one, miracle of miracles, manages to deliver? Will that change my outlook? Probably not. A really good episode would have me caring what came next. A good follow-up may compensate for a poor build-up, but cannot retroactively fix its flaws).
Reality War – 0/10
Right, we’re done.
