Silence from the Cracks in the Wall - the Stephen Moffat era.

So, Jodie Whitaker’s taken the stage, and the Twitterverse is aflame! Following those comments is making me more nervous than the episode itself.

Before I watched the new one, I wanted to say a few more words about the old one. Not the Doctor, but the creative force behind it – the enigmatic Steven Moffat.

True, the memory has faded and the moment has passed, and no one cares anymore (if they ever did). Nevertheless, I feel obliged to say a few words for old times sake.

Moffat was not universally loved. “Bring Back the Real Daleks!”, a facebook group I once belonged to, was largely a portal of anti-Moffat memes. Russell T. Davies never got nearly so much animus, though, to my mind, deserved it far more. I suspect folks didn’t know what to make of Moffatt, always toying with the audience, winking at the camera, and just generally upending reasonable expectation. His approach struck me as the inverse of Davies’: whereas Davies was routinely simplistic, juvenile and anti-intellectual, Moffat was frequently too clever by half, serving up absurdly overcomplicated, hyper self-aware meta episodes, more often about himself than any of the characters.  

Yet, if it all seemed convoluted, it came from a refusal to underestimate the intelligence of the audience, and an insistence that Doctor Who could indeed be high concept. If it was occasionally exasperating, even infuriating, it could also be uplifting and enthralling, even elevating, in a way Davies never could manage. I look at it as a three stage process: Davies started out facing a skeptical world, won it ever, then squandered the good will. Moffat started with all the good will in the world, squandered it, and slowly, painstakingly won it back. He pissed me off, no question. But before he left, Doctor Who had never been better.

It was clear right from the get-go, Moffat wanted to shake things up. Even before his season started, the interviews bespoke seismic shifts on their way: faster! Crazier! Scarier! Indeed, Matt Smith’s debut was a bewildering kaleidoscope of jump cuts, edits, and non-linear plot twists. Murray Gold’s soundtrack was more intrusive than ever. It was hard to make any sense of it, and to be honest, hard to love. My main take from that period was motion-sickness.  

Misshapen, asymmetrical, and gaudy, the new paradigm Daleks were just awful.  

Bringing in the youngest Doctor ever - the vicenarian Matt Smith - was surely a sop to this ultra modern approach. Smith certainly captured the ADD of the age, at times scarcely finishing a sentence before embarking on the next one. He tackled the universe with a hyper-fidgety curiosity, delivering impatient, breathless monologues vaguely reminiscent of Peter Davidson. On paper at least, he was a direct contrast to David Tennant: less conventionally attractive, much more nerdy, more introspective and introverted, more moody, and far less fashionable (bow-ties and fezzes indeed). But his lithe physicality and absent minded "quirkiness" all too closely paralleled Tennant's, and the one-liners that came from both their mouths were unmistakably Moffat's. I always wondered if this didn't alienate some of Tennant's younger fans, who might have felt they were being fed more of the same but with something missing. I myself was able to appreciate Smith's subtly different take, but honestly think he would have fared better if he had followed Capaldi rather than Tennant, as the narcissism of small differences is nothing to shake a stick at. . .

As we followed him into this new hard-wired age, Moffat showed himself to be a revisionist and re-inventor of Soviet intensity – he changed the Daleks, changed the Silurians, changed the Ice Warriors, even changed the timeless Delia Derbyshire theme- song, burying it underneath some Murray Gold melodrama. The Sontarans were reimagined as comic relief. He even took the piss out of his own creations, the marvelous Weeping Angels, reduced to ridiculous grotesqueries. Not one of these alterations were improvements; each was a case of fixing what wasn’t broken, struck me as pointless. Why resurrect an old monster if it didn’t suit the current story’s needs? The Daleks were clearly a marketing gimmick from the BBC’s merchandizing (re: toy) department, but the others? If they wanted to make Alien on a submarine, why use the Ice Warriors? If they wanted a more “human-like” monster, why dig up the Silurians, who were never even close? There seemed no creative necessity for it; only to break with the past for its own sake, with an unmistakably personal stamp.

For a time Moffat seemed keen to put out his own show rather than an established franchise. The Madam Vastra/Strax/Jenny trio got the lion’s share of screentime/plot relevance any time they appeared, apparently intended for a spin-off series.  Riversong[i], gun-slingin’, time travellin’, dashing archaeologist adventurer, often made Matt Smith’s Doctor seem superfluous.  That “hello sweetie” business tended to cut Smith’s Time Lord down to size, which seemed a strange thing to do to your hero. Only when Peter Capaldi took over did the doc apparently regain his mojo.

River Song was at least likable in her own right, which is more than I can say for Clara. Of all the bizarre, weird, head-scratching moments of the Moffatt era, the character of Clara Oswald (bravely endured by Jenna Coleman) baffles me the most. She got many of the “best” lines[ii]. Many plots hinged upon her (she saved the day in Rings of Akhenaten, not the Doc). She also carried much of the moral weight - speaking authoritatively while the Doctor just listened. She even got her own TARDIS in the end. For all intents and purposes, it became her show, complete with  her own title sequence at one point.

One wondered why they bothered with Capaldi. . .

All this may have been tolerable if Clara hadn’t been completely insufferable. Smug and snide and downright rude, she struck me as one of those obnoxious class-president types, utterly full of herself because she figured out early on how to game the system. Such folk are never as gifted as they think they are, but thrive in an environment constructed with their kind in mind. Of course, they never need to develop humility because everyone keeps telling them how wonderful they are. This was Clara. She would have made a great OFSTED inspector.

My thoughts on Clara were crystalized during her exchange with Jac (played by Jaye Griffiths), during the otherwise awesome Zygon Invasion:

“ You’re middle-aged (no offense!). Everyone middle aged thinks the world’s about to end. It never does.”[iii]

To which Jac could justifiably have responded. “Fuck you kid. It’s your god-damned latte-swilling-iphone-fucking generation that thinks it’s something special. When you rack up some life experience, then you go ahead and lecture me about the world. Capice?”

But of course, neither she nor anyone else ever did. Know-it-all Clara presumed to lecture the universe, and never got her comeuppance. At least in real life, we can tell these types where to stick it. But no one on Doctor Who had the guts to do it. Not-even the two-thousand year old doc ever challenged her. Because Moffat created a universe where she was proven right again and again. It was agony to watch.

 Even while bending over backwards to show how fallible the Doctor was, Moffat gave us a mortal human who was practically infallible, and wouldn’t let us forget it. Trouble is, she wasn’t that clever. None of her insights (see above) were very insightful. She could act damn foolishly at times, like when Missy lured her into a Dalek casing. To be fair, Missy could manipulate anyone. But what does Clara do when she finds the Doctor can’t hear her real words? Keep shouting “it’s me! It’s me!”, because that worked so well already. Maybe she was panicking and couldn’t think straight, but it hardly went with the ultra-genius we’d been asked to accept.

The TV team at The Guardian called the Capaldi era "frustratingly inconsistent.", and I’d be inclined to agree. For every good or great one, there was a clunker. These were maddening, but puzzling as well: how could someone of Moffat's talents allow such plot holes or lapses in internal consistency?
 How was "Lie of the Land" allowed to conclude "Extremis", or "Hellbent" "Heaven Sent"?
It has been said that Moffat was a better writer than a producer – that his individual stories were better than his mythos building. Indeed, the grand story arcs of his era didn’t usually amount to much - the crack in the wall was a bit of a non-event, the Mr. Pink saga irritating, and don't get me started on Ashildr (a contemptible villain treated like a lovable companion). Like Davies, he was better at setting up scenarios than resolving them. Even so, these felt more like missteps than deliberate hack jobs. Even at his worst, Moffat never resorted to the infantile inanity or crude religiosity of Davies, and certainly didn't rely nearly as much on lazy deus ex-machina. If his mythologies were spotty, Moffat's single episodes could still knock us dead. I maintain the Silence to be his finest creations, even more so than the Angels. But I think it was with the 50^th Anniversary Special Day of the Doctor that Moffat truly made up for his missteps and proved his worth.

"Day of the Doctor" was truly magnificent, a celebration of all that was and is great about the program.

It pulled off the near impossible feat of bridging old and new, funny and scary, wise and innocent. An old monster is resurrected and perfected. Old Doctors do make their appearance, and new ones hint at theirs (it’s even better that we know who Capaldi is. Time travel for real!). If Smith’s Doctor suffered for having too closely mirrored Tennants, they play beautifully off each other here (literally in some scenes). And bringing John Hurt into it as a hypothetical “War Doctor”, a Doctor between McGann and Eccleston so traumatized by what he had to do, that his future selves banished him from their memories, was a stroke of genius. Everything worked. Finally, Moffat quit playing games. Perhaps he understood the gravity of his responsibility – this was the 50^th Anniversary, it was not about him, it was about something that transcends any individual contributor.

This newfound humility served Moffat well. As long as he stopped treating Doctor Who as his personal plaything, and placed himself at its service, rather than the other way around, the show went from strength to strength. Smith’s swansong “Night of the Doctor” was possibly his finest story, and if Capaldi got off to a rough start, he was ruling the roost by the time “World Enough” rolled around.

To be sure, there were still annoyances – Clara would continue to wreck almost everything she touched. But it was also mesmerizing. Most of the early excesses were curbed. We got the themesong back. We got the real Daleks back. We got the Ice Warriors back.  Murray Gold scaled back his string section. Clara took a walk, and we got Bill instead. Best of all, we got Peter Capaldi, the Rockin’ Doc, whom I’ve already explained here. I should stop saying “we” when I really mean “I”. For a very brief time I got the show I wanted. Things that mattered to me were given precedence. For the first time since the eighties, I felt this was my show again. More than anyone, I have Stephen Moffat to thank for that, and I can’t possibly thank him enough.

So long Steve! I know we quarreled at times, but you won in the end. Don’t let anyone tell you different!

---

[i] Alex Kingston made a great Lady Macbeth opposite Kenneth Branaugh if any of you care. . .

[ii] By which I mean lines meant to be clever. Whether they were or not was another matter.

[iii] To be fair, a couple minutes later, Clara does concede “I think you were right”.  Thankyou Ms. Smartypants!

The purpose of social rituals, culture and religion, are ultimately to make life tolerable and loss bearable. Nowhere is this more apparent than at the memorial service.

It was a touching service, mercifully free from empty rituals and superstitious platitudes. Only memories, fostered by a loving attention to detail. Would that all our memories are treated so respectfully. . .

[Trigger warning: sad things]

We’re going to have to talk about death.

                I’d much rather talk about any number of things. I’ve got a lot to say about the existence of a notwithstaning clause in the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms. I badly want to spread the word about Tilting Biped’s brilliant production of Macbeth. I spent two weeks in England recently and have plenty to say about Brexit, climate change, road signs and Comic Conventions. I still have to compose my retrospective for Stephen Moffat’s tenure with Doctor Who. . .

                But circumstances bring me to death.

                It’s an appropriate day for it. The air outside is grey, and damp with spittles of rain. It’s colder than it’s been for a while, not the razor cold of January but the sad and sleepy cold of the dying summer. All I can see outside is concrete – there are plenty of trees and grass about it, but it all seems more like cheap green furniture than anything living or vibrant. All I can hear are the cars. . .

                I’ve written on death before – pseudo philosophical musings and laments for passing famous people who’s art once moved me and whose halted output made me grouchy. But Real People? Whom I actually knew? I’ve not actually been touched by death in a long, long time. How naïve I’ve been about it. . .

                To be sure, I’ve not lost an immediate family member, but someone very close to me has. The loss is very real.

                It is astonishing how quickly life can change, how one’s assumptions can fall apart, one’s rituals disrupted. I woke up that morning thinking the world would be no different when I went to bed. I was sitting in a choir rehearsal, serenely mumbling the (mostly wrong) notes of Braham’s Requiem, looking forward to a Barbecue in the evening, and perhaps a little live music the next day. It was a beautiful Saturday. There was no reason to think it would be anything but a relaxing weekend.

               

                At one point, our guest conductor felt the need to share his personal connection to Requiem. He’d lost people recently, including his brother-in-law. “It was expected,” he reassured us. “But there’s never a good time, is there?”  

                Not two minutes later, I received a text. There had been an accident, and someone was being transported to St. Michael’s hospital in Toronto. I had held out hope that perhaps it could be something manageable, even trivial – a sprained ankle say. Pretending not to know that no one gets transported to St. Michaels hospital for a sprained ankle. . . By the time I got to the rendezvous point, not half an hour later, I had gotten the message that someone had died.

                I am not accustomed to death. I do not understand it now any better than I did when I was five. I did not grasp the message at first. Honest to god, idiotic as it was, I seriously thought it meant “in a coma”. Or possibly “dying” -present progressive tense, as in ongoing, possibly reversible. Grammar teacher though I am, it was a full minute before I really understood the tense of the verb.  

                Somebody had died.

                There followed a long, long drive to be with the family. Of course there was no radio, and almost no conversation - what could be said? What had happened was unspeakable, and we were driving to confront the intolerable. It was unbearably claustrophobic. And the day did not get better from there.

                I confess, I did not know the man well; but liked him quite well, and keenly feel the king-sized gap he’s left behind. Unlike my (guest) conductor’s recent loss, this one was not expected, and I marvel at the sheer colossal pointlessness of this abrupt removal of someone who meant so much to so many. . .I chafe as well at the helplessness of seeing people I love in pain, and being able to do nothing.

               

                I can’t even say “this will pass”, because it won’t. Things will never be the same again.

                There’s only one lesson, or cold - comfort I can take from it all: we too shall pass. Any time, any where. So we may as well stand tall when our time comes and enjoy what time we have.  I have a feeling the departed would approve. . .

Our Pal, Harlan Ellison

So. . .

The last kids leave, and I am filled with an overwhelming School’s Out mentality of “let’s get the fuck out of here.” But some counteracting instinct insisted I quickly check my e-mail first. 

Now I’m not going to self righteously try to minimize my social media addiction, but I can fight it when I need to, and a little voice did try to say “forget it! There can’t be anything important! You can check later. You gotta get to Dave’s birthday party and you’re running a bit late already!” And yet, I had to see. Just a few seconds. There was a message from “the Harlan Ellison Book Preservation Project”, which again, a voice prompted me to ignore, but again I felt worth looking at. And this is what I saw:

“I'm sure a lot of you have seen the news.

If not, I apologize for breaking it this way.”

Oh no. A cold feeling crept over me.  My hands trembled over the cursor keys. I looked away. Maybe if I didn't finish reading, maybe it wouldn't be true. Maybe I could rewind the clock, and it wouldn't have to be true, not yet. I could live just a few more minutes in a world where it hadn't happened yet. Maybe if I didn't read the news, it could be something else.

But we all know, it doesn't work that way, does it folks? I read on, and learned for sure what I already knew.

Harlan Ellison – dear ol’ “Unca Harlan” - was gone.

It had to happen. We all go one day. But did it have to be that day? Then again, I would have asked the same whatever day it had been. It happened at last: I was going to have to face a world without Harlan Ellison in it.

Now understand one thing: to hardcore fans of Ellison – his “Flying Blue Monkey Squadron”, whose membership I hope was open – he was not just a writer we admired. For those who really ensconced themselves in his work, it was impossible not to think of him as a close friend or even relative. To us he wasn’t “Ellison”, but “Unca Harlan”, a term of endearment he himself came up with and encouraged. He signed off all his messages as “yer pal, Harlan”.  For make no mistake people: for all his reputation as a grump, to us, his really clingy fans, he could not have been more warm, friendly, kind or supportive.  If he occasionally kicked us in the ass, it was only when we deserved it – Unca Harlan expected only the best from people and frequently brought it out of them. Glance even casually at his autobiographical writings, and marvel at how many of his life’s multitudinous dramatis personae he considered friends. While everyone else remarked on his notorious crabbiness, I noticed  how quick to befriend he seemed to be and how much he valued people. I think he appreciated how deeply he was loved, and was quick to reciprocate. Maybe not to faceless masses of fans, but to anyone who got to know him on a human level.

Let’s go back in time a little bit. . .

I first encountered Ellison on the Prisoners of Gravity Show, circa, oh I dunno, 1991 or in that neighbourhood. Unlike so many of the talking heads they brought on, this guy was feisty, animated, outspoken, direct and to the point. He had no patience for nonsense, and seemed to treat writing like hands-on work. I had to read him. . .

The fiction didn’t disappoint. It was every bit as lively and engaging. One day, on a different Prisoners of Gravity episode, he was asked to give advice to young writers in the crowd. He turned straight to the camera and said “the trick to being a writer is to stay a writer!” The advice was good, it was practical, and he said it straight to you. None of the other guests did that. They were talking heads. Some were boring and some were interesting, but they were talking heads. Harlan leapt out of the screen and spoke to you. That was the magic of Harlan Ellison: he made you feel he was addressing you directly. Personally. So the reader-writer relationship was personal. And so is the loss.

Unca Harlan did in fact address me personally, three times, on his message board. The first was when I inquired whether one of is broadcasts would be available in Ontario. His response (and I have not put it in  all caps) was:

“ONTARIO IS NOT SIBERIA!”, followed by a harangue about hiding crystal radios under one’s bed.

The Second time was as part of a larger discussion in which I praised the Dark Knight for being “low tech”. His response was:

“LOW TECH MY ASS!” followed by something about the impossibility of school buses lining up so perfectly. (And then an apology for misreading one of my sentences).

The third time was just a bit of practical advice for making pitches to people – he advised addressing people formally and then asking if they could be addressed informally.

Brief exchanges all, but each one full of his trademark rhetorical virtuosity and personalized bombast. Mini Ellisonian masterpieces carved out of the ether, just for me. I wish I’d copied and pasted them.

That’s the kind of guy he was – he couldn’t say good morning without entertaining someone.

If I concentrated so far entirely on my personal reaction to the Man rather than His Work, it’s only because that’s all I’m qualified to speak on. Smarter people than me will have plenty to say about his work, his thousands of stories and essays and articles, his genius for words, his blinding imagination, his deep, underappreciated humanity. All I can talk about with any authority is what it all meant to me, and why his loss cuts so deeply. He was the crazy uncle whose stories you couldn't get enough of. We all crowded outside his door, waiting for another one, and he was only too pleased to oblige, churning them out with gusto, a verve all his own. You couldn't separate a man from his art. Who would want to? 

To be sure, he wasn’t a flawless human being; doubtless there will be no shortage of pundits and trolls who will be quick to remind you of his shortcomings. I make no excuses for him, but maintain the good far outweighed the bad, that there isn’t one of us who doesn’t have failings and shortcomings, and if were solely judged on them, there would be nothing to celebrate in all of humanity.

In recent years, I slowed my consumption of Harlan Ellison. Not for lack of material – you can never run out. But for the same reason I slowed my consumption of Bradbury. They both inspired me to work hard and follow my dreams. I feel as if I’ve failed. Ellison taught me too well to allow for any excuses, so reading him forces me to face up to that failure. He also wouldn’t allow for any self-pity, so I won’t refer to it any more. Though, perhaps it’s not too late for dreams. . .

I can hardly fathom a world without Harlan Ellison in it. It’s an altogether duller, stupider place. But how incredibly better the world has been for having had him in it. How much deeper my life has been, for having encountered him. So, while I’m heart-broken that he’s gone, I cannot be but thrilled that he lived. What better thing can one say of anyone?

So long Unca Harlan: you were the best!      

Munkying about, part II

As if I haven’t give the bugger enough space, there are just a couple more things I have to get off my chest.

            During the Munk debate of May 18, 2018, Jordan Peterson identified his evil trinity of the extreme left as diversity, inclusivity, and equality (of outcomes, as opposed to opportunities).

            I have to take issue with these benchmarks one by one.

            1) Diversity. He had the nerve to proclaim this in a great big hall in Toronto, one of the most diverse cities in the world. People from all over the world living side by side in complete peace. On what planet could this be considered a bad thing? But never mind ethnic diversity – diversity of anything, of language, of opinion, of dress, cuisine, art, tends to be an incredibly enriching, positive thing. How could this be considered an extremist or totalitarian situation?

            2) Inclusivity. Are we to take from this that “exclusivity” must be a reasonable state of affairs? We were taught in Kindergarten not to exclude anyone, not to exile little Johnny to the corner because we thought he was weird. We took this lesson into adulthood as we try to build (or at least idealize) a society where everyone is welcome. Sorry Jordan, not giving that up.

            3) Equality. Peterson took pains to differentiate equality of outcomes with equality of opportunity, which he admitted was “laudable”. He didn’t seem to notice that equality of opportunity was exactly what his debating opponents, Michelle Goldberg and Michael Eric Dyson, were clamouring for. What most movements are clamouring for. How can he call something a “laudable goal”, then denounce anyone trying to achieve it?

            But let’s look at equality of outcomes, which he insists is how equality is defined. My first question is “by whom”? Who made that declaration? I didn’t. Did you?  Let’s grant for a moment that this is how it’s defined, my second questions is: so what?

            Equality of outcomes may be impossible, impractical or dangerous, but I don’t think it’s the mark of extremism. Why not? Because it’s largely an abstraction. It doesn’t refer to any particular policy or program. Are we talking economic outcomes? Physical? Emotional? Sexual? It feels more like a caricature of an idea than an idea anybody seriously pushes for. It is something we can discuss, debate, and abandon drunk and happy afterwards. A person pushing for such a thing may be deluded or mistaken, but not necessarily an extremist.

            To determine if a person is an extremist, you don’t ask whether that person believes in equality of outcomes. You ask by what means they wish to achieve it. There is the acid test. A person pamphletting their neighbourhood trying to win it over to equality of outcomes may be a kook, but hardly a extremist. A person willing to bomb, assassinate, torture and kill, is. A person who would suspend habius corpus. A person who would burn books. These, I think, are much more useful warning signs than Peterson’s unholy triumvirate.    I can hardly believe I’m the first person to suggest them.

            More likely, Peterson has heard them and doesn’t like them. They’re not all-encompassing enough. They alone would not allow him to portray himself as a hard-done by martyr. They would have no cache with internet trolls. The problem is not that the left won’t lay down parameters for tyranny. It’s that it won’t accept his parameters.

            What would adjusting them cost him?

 

A letter to Thanos (because life has just been too serious lately)

Dear Sir,

I wish to discourage you most vigorously from your stated plan to destroy approximately half the living things in the galaxy. I think this is a badly short-sighted plan and bound to cause more harm than good.

Before I begin, I must assure you that I am not entirely unsympathetic to your concerns. Indeed, anyone who has been recently stuck in 401 traffic, or struggled to find a seat on the GO-Train would probably find themselves tempted by your plan. Yet at times like this it is important not to let our emotions get the better of us, and not do anything rash.

 To begin with, it is not your decision who lives and who dies. Every person has an equal right to live, and it is not up to you to decide which is which. You can decide for your fate, but not anyone else’s – if you’re concerned about overcrowding, you may start with yourself.

More importantly, you cannot be sure who you will be eliminating. There will be no guarantee that you would get the right half. You could be getting rid of some of the world’s best people, doctors and scientists and artists, and people who could do great good.

Furthermore, people are needed to run the world and organize the planet. It will fall into chaos if half of everyone just disappears. Schoolboards in Ontario are already having a devil of a time finding qualified French teachers as is. It is already next to impossible to get a human being on the phone when you ring any customer service department, and I am having a great deal of trouble finding a qualified electrician to rewire my home. Following your plan, there will be an even more acute shortage of supermarket cashiers, and I shudder to think what it may do to local garbage collection. Furthermore, there is currently an election going on in Ontario, and my party needs all the votes that it can.

I also suggest that you could not guarantee that your purge would not include my neighbour before he returns my rake, which he has had now since November.

You have probably not considered either, that your plan would place nearly impossible demands on this community’s funeral parlours, and lengthen their waiting lists intolerably.

But ultimately, it shouldn’t matter who is chosen for culling, as every person has a right to live out their lives and waste them in the manner they see fit. It would be an act of unspeakable barbarity and cruelty to simply murder every second man, woman, and child on the planet, especially before they’ve seen the new season of Doctor Who.

In hope that you will reconsider, I remain humbly yours,  

Steve AJ Dylan

Munkying around. . .

So. . .
I tried to sit down and watch the latest Munk debates:

https://www.munkdebates.com/The-Debates/Political-Correctness

I couldn't get farther than half way. It was too. . .hostile. I'm afraid it very much turned into what I was afraid it would: a no holds barred grudge match between four people arguing four different things. With the moderator egging them all on.

Perhaps, things transpired later that would change my take, or throw it out the window completely, but here's what I took from what I saw:

At no point was the supposed subject of the evening actually defined: what did any of them mean by "political correctness"? What was actually being debated?
Of the four speakers, I think Fry was closest to my own temperament and philosophy. But even he refused to explain what it was he was railing against, and how it differed from what the other speakers were discussing. 

But I think Fry, Dyson and Goldberg could have had a civilized discussion if not for:
Jordan Peterson.

So this is what the fuss is all about. This is the cult leader commanding the hearts and minds of millions (no exaggeration). I'd never heard him speak at this length before. 

At first, it's not hard to understand his appeal. He's a captivating speaker, almost hypnotic. He speaks softly, effortlessly and rhythmically, unfolding philosophical points like musical notes. Like a gentle piece of orchestral music, it almost lulls you in. . .until he gets to his point. Then like a sour note in the middle of the symphony, he dumps a cold bucket of water on the whole illusion.
Here's the thing: he says the right and the left are capable of tyranny. True. He says the parameters of right tyranny are fairly well demarcated. True. He says the parameters of left tyranny need to be demarcated. Also True. He says the left refuse to demarcate such parametres. Uhm. . .debatable. He says that Equality, Inclusivity, and Diversity are what demarcate that parameter. . .

Uhm. . .what???

Here the whole edifice comes down. He's set the bar for leftist tyranny so low that anyone of even mildly liberal sentiment is no better than a Pol Pot. In Peterson's worldview, there's apparently no distinction.

Whatever point you thought he was going to make, or wanted him to make, as you were lulled along by the pulse of his words, melts like a snowflake. It's not going to be a universal argument after all, but a strictly partisan one.

"If not diversity, inclusivity, and equality, how do we demarcate the too extreme left?" he asks. And then goes on to insist no one will answer him.

Oh for God's sake Peterson, can you be serious? It's when they refuse to recognize the sanctity of human life! When they're willing to torture and kill for the cause! When they use the end to justify any and all means, including brutality. When they refuse to condemn murder. When the reserve the right to cause harm and inflict pain. Surely these are demarcations any reasonable person can agree to, and surely I can't be the first person to mention them.

The problem is not that the left won't demarcate; it's that they won't accept Peterson's demarcations. And doesn't he just hate that!
Then he loses his professorial demeanour and starts pouting about his "white privilege", a phrase nobody else invoked up 'till then. The whole of Michael Dyson's eloquent denunciations of slavery and police violence went straight over his head: "never mind all that, what about my white privilege?"

As if it was all about him.

Michelle Goldberg of the New York Times spoke of "category creep", whereby (I think) categories become too broad and encompass too many people. It's a charge leveled against the left, whereby moderate conservatives are held to be no better than the Grand Marshal of the KKK. Some people fail to make this distinction, fair enough. But isn't it just as bad if not worse on the right, especially in the US, where calling for a health care system is a call for the GUlag? And doesn't it show up in Peterson, who's definition of the "sensible left" doesn't include anyone to his own left?

Peterson claims to be of the centre, but his venom is mainly for the left and his category of "excessive left" includes just about everybody on the left, so his message will be (and has been) most comforting to those on the right. You don't need to be a Bolshevik to refuse to buy it.

Meanwhile, the sleazy moderator egged and prodded everyone on so that the audience could have its bloodbath.
Peterson started smooth and elegant, but soon got shrill and petulant, like a whiny teenager. He may have picked apart the rather timid and nervous Goldberg (she got better), but he was no match for the majestic Michael Eric Dyson, who, frankly, tore him to shreds.

Still though, it was Fry I most related to. Despite his throwing away his decorum too early on (why Fry, when you were doing fine?). Make of that what thou wilst.