A call to my "biggest" audience. . .

Приветствую товарищи! Доктор Кто так популярен в России?

New Years shrug. . . .

            A long long time ago, I went to a local wrestling match – yeah I did, so sue me. One of the commentators, who must have been one of the organizers’ girlfriends, refused to get excited about any of the goings on in the ring, seeming rather to want to reassure the audience that everyone inside would be okay. Dismissing every one of the performer’s moves with a “That wasn’t so hard,” or “I’ve seen worse” in a sedated, calm voice, may have been an honest appraisal, but did very little to contribute to the excitement of the evening.

            That my friends is how I feel about the first ever Doctor Who New Years special. It tried so very hard and came so tantalizingly close, but like every other episode so far, falls just short, or shoots itself in the foot. How on earth am I supposed to get excited about a Dalek invasion when the Doctor, like aforementioned commentator, keeps telling everything’s going to be just fine? “I’m going to stop them!” and “you’ve always failed before” because “humanity bands together” (ugh "barf,").  She can even block the Dalek’s laser signals now! Maybe I should just go upstairs and get a sandwich then, because there’s clearly nothing to be afraid of here.  

  

               Why not try this for a change:
  (*ahem*)“I don’t know if we’ll get through this Graham. These aren’t the cute little Tsurangas anymore, these are the most evil, most clever, most adaptable, most ruthless, most indestructible, genocidal creatures in the universe!”
A little panic mongering never hurt anyone. . .in a drama. Or a little drama for that matter – for all the sentimental schlock piled on in these episodes, there’s precious little gravitas for any of the fantastical elements – we get the impression that not even the Daleks deserve more than one-liners in this universe. More to the point, the invulnerability of the Doctor and her attendant trash-talking of potential menaces is one of my least favourite tropes of the New Who, one I just wish would go away.

            The oldest baddies in the franchise don’t even get the privilege of a dramatic reveal, the Doctor just mentioning off-hand they were in town. It almost – almost – made me long for the days of Russell T. Davies, who, if nothing else, was at least the master of dramatic reveals (credit where it’s due).

            Nevermind the dramatic reveal, we don’t even get our starting credits. Once again – third time now – the Who theme was considered unworthy. Not playing the Who theme is a bit like performing Handel’s Messiah without the “Hallelujah” chorus, or Hamlet without the “To be or not be” scene. It’s like a wingless butterfly collection. You just don’t do it. And yet, three times now – THREE times – they have. I don’t get it, I don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t.

             Come to think of it, I think I would have been much more forgiving of everything else if they’d just played the friggin’ theme. As I mentioned earlier, I get testy if I don’t get my theme. Who knows – I might have just been happy that the Daleks were back and blowing shit up again. Let’s be fair – that fight with the army trucks was a mighty cool sequence – the best fight scene we’ve had in years. (Just about the only fight scene - of this kind - we've had in years). I should just be happy about that and heap praise and adulation on it, so that maybe the producers will read that and think that’s what the general public wants and give us more. But then it might keep doing all the other stuff as well. . .

Dalek vs. Army Truck windmills. . .

            As was, other things kept creeping in to bug me as well. The Dalek built its own casing out of spare junk it found lying around a warehouse? It really found all it needed to construct levitation devices, surface to air missiles, forcefields and its visual software? The- was it Sheffield? – police really have a Dalek gun lying around their vault? Ninth century armies were really able to take out a Dalek when modern armies couldn’t? Really? 

            So, in summation, I’ve spent most of every episode of the current era waiting for “the cool part” to start, and I’m waiting still. Plenty of times it’s come close, so painfully close, but I gotta be honest – it just hasn’t gotten there. Everything feels out of balance, the pacing, the tone, the themes. It feels too ponderous, even at its most hyperactive moments, which, paradoxically makes it exhausting and dull at the same time.

            I’m not trying to be a grumpy-Gus, really I ain’t. But I can’t lie to you folks either. It ain’t workin’ for me.

            For what it’s worth, here’s what I’d love to see next season:

• No more sentimental crap. Shows about the complexities of fatherhood are a dime-a-dozen. There’s only one about Daleks.
• A lot less preaching and finger wagging.
• A two-parter. Preferably with a really elaborate invasion plot
• No more alien serial-killers.
• Missy
• A lot less sonic screwdriver
• A lot more of the theme tune. Don’t ever leave it out. Ever. Again.

It was a year many of my personal rituals dissolved for one reason or other, but I will try to maintain this one. Even if I won't bother too much to make it readable. . .

I've had worse years, but I've had much better years. In fact most recent years have been quite a bit better. I won't bore you all with the personal stuff, suffice it to say it largely put a damper on everything. Even without the directly personal stuff, it was difficult not to feel like the world was collapsing around one (Stephen Pinker's obnoxious Panglosism notwithstanding).


Trump has surpassed all expectations, making a right snot-rag of whatever was left of the American dream. Jealous and copy-catty as ever, we in Ontario installed our very own version here, who, besides slashing environmental protections, rent controls and education funding, has told everyone he'd have no problem disregarding the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, which, we all learned, wasn't a very binding document anyway.


Social democracy in the west appears in retreat. Populist xenophobes are winning elections everywhere. Erdogan is doing his thing in Turkey, Duarte in the Phillipines, Orban in Hungary, those mad twins in Poland. . . My shit-of-the-year award goes to Mohammed Bin Salman, the thin-skin cry-baby Clown Prince of Saudi Arabia, who showed the world what a beacon of decency he is by chopping-up Jamal Khashoggi. The West, naturally, said nothing, let alone do anything - Trump - loyal as ever to like-minded men - refuses to believe it was him. What does the FBI know anyway?

Of course, next year Salman may have some stiff competition from Jair Bolsonaro of Brazil, who's promised to bulldoze the Amazon rainforest and called the indigenous people who live in them "parasites".

Did the West mean what it said after Nuremberg? We'll see.

On a more personal level, we lost Ursuala Le Guin, and my old favourite, Harlan Ellison ("Unca Harlan" to his fans). For anyone who followed his career and hung on his every word, it's impossible not to feel the loss personally. It also seems to reflect the death of my youthful dreams and ambitions, which once found so much inspiration in his life and work.

It's not all bad news though: I did read a lot of books. My total this year is 24 (roughly - two novellas count as one). Up from 16 the previous year (which was up from the previous 14). The tally will impress no-one (one Facebook acquaintance of mine claims more than a hundred), but it's 24 more than a lot of people read in a year. They were:

Ban this Book - Alan Gratz
Engineers of the Soul - Frank Westerman
Space Tyrant: Refugge- Piers Anthony (ugh)
The Lathe of Heaven - Ursula K. Le Guin
 The Commodore - Patrick O'Brian
Ruins - Brian Aldis
Unacknowledged Legislation - Christopher Hitchens
Book of Laughter and Forgetting - Milan Kundera
In Praise of Stepmother - Mario Vargas Llosa 
The Miracle Game - Joseph Skvorecky
Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency - Douglas Adams
Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
Into the Wild - Jon Krakaur
Gun for Hire - Graham Green
Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad (huh?)
Tuesdays With Morrie - Mitch Albom (ugh)
Missing - Kathryn Fox
Cat's Eye - Margaret Atwood
The Influence -  Ramsey Campbell
Death is a Lonely Business - Ray Bradbury
The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens
A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens
Tatiana - Martin Cruz Smith
And Yet - Christopher Hitchens.

The best was "Engineers of the Soul". The worst was "Space Tyrant", which inspired an entire blog post. Honourable mentions to Kundera and Hosseini.


But listing the novels gives a somewhat false picture of my reading habbits - I also tend to read tons of short fiction, which seems out of style these days, and goes largely unacknowledged. I've tried to keep, but lost track of, the pieces of short fiction I read, but it there were 31 which I took note of. I'll list them later. . .


Got to see a couple cool concerts - Ross the Boss, Raven, and a Motorhead tribute act that for one glorious evening brought Lemmy back to life. I rode the Hamilton Rail-Trial. I went back to England, revisited old friends and old haunts, and even met Peter Capaldi.


Best of all though, I became an uncle - new blood has been injected into the family line, to benefit of all. Our batteries have been recharged; we've been rejuvenated by a new sense of hope. The next year can only be better. . .

More Spoilers. . .

Now that's the ticket. . .(almost)

First we've got Demons of the Punjab (which I keep wanting to call Ghosts of the Punjab), which is really a historical adventure, the first of it's kind since 1966 (or 1982 if we really want to get technical, but who wants that?), and Kerblam which was almost a great story, but. . . 

I would call Punjab a historical story because the plot and the dramatic tension lies entirely within the historical scenario, and the science fictional elements, the aliens, the time travel, even the Doctor herself, are entirely incidental. I would hate to see every episode do this, but as a one off, it is undeniably great drama.  Nationalism is the poison that rips families communities, societies and civilizations apart. If the message is a bit blatant, it's because the reality doesn't allow for any other treatment. The crude prejudices of the one brother would seem comical if most of the planet didn't subscribe to them. If anything, the Doctor should have been more damning in her appraisal. Bradbury once said that books tell us what asses we've been; good fiction of any kind can do the same.

If Punjab falters anywhere, it's in the overt sentimentality of the closing scene, in which the incidental music displaced the theme tune. Now, you know you're not supposed to fuck with the theme tune! The message here is that the message is too important to let Doctor Who get in the way. Uh uh. If the message is too important for Doctor Who then you shouldn't be writing for Doctor Who. Never presume you are more important than your chosen medium. But also remember to trust the reader: a simple message of love will not be lost on anyone; you don't need violins or sitars to drive the point home.

Now Kerblam was maybe not quite as successful in the literary sens as Demons of the Punjab, but far more enjoyable. Kind of like "Ghost Monument" there are tastes of the old-school afoot, but this one hits closer to the mark. It's a straight up science fiction story where the setting is the future but the message is for today. There are lots of little plot twists that are fun, and, as a former warehouse worker myself, I appreciated the authenticity. It so very nearly almost made a great story. Here's the trouble: as with so many others, most of RTD's stories, and now Chibnel's as well, I sat through it all in eager anticipation of the pay-off, the denument, or as I call it, the cool part, the bit that makes you go "WOH!". And just when it gets there, it does. . .something else instead. Instead of "Woh!" I go "oh."  Now, it wasn't as bad as the RTD anti-climaxes, it didn't necessarily ruin the story, but it was a let-down compared to what could have been. 

In a nutshell, what almost seemed like a diabolical masterplan of some supervillain (I was waiting for the Autons), turns out to be just a kind of terrorist prank write-large. The problem with this little twist is two-fold: first, it really deflates the tension (come on Chris, think big!), but importantly, it undermines the social satire.  At first it seems to be setting-up Amazon and its nefarious effects on commerce and society. But then it pulls an about face: the problem is not with the system, but with the mis-guided individuals who see a problem with it. "People will lose faith in automation!" says the Doctor in horror, and one can't help feeling that, rather than the intended murders, is the real crime here. Considering what an evil company Amazon is, how abominably it treats its workers how it's bankrupted so many other companies (employers), and how genuinely dangerous it actually is, this feels more than a little bit of a stab in the back coming from the Doctor. If ever an institution deserved the satirical treatment, it was Amazon. Of all the targets the current writers have chosen to go after, why go soft on Amazon? This isn't just a wasted opportunity - it's a betrayal.

And when I hear the Doctor, historically THE defender of humanism in the face of technocracy, utter that most obnoxiously cry of  craven surrender the techno-Quislings like to shout at me ("it's the not the system it's the people!"), all I can say is "fuck-off". 

[SPOILER - As if there weren't untouched tribes deep in the depths of the Amazon who hadn't seen this long before I did. . .]

           Some folks think the latest Doctor Who is too politically correct. Others scold those folks for thinking so. As for me, I just wonder when Whitiker will be taking on the Daleks. Honestly, that is my main concern at the moment. But I suppose I can’t ignore that elephant in the room, so here it goes. . .

            In a recent Guardian article (https://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/2018/dec/03/doctor-who-stars-say-claims-the-show-is-too-politically-correct-are-bizarre) , Mandip Gill (Yaz) said it was “bizarre” to claim things were too “politically correct”.  After all, “how can you be too correct about something?” She’s right of course; but I don’t think “bizarre” is the adjective she really wanted to use. “Wrong-headed”, “misguided”, “mean-spirited” or “mistaken” perhaps, but “bizarre” ? No. That’s a bit disingenuous.

Lets look at the episodes themselves.

Arachnids in the UK is, at first, an old school creature feature – and what creatures! The creepiest crawliest spiders this side of the Royal Ontario Museum’s Arachnology exhibit. https://www.rom.on.ca/en/spiders. Phobics beware! We’ve come a long way since Planet of Spiders. Mad scientists, corporate polluters and copious deadly webbing abound. Great stuff, what could go wrong? Well, the action grinds to a halt on more than one occasion for the benefit of some dubious dialogue.  First, there is the apparently obligatory yammering with the new companions’ parents (“who is she? Where did you meet her?”) which is de rigor in the new series. The Doctor’s confrontation with Yaz’s mum is the sort of pitter-patter ping-pong dialogue that Moffat might have made funny, but here seems a maddening waste of time.  I miss the days when the Doctor travelled with orphans. . .

Then, right as the climax draws nigh, Graham and Ryan decide to have a heart-to-heart. Heart warming I’m sure, but there are deadly spiders on the outside of the door clamouring for my attention. If it’s not quite as harikari-inducing as missing out on the Cyber/Dalek war while watching Rose’s parents moon over each other, it’s of the same ilk. Scenes like this are supposed to reveal the depths of the characters – I suppose – but to my mind show dearth of timing, purpose and plotting. It’s all great they want to have these little chit-chats, but why now? There are spiders/Daleks/Cybermen outside the door people!

Meanwhile, I couldn't help noticing, that even as the sleazy hotel exec was quite rightfully chided for his carelessness, while the mad scientist who started the whole business - by mucking about with spider DNA for financial gain ­- got off without so much as a finger-wag. And while the All-God's-Creatures approach to the arachnids is properly open minded, it does feel a little hollow while they scour the land ensnaring and devouring people (why else ensnare them?).  Am I supposed to feel sorry for a giant killer-spider as it suffocates? Perhaps it would have been easier if it had not spent the previous hour killing people. Methinks the episode’s sympathy is misplaced. Do I detect a Battlestar Gallactica style masochism creeping in here? Ye Gods, I hope not.

All of this leads up to possibly the most anti-climatic ending in the show’s history, which I’m really hoping was the result of clumsy network editing rather than writing or direction. Space is just awful when it comes to cutting important scenes, so it’s not just wistful thinking. Either way, I really hate to think anyone on the creative team thought that would be a good way to end a story.  But if there is some mysterious missing scene out there, it won’t disturb the philosophical elephant in the punchbowl I was left with – (SPOILER ALERT) – why is locking these creatures in a room to slowly starve them to death more “dignified” than shooting them, which the Doctor forbids?  The answer can only be than one involves guns, and the other does not. Again, the audience needs to be reminded that guns are bad. Even against killer spiders.

Now look: I’m not some NRA thug with a fault full of semi-automatic  surrogate penises. I support gun-control, strict background checks, even Toronto’s proposed hand-gun ban. I’m also thrilled that a major entertainment franchise, almost uniquely, seeks to glorify alternative solutions to problems. That’s great, and should continue. But for me, being anti-gun is a guiding principal, not an iron clad law. Context is everything, self-defense is permitted, especially when one is menaced by killer-robots or giant spiders.  The problem here is the inconsistency, bordering on hypocrissy: the Doctor has no problem killing spiders. She locks them all in a room so they can slowly starve to death. It’s just the technology she objects to, the tool. This, to my mind is a bass-ackwards approach.  It’s over-simplistic, self righteous, and rigid. Rigidity doesn’t allow for ethical behaviour – it doesn’t take the complexity of human experience into account. It substitutes a set of rules for principles and dogma for morality, as if repeating a commandment to oneself often enough made for noble behaviour – as if doing the right thing just meant following the same rule. It certainly spares one the burden of thinking about things. If nothing else, it’s lazy writing.

There’s a word for that, but hang onto that thought. . .  

Next we come to The Tsuranga Conundrum. Hospital ship menaced by a alien bent on sabotage. This

little alien doesn’t eat people, but swallows electrical components whole, Tasmanian Devil style, much to the detriment of the ships operating and life-support systems. Conveniently, the thing can’t be killed, so there’s no gun debate here. Isolated-on-a-spaceship-with-alien menace is tried, tested and true, so bravo for that. Trouble is the alien is just so damned adorable, it’s impossible to take seriously. I was also less than thrilled with the maddeningly persistent “supposedly intelligent character gets self killed doing something idiotic because plot requires it” trope which insists on making its appearance. So it goes.

Besides the alien menace, the main drama of the story is concerned with the labour-pains of a pregnant man. It is strongly hinted that this is quite common in the future, though it is not clear whether this is as a result of natural mutation or surgical alteration. Its wider social implications are not explored; allowing Graham and Ryan to have yet another heart to heart on the value (though not the nature) of fatherhood seems its primary plot function, and if that's what we were all hankering for. . . That, and, I suspect, an ideological declaration of principle. Nothing is blatantly stated, but as adults we can read between the lines: it’s  about gender. How can you feature a pregnant man and not make some statement about gender? In this case, its absolute severance from reproduction.

A lot of good science fiction has been written exploring gender identity: think LeGuin’s Left Hand of Darkness or Sturgeon’s Venus Plus X. The key word here is explore – ask questions, examine implications. Speculate. There’s no speculation here: it is firmly established that a man’s pregnancy will have no noticeable effect on his identity.

Yet, it is not a world without gender distinctions – curiously, “boys give birth to boys and girls to birth to girls”. Again, no word on how or why this would actually work. But wouldn’t that actually cement gender differences rather than erase them? After all, what do they need each other for now?  The question is not really explored, nor I think is it intend it to be. Rather, I think what they’re getting at in just throwing it out there is the rather dubious assertion that it would make no difference at all.

This idea may be currently fashionable among good progressives, but doesn’t make for good science fiction. Kind of like most of Russell T. Davies’ scripts, it doesn’t follow through with the full implications of its premise. But Davies was rarely this ideological.

Doctor Who has always been at the forefront of progressive, or at least liberal, thought (yes, even in the early days - it is all relative). But there is such thing as nuance. What people notice when they cry “political correctness” are ideas floated not as food for thought but as assertions of fact, with fictional scenarios constructed specifically to back up these assertions. This isn’t political correctness (a meaningless term I won’t dignify here): what this is, is didactic.  

Didactic fiction is the opposite of speculative fiction (though the former often claims to be the latter). Didactic fiction takes its conclusions for granted. Didactic fiction doesn’t explore implications, but makes assertions and constructs scenarios to justify or “prove” them. Atlas Shrugged is a didactic novel – a fictional world where Ayn Rand’s fantasies make sense. Soviet Socialist Realism was relentlessly didactic – endless fiction, films and plays in which the Soviet System always worked. Didactism doesn’t allow for other interpretations or other possibilities, and most certainly never asks questions. It only ever presents answers. Sometimes writers can’t help being didactic. But good ones will at least allow for the complexity of human nature. Bad ones just preach.

These Doctor Who episodes are rather falling into the former category I’m afraid. The simplistic, inconsistent pacifism of Arachnids and the pantomime role reversal of Tsuranga don’t really give any food to the imagination. I expect to be lectured about eating my vegetables next. . .