Mark Gatiss is not the most original writer ever to have penned an episode of Doctor Who. Victory of the Daleks was directly inspired by Patrick Troughton’s debut story, and beginning an episode with the Doctor visiting a Victorian theatre was bound to summon memories of The Talons of Weng-Chiang. Even The Idiot’s Lantern was born out of a desire to evoke the BBC Quatermass serials of the 1950s. And Gatiss’ work elsewhere has been just as derivative. Crooked House was an homage to the portmanteau movies of decades past; Sherlock – well, that speaks for itself, doesn’t it?; and The League of Gentlemen took inspiration from almost every horror, sci-fi or fantasy told in the century that preceded it.

Welcome, then, to Fear Him, Gatiss’ most direct and comprehensive “borrowing” yet.

But of course, there’s nothing wrong with wearing your influences on your sleeve, as long as you look good doing so. And this latest episode of Doctor Who wears its primary influence particularly well; in fact, it might even be a case of everyone involved wishing to remake Matthew Graham’s disappointingly-received 2006 debut for the series, only for this time, to “do it right.”

And just as Fear Her started with an irrelevant but lovely moment involving the TARDIS, so Night Terrors begins with an irrelevant but lovely shot of the ship’s materialisation. It sets the tone perfectly; it probably cost double the amount a materialisation effect usually does, but it insists from the off that care is being taken with the material. If Gatiss’ episode isn’t going to break any new ground, it is at the very least going to make the familiar seem fresh.

Make no mistake about it, though, Night Terrors – whether by intention or not – is a remake of Fear Her; the similarities are so striking, they almost list themselves: a single (for the duration of the plot, at least) parent struggling with an only child; the Doctor and companion(s) investigating in the heart of strictly suburbia; an alien presence that has drifted down from space and fetched up in a child’s bedroom; random people going missing; something nasty in the wardrobe; human beings metamorphosing into a child’s representation of ‘people’; and a resolution to the story that hinges upon a moment of “love.” If Matt Smith had had a scene being inappropriate with some condiment or other in the kitchen, the illusion would have been complete.

And while I’m not entirely sure that Night Terrors is actually any better than Fear Her, it is certainly “more Doctor Who,” and that counts for a lot.

Where Gatiss’ episode absolutely triumphs over its earlier counterpart is in its representation of the threat. Altogether, as a story, it’s pretty thin stuff, really (and we really could have done with a more thorough going examination of the inside of the doll’s house. This location – this dislocation, if you like – might have been the episode’s great strength, might have given Night Terrors the status of a worthy successor to Planet of Giants; as it is it feels like an idea that’s in deference to the main story). Even in these days of stories that last only 45 minutes, there are times this feels stretched out to fill its slot, and there are any number of odd moments when the episode seems to pause as if for breath, and yet for no apparent reason. But it’s in the creation of the Peg People, the doll-like inhabitants of the back of George’s cupboard, that the threat is thoroughly brought to life. Famously, Fear Her didn’t have the budget to reveal what it was that was on the other side of the wardrobe doors; in Night Terrors, we not only get to see what’s residing in the cupboard, but we get to see how they’re made, too (in a particularly creepy moment that’s reminiscent of Steven Moffat’s first Doctor Who, The Empty Child). And the dolls are a brilliantly creepy construction, with just enough of the innocence of a childhood toy about them to make them truly sinister.

Daniel Mays is exceptional as George’s dad, Alex, and Andrew Tiernan (as Purcell, the family’s landlord) is always good in everything he does (nice ponytail, too; I wonder if that’s a nod of the head to the Rory of Amy’s Choice?). But it is little Jamie Oram as George who steals the show; you never for an instant believe he’s anyone other than a frightened child for whom the monsters are real. Moffat’s Doctor Who has been terrifically lucky (or rather, terrifically good) at finding talented child actors, and while some might find recent episodes too scary, too complicated or just too “grown up” for the pre-adolescent audience that is the programme’s core, its continued success amongst this demographic – along with its continued success at portraying this demographic – is obviously no fluke.

This isn’t the story that’s going to win the end-of-series polls, and it’s not a story that’s going to be remembered for its challenging storytelling or the depth of its originality either. But if Doctor Who’s twin tenets are to send shivers down the spine and to challenge the mind, then Night Terrors has succeeded admirably well in that task. And even though this is the first time the author’s really been set free to write to his own tune, it’s not Mark Gatiss’ best Doctor Who either (that’s still The Unquiet Dead), nor is it his maddest (undoubtedly Victory of the Daleks).

But it does share more than a thing or two in common with The Idiot’s Lantern (Series Two’s other underperforming story, after Fear Her – and what is it with sons-and-fathers this year anyway?), and it is a vast improvement upon that.

It’s difficult to watch Night Terrors (nee What Are Little Boys Made Of?, a title that would perhaps have been too much of a giveaway regarding the story’s resolution), though, without a nagging feeling at the back of your mind telling you that the Amy you’re seeing is really a Ganger – or would have been, if this episode had been broadcast in its originally intended slot way back in the first half of Series Six (and turning her into a living doll – itself reminiscent of the removing of Rose’s face in The Idiot’s Lantern – is a strange sort of comment to be making about the companion). The Doctor’s observation at the end of the episode, regarding how nice it is to be reunited with Amy “in the Flesh,” must surely then be a deliberate in-joke on the authors’ behalf? Either that, or else a clue to the eventual twist in The Almost People that is now, post-switcheroo, completely redundant. Either way, it’s an odd moment in an odd episode.

Odd in a good way, of course.

It’s taken a few weeks, but Torchwood matured with episode 7 of Miracle Day. Not only that, but we were also treated to our first alien of this series, as well as seeing Captain Jack step from the shadows and take the centre stage he deserves. In less than an hour, the series had been transformed from what felt like a twisty spy drama to proper sci-fi. At last.

Anyone who’s been keeping up with these reviews (and thank you for reading) will know I’m not the easiest to please. I expect much from this show; having seen flashes of brilliance this series, I can’t help comparing it to the previous Children of Earth arc, the five-parter that was a tense, shocking and tightly written adult drama – everything Torchwood promised from its initial concept. Episode 7 of Miracle Day takes us a step closer to that; while heading in the right direction, however, it does fall a little way short.

 

Much of the episode is set in 1920’s New York, Jack’s history revealed in huge chunks rather than bite-sized, digestible pieces. We see Jack meet the immigrant Angelo, and the two immediately hit it off. The two find a room, share a bed, and make love. We know it’s love rather than lust thanks to the music that plinky-plinks its way through the entire scene;  as Jack and Angelo taunt each other with cagy whispers, the background score swells above their words, almost drowning them out in its mission to help us understand what’s going on here, just in case we missed it. Torchwood’s never been a subtle show, but do we really need the music to emphasise the point?

 

Back to the present, and Gwen’s in trouble. Our mysterious bad guys have captured her family and will exchange them only for Jack. As family comes first, Gwen kidnaps Jack, driving him to the meeting point; it’s on this journey we are given more highlights from Jack’s past, while in the present the relationship between him and Gwen grows ever more tense. The juxtaposition between the two timelines is handled well – the old-fashioned typeface used to name the location in the 1920’s is simple but effective – but it’s in the past where this episode has its best moments.

 

It’s good to see the old Jack Harkness back in action; he’s on a mission, tracking down some gangsters who are unwittingly smuggling alien brain worms. Aided by companion and lover Angelo (here, Jack himself draws a comparison with the Doctor), they find the gangsters, locate the alien and destroy it, 1920’s Torchwood style. Unfortunately, it’s not all plain sailing; Jack is shot in the head, while Angelo is carted off to prison. Visually and plot-wise, it all works very well, although the music is poor, a punky electro-pop score that is utterly incongruous to what is happening on screen. While Jack and Angelo argue their roles before the mission, we’re assaulted with screeching chords that set teeth on edge between every line of dialogue. Can’t have everything, I suppose.

 

Fast-forward three years. Angelo walks out of prison and is met by a dapper Jack, obviously unharmed by his ‘death’ earlier. They return to their former apartment, where Angelo murders Jack, who he now believes is the devil. He’s not the only one; Jack is killed again and again, each time in front of more and more witnesses. It’s a painful, powerful couple of minutes to watch, brutally written and excellently acted. It’s unnerving to see an old woman holding up a vial of Jack’s blood, while those around her can’t decide if he’s saint or demon. Finally, three men arrive to examine Jack. Liking what they see, they shake hands to form a triangle – presumably the creation of the same-shaped logo we’ve seen spinning on various screens the last few weeks.

 

Luckily for our Captain, Angelo’s had a change of heart. He cleans blood from Jack (one of many religious motifs we see this episode is Angelo washing Jack’s feet) then the two abscond to the roof, so that jack can rescue his beloved coat. Jack refuses to let Angelo follow him and jumps from the roof, arms extended in a crucifixion pose; by the time Angelo can take the stairs to the ground, Jack has gone.

 

Gwen and Jack arrive at the rendezvous. Far from being the best of friends, there’s enough left of their relationship for them to share a moving moment. Jack admits he doesn’t want to die, and when Gwen asks him how many lifetimes he’s lived, Jack simply tells her it’s never enough. The acting here is perfect, and even the hardest of hearts can’t help feel sympathy for Jack. Bad guys arrive in a suitably bad guy style vehicle, and out pops Major Kira from Deep Space Nine (hopefully, Nana Visitor will last longer than C. Thomas Howell and Ernie Hudson). Fortunately, our heroes have the edge – the ever-improving (not hard, I know) Esther has realised something’s wrong and tracked them down with Rex, who is armed and in a bad mood. It’s about time Torchwood got their act together, he grumbles, and he isn’t wrong. Gwen’s family are saved, and at last our heroes have the upper hand. But not before Major Kira reveals that Angelo is still alive.

 

I liked this episode. Despite Jack’s first flashback dragging on somewhat (I’d have preferred it in smaller segments over the previous weeks, just to keep Jack out of those shadows he’s been skulking in, as well as suggest his ‘involvement’ in Miracle Day) and a twist that my cat could have seen coming, it’s all entertaining stuff. It’s a smart script – Jane Espenson again – and the 1920’s scenes look authentic for the most part. There are several religious metaphors in there (I’ve mentioned but a couple, spotting the rest could make for an interesting game) showing that Torchwood can have its moments of subtlety when it wants to.

 

Not only that, but it’s got my mind racing. Angelo told Jack that some people thought he was a blessing – is this The Blessing that Owens told Jack about last week? I think so. For me, though, the enduring image is the old woman holding up a vial of Jack’s blood. Not only is there something sinister about it, but I have the feeling it’s going to play an important part in what comes next – the blood is the life, after all. It’s a shame the previous episodes couldn’t have been as good as this, and I wonder how much padding has had to be done in order to extend this story into a ten episode run.

 

That aside, it’s well done, Torchwood; I’m not only impressed, but eager to know what’s coming next. Admittedly, it looks like the weakest trailer yet, but I’ve fallen for that trick many times before. Equally admittedly, I’m pleased I’ve stuck with Miracle Day, if only to find that episode 7 has shown a vast improvement, while proving that my hopes for the series can be realised. Keep up the good work.

You have to feel a bit for Steven Moffat, who has tied his own episodes in to the series’ story arc so thoroughly he no longer gets the chance to let his hair down (such as he has any) and just have a bit of fun with a standalone Doctor Who adventure. Just imagine how much more fun Let’s Kill Hitler would have been if it hadn’t had to default to the River Song storyline halfway through.

As it stands, Let’s Kill Hitler is probably the most fun anybody’s had with Doctor Who since its return in 2005.

Which is not to say it’s not an extremely problematic episode.

For a start, there’s River Song herself. It’s impossible now not to conclude that Moffat’s making up her story as he goes along. So many contradictions come to light with each new development, it’s all the writer can do to stem the tide. Fortunately for us, Moffat has on this occasion made a virtue of the problem, by thrusting the evidence so firmly in our faces, it’s all we can do not to laugh along with the sheer audacity of it.

If Let’s Kill Hitler has any fault at all, then, it’s that it never really ignites as a story in its own right, so much as it is merely an instalment in the greater scheme of the series. The robot doubles plot might have been enough for Russell T Davies to have made hay with back in the day (it’s not a million miles away from the territory that New Earth once covered), but here it isn’t really explored enough to engage on its own terms, and singularly fails to come to a conclusion – the elements it introduces are inveigled into the River Song plot instead.

It’s almost impossible to believe that Amy and Rory Pond (they’re ‘the Ponds’ now) have spent an entire summer waiting upon news of their daughter’s fate and haven’t been climbing the walls with worry the whole time. Having said that, if you’re going to write the character arc that Moffat evidently has in mind, it’s necessary to tone down the reality of their reaction in order not to drive the fiction down a self-defeating back alley. Doctor Who would be a very poorly series with Amy and Rory incapacitated by anxiety; having said that, the fact that they know their daughter grows up to be River Song is not really a proper excuse Mr Moffat.

Papering over the plotlines has become something of an art form with Steven Moffat, of course, but not as much as his ability to manoeuvre the story elements into place so effectively you can barely even see him doing it. If the pre-titles sequences of his recent stories (especially in the cases of The Time of Angels and The Pandorica Opens) have been superb examples of Moffat practising television magic, then the opening half hour of Let’s Kill Hitler is probably the conceit’s best illustration yet. The story barely pauses for breath, and every new idea and character’s introduction (or re-introduction) delights and surprises in both inevitability and execution. The first half of the episode stands as one of the most efficient and engaging pieces of television seen in many a year. Incredibly funny, too, often audaciously so.

That Steven Moffat then turns Let’s Kill Hitler so easily on its head, flipping effortlessly into something far more dramatic and profound in its second half, is another (and seldom stated) weapon in his armoury. We’ve seen it happen with this writer so many times before – at its most obvious in the climax to The Empty Child two-parter – but here it’s more smoothly done, and at once both more and less of a surprise (we don’t realise it’s happened until the episode is all but over). This is the programme at its most mesmerising and magical, and who cares if it doesn’t really add up: Doctor Who isn’t supposed to make sense so much as it is designed to enchant and entertain. Let’s Kill Hitler achieves both of these things with skill and aplomb.

Although this is almost certainly Matt Smith’s best instalment yet as the Doctor, it’s Alex Kingston for whom Let’s Kill Hitler is the big showpiece episode. The first act (which features some great comedy from Arthur Darvill and Karen Gillan, as well as a finely-judged turn from Albert Welling as Adolf and a rousing and revelatory – in any sense of the word – performance by Nina Toussaint-White) is really little more than a build-up to River Song’s appearance, and once she materialises, Kingston runs the acting gamut and has some incredible fun with it too. If the sequence where she gives up her future regenerations to save the Doctor (yep, that’s another regular dead again – although by now this all-too-familiar trope of Moffat’s is starting to feel like the kind of theme that comments upon itself as it develops, and behaves like a precursor to what’s to come at the end of the series) might feel a little pat and too simple a solution, then the hospital scene that follows it sells the drama perfectly. Kudos to Kingston as well, for showing how gracefully ladies might approach a certain age; she looks better without all the make-up and trappings of glamour than she does all dolled up.

Let’s Kill Hitler might have squandered a premise that could have led it into the arena of the profound and the philosophical, and it might not be Doctor Who at its behind-the-sofa scarifying best.  But it does contain all the verve and exuberance of a lively Party Hits album, magpie-thieving ideas and images from any number of sources – a pinch of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade here, a soupcon of Fantastic Voyage there – and blending them together in that unmistakeable Saturday night fashion. Mark Gatiss might have been aiming for the feel of a Bank Holiday war movie with Victory of the Daleks; Steven Moffat effortlessly pulls it off with far less flamboyance here.

I’ll be glad if Moffat’s vow to “throw the lever the other way” on the intrusiveness of the story arcs next year is true (you wouldn’t want this kind of guessing game infiltrating the show every series), but in A Good Man Goes to War and Let’s Kill Hitler (not quite a two-parter then, eh) he’s double-punched us with a pair of stories, each with completely its own identity (however borrowed from Hollywood they might be…), and yet that together have moved the story of the Doctor and of Doctor Who lurching forwards into new territories, in a way that feels both appropriate to the past and at the same time, completely fresh. If Doctor Who was like this all the time, it would be like trying to subsist on a diet of nothing more than sticky sweets. But as a once-in-a-while treat, Let’s Kill Hitler is an extravagance there can be no greater pleasure than to indulge in.

(Between the demise of the old Starburst and the birth of its new incarnation, there were fourteen Doctor Who stories broadcast that the magazine never got around to reviewing. This is one of them.)

Expectation is a funny old thing. It almost seems to set you up to let you down, and The Vampires of Venice is a prime example.

With one particularly well-received entry in the Doctor Who canon already safely under his belt (any deficiencies on School Reunion’s part came from the directorial side of things; and even then, were less the fault of the director than of a production schedule that was afterwards deemed by all to have been asking too much), and having since been the creator and chief writer on what is undoubtedly BBC Three’s most successful creation (Being Human is probably one of the best programmes to have surfaced on any channel in years), expectations were unnaturally high for Toby Whithouse’s return to the world of the Doctor.

It starts brilliantly, however. The pre-titles sequence is as daft as it is funny, but nevertheless it manages to raise the biggest of smiles in the most economical of fashions, and hints that humour might be about to play a leading part in what is to come. Which is to say, that with Amy Pond’s fiancé Rory finally dragged aboard the TARDIS and about to be given full-blown companion status, hi-jinks and high comedy will surely be the order of the day.

But there’s an uneven tone here, beginning with the very first sequence (in which Lucian Msamati – who seemingly doesn’t know quite where to pitch his performance – loses his daughter to the Calvierri’s school for young ladies), in a scene which is more than a little reminiscent of the opening to Whithouse’s Series Two story. In fact, more than that Jonny Campbell’s direction simply never quite finds the balance between humour and drama, the main problem is that Toby Whithouse’s script never quite finds the balance between originality and the repetition of his previous themes. An awful lot of School Reunion is repeated here, from the bat-like creatures disguised as humans to the school setting in which the authority figures are the ones to be feared. The story even manages to finish in a manner that has already been seen twice in the revived Doctor Who – although not in Whithouse’s previous effort, but the Doctor and two companions dynamic the writer is here tasked with introducing is very similar to the introduction of Mickey as a regular in that earlier episode.

If you can manage to erase memories of earlier stories from your brain, though, and if the sudden shifts in storytelling – shifts between comedy banter and Saturday teatime terror (and the oft-repeated sequence wherein the Doctor first encounters the “vampire girls” is doubtless the best example, comprising as it does the Doctor at his daftest, the costumes at their sexiest, the guest cast at their spookiest and a little nod of the head for Doctor Who buffs)  don’t niggle, then The Vampires of Venice is actually quite intelligent and fulfilling stuff.

The background to the plot, that of an alien race displaced and all-but-destroyed, has been played out in the series before, but the ultimate reveal of the vampires’ true appearance is gloriously mad, the bittersweet conclusion to the tale being a newish spin on an old story. And there are two areas in which The Vampires of Venice absolutely excels.

Firstly there’s Helen McCrory as Rosanna Calvierri, the vampire queen and probably the strongest guest performance so far this series. In fact, it was beginning to become noticeable how Steven Moffat’s Doctor Who seemed to be avoiding having strong villains at the centre of its plots (in direct opposition to the expectation that his Who might be heavily influenced by the Hinchcliffe/Holmes stories of the mid-’seventies, in which the Doctor almost always encountered an antagonist with a personality approaching the equal but opposite of his own), and in this episode that subject is addressed and then some. McCrory is magnificent.

Even more magnificent, and the one area in which the production perhaps exceeds expectations, is the depiction of Venice.

If Daleks in Manhattan managed to squeeze in a little location filming in America (if not for the majority of the cast and crew, but simply to include a little background detail to the story), then The Fires of Pompeii upped the ante on foreign location work, and The Vampires of Venice’s excursion to Trogir in Croatia is new Doctor Who’s most exciting use of a foreign location yet. The use of Cinecitta in Rome (doubling for Pompeii) was all about utilising a controlled environment for maximum effect, but the Venice conjured up by the production of this story is all angled canals and narrow streets, and manages to evoke the story’s environment extremely effectively. In fact, the cuts between Trogir, St Donat’s Castle in South Wales and the studio filming is seamless and efficient, and is the one area in which this episode thoroughly delivers on its promise. It will be interesting to see if the same location, for which the production of future story Vincent and the Doctor also tagged along, will be half as effectively used.

Ultimately, if The Vampires of Venice had appeared in any other series of Doctor Who, it would undoubtedly have been a striking and resonant addition to the show’s legacy. But coming as it does in the middle of a run of stories that don’t quite seem to know what they’re aiming for (both tonally and in terms of character development), and suffering as it does with a certain lack of initiative in terms both of its story and its ambition, it can’t help but be a disappointment. It’s that weight of expectation, you see; Whithouse’s story seems so determined not to disappoint, it never really takes flight – it never dares to really innovate – and it’s this lack of aspiration that’s the real let-down. 

 

(If you’d like to go further into the programme’s past, I’ve collected together various reviews and articles that I’ve posted online over the years here: http://watchingdoctorwho.weebly.com/)

(Between the demise of the old Starburst and the birth of its new incarnation, there were fourteen Doctor Who stories broadcast that the magazine never got around to reviewing. This is one of them.)

 

Doctor Who is supposed to be a programme that sends you reeling behind the sofa in fear and horror. Occasionally, it sends you there for entirely the wrong sorts of reasons. My first reaction to The Hungry Earth was entirely the wrong sort of horror.

But do you know what? As the two episodes went on, and it became all too apparent how precious little thought had gone into almost any area of this production, I was suddenly struck by the notion that it was so hokey, it was almost becoming loveable.

The Silurian redesign, for a start (it’s not worth bothering thinking about the Silurian/Eocene/Earth Reptile/Homo Reptilia naming debate, as it’s blindingly obvious that writer Chris Chibnall didn’t think it through either): the third eye has disappeared, and apart from the scaly exterior and one or two flourishes (such as a vague similarity with the crest, and the vaguely-similar shape of the guns), they might almost be another species. The Sontaran retooling of three years previous took a familiar image and kept its most important elements, updating only those which would most easily survive being redesigned. The Silurians seem to have had the opposite kind of makeover. And more oddly yet, they seem to have inherited the string-vests from their marine cousins the Sea Devils.

And more oddly yet, somehow all of this conspires to work in their favour. My initial shock at seeing something so unfamiliar going by such a familiar (combination of) name(s) quickly wore off, and thanks in no small part to the performances of Neve MacIntosh, Richard Hope and Stephen Moore, I warmed to them immensely.

The Silurian soldiers look stunning with their masks on, too.

The human side of the story also seems badly thought through. Meera Syal and Robert Pugh come over as probably the most unlikely pair of miners that television has ever seen fit to depict, but once that shock – plus the budget-saving mechanism of having an entirely deserted valley and a mine that operates even without the majority of its staff present – has worn off, there’s something cosy and arch enough about the pair of them that pretty soon you find yourself rooting for the characters.

There’s an incredibly daft sequence with some lashed up surveillance cameras, a bizarre introductory sequence with Rory and Amy that pays off in the most predictable – and therefore ineffectual – fashion possible, a resolution that leaves the story as open-ended as we know it can’t really be, lashings of plot that either goes nowhere or defies logic, and an extended homage to The Daemons that seems to have been included for no other reason than to necessitate an otherwise entirely unnecessary and presumably rather expensive night-shoot. You have to applaud these two episodes for their audacity in being made at all.

Of course, there’s also the ‘cracks in time’ story arc resurrecting itself to kill Rory. If the poor fellow hadn’t ‘died’ last week as well, it might mean something. As it is, it simply leaves the question of whether Amy’s boyfriend really is dead this week, or if it’s just another red herring to be revised at a later date. The moment with the engagement ring suggests the former, but the Doctor’s subsequent reveal that part of the TARDIS has been residing on the other side of the crack (and what a phenomenally cheap looking special effect that crack is), implies the opposite. There’s a little ripple of wibbly-wobbly undulating throughout the series, which makes it very hard to take some of its more serious moments terribly seriously. I still don’t know why Amy doesn’t remember the Daleks.

But since when did Doctor Who looking cheap, encompassing odd performance choices and generally behaving like a scriptwriter’s bad dream ever make it anything less than thoroughly entertaining?

Besides, while The Hungry Earth might look cheap in parts, the realisation of the Silurians’ underground city in part two is simply magnificent, an awesome (or should that be ‘ore-some’) achievement. For all the bizarre acting on display, Meera Syal makes for a very engaging tourist in this nether world, and Neve MacIntosh’s depiction of twin Silurians on either side of the underworld/overground divide is compelling. By the end of the second episode, you almost want the war she so wishes for to break out – if only to break up the extraordinary conference that’s taking place in the next room (seriously, are we expected to take any of this seriously?). I don’t recall watching a programme with as protracted, frustrating and nonsensical a climax as this before. Until Chris Chibnall returns to the show, I doubt I will again.

For sheer entertainment, on the other hand (and by ‘entertainment’, I’m not referring to the simple pleasures of a television programme that works its way towards a logical and fulfilling conclusion, but rather to a ninety-minute excursion to a place where anything can happen and rather scarily very likely will – but not in the way you expect it to!), these two episodes deliver in spades. The sheer sense of satisfaction during the end credits is less to do with the fulfilment of watching good television well made, and even less to do with feeling unfulfilled by mediocre television being adequately made, than it is to do with watching mind-boggling television being made on this scale at all.

Yes, The Hungry Earth was as close as Doctor Who has come in many a year to sending me scuttling behind the sofa in horror, but the most horrifying thing of all is how much I loved it. It might stand entirely apart from the rest of this series’ output (so far), but Doctor Who could well do with some more of this kind of madness.

 

(If you’d like to go further into the programme’s past, I’ve collected together various reviews and articles that I’ve posted online over the years here: http://watchingdoctorwho.weebly.com/)

(Between the demise of the old Starburst and the birth of its new incarnation, there were fourteen Doctor Who stories broadcast that the magazine never got around to reviewing. This is one of them.)

 

A breath of fresh air.

Right from the off, it’s clear that Richard Curtis (presumably being given free rein, as probably the most famous writer ever to have worked on the programme) is writing from a template as laid down by Russell T Davies during his five years in charge of Doctor Who, rather than attempting to emulate the rather uncertain tone of Moffat’s showrunnership to date (at this point in the series, Moffat’s version of Who has clearly still to find its feet, with many of the elements of the previous tenure still weighing in strongly amongst the new). Like so many of Davies’ stories, then, Vincent and the Doctor is really a drama about human beings that uses an ‘alien invasion’ plot as little more than background to the real story, and the Krafayis’ influence on events comes to a conclusion a good ten minutes before the end of the episode, allowing plenty of time for the Doctor, Amy and Vincent van Gogh to tie up the emotional loose ends.

It works beautifully.

But the small things first. The location filming – in Trogir, Croatia again – mingles invisibly with the sequences shot in Wales to provide an efficient and convincing backdrop to the story. The Krafayis itself, while rather sketchily explained, is by turns both daft and frightening in execution, as many of the best Doctor Who monsters have been down the years. There’s an odd mention of babies coming from Vincent that might have been an addition of Moffat’s, and Rory’s death is dealt with expediently but delicately, allowing us to get to the heart of the story without too much ado.

While many might find Richard Curtis’ screenplays overly mawkish and sentimental (although those who instantly doubted his abilities ought to remember that his career encompasses Blackadder and Not the Nine O’Clock News, as well as Love Actually and Four Weddings and a Funeral), part of the joy of this episode is in seeing the author of Notting Hill tackling television’s most famous Time Lord (although it’s not the first time they’ve crossed paths, as Curtis was behind Steven Moffat’s 1999 charity story The Curse of Fatal Death). Curtis gets the Doctor just right, with Matt Smith playing up to the mixture of passion and curiosity, awkwardness and wisdom in one of his best performances of the series (and he’s been consistently good). There’s a small but profound moment when he bemoans the age he feels, and it’s perfectly in tune with the rest of the episode: Vincent and the Doctor is about the meeting of two impossible characters, two brilliant minds, neither of which is in a body that can do it justice, and you sense the unspoken sadness of the Doctor’s place as the last of the Time Lords as he helplessly watches van Gogh’s madness play out as it surely must, regardless of outside intervention. The madness is delicately handled for a Saturday teatime audience, never shying away from illustrating its consequences (either those immediate ones, as van Gogh is shunned by the locals, or the long-term one as the artist’s suicide is drawn attention to on a number of occasions) but never unbalancing the series’ format to paint its portrait either. Tony Curran is thrilling as van Gogh, understated and yet never missing an emotional beat, by turns amusing, passionate and philosophical, and gives one of the best guest performances the programme has ever seen. Even Karen Gillan as Amy Pond ups her game in response, with a little less of the shouting this week, and a little more honesty in the emotion. She’s still not quite there, either as an actress or a character, but she’s definitely on her way.

There are some beautiful moments towards the end, too, ones that the production was obviously aiming to achieve and ones that can only work if the first half-hour of the story has done its job well enough. The image of the night sky turning into a detail of The Starry Night is lovely and affecting, and the kind of conceit that Doctor Who really oughtn’t to try and attempt but just this once, convinces with. The sequence in which van Gogh gets to travel into the future for a vision of what his life will have meant to others is pure Curtis schmaltz and – as conveyed by Bill Nighy – completely wonderful. It’s for this very scene that Moffat hired Curtis, and Curtis doesn’t fail in the delivery. The coda, in which Amy Pond discovers that this sequence actually failed to change anything – that van Gogh still committed suicide after meeting the Doctor (Nighy’s Doctor Black, that is); that van Gogh’s demons still continued to haunt him – feels almost like an afterthought, but is an essential moment in the drama. The one tiny change to the future that Amy subsequently discovers is a hairs on the back of the neck moment, however.

Doctor Who would soon become dull and too-worthy if it tried to tell a story as profound and involving as this every week – and correspondingly, a story like this if one of many would soon lose all meaning – but just to have this one attempt adds an extra level of worth to the programme. Vincent and the Doctor is an episode to cherish, and by consequence, gives us another reason to cherish Doctor Who as a whole. 

 

(If you’d like to go further into the programme’s past, I’ve collected together various reviews and articles that I’ve posted online over the years here: http://watchingdoctorwho.weebly.com/)

(Between the demise of the old Starburst and the birth of its new incarnation, there were fourteen Doctor Who stories broadcast that the magazine never got around to reviewing. This is one of them.)

 

Moffat’s first year in charge of Doctor Who seems to be taking the reverse approach to the tone of the series to his predecessor. Whereas Russell T Davies’ series usually kicked off with the wackier, funnier episodes, before turning towards darkness the deeper into them you ventured, this year the gloomier episodes were all in the first half of the series. And so just before we reach the finale, we get The Lodger – Doctor Who as situation comedy.

The Lodger is, of course, inspired by – if perhaps not based upon – the comic strip of the same name that writer Gareth Roberts had already seen printed in Doctor Who Magazine. But whereas in the previous version the tenth Doctor had been sharing a flat with Rose Tyler’s boyfriend Mickey Smith, here instead we are introduced to a brand new character – Craig Owens, as played (controversially, if a certain sector of fandom is to be listened to) by James Corden – and the situation in the comedy is that of the Doctor experiencing normal, human life for a few days. Corden is fantastic as Owens, always underplaying the emotion and the comedy (and thus belying the apparent reputation for overdoing it that so incensed fans at the news of his casting), and even better yet is Daisy Haggard as Owens’ would-be girlfriend Sophie. It thus falls to Matt Smith to carry off the funny business and he does so with aplomb. It’s almost as if Smith was born to play comedy, rather than (his first love – and almost his vocation had an accident not come in the way) football, although The Lodger gives him a chance to shine at both.

Sadly, one of the story’s best attributes is its sidelining of Amy Pond, although this does result in a return to Karen Gillan’s shouty-shouty acting style that beleaguered several of her earlier episodes; thankfully then the character doesn’t appear overly often. It’s a real shame that Gillan’s at her best when we can’t see or hear her, and hopefully something that will be addressed before the next series.

Meanwhile The Lodger itself – while very satisfactorarily accomplished in most departments – suffers some highly unsatisfactory developments as it reaches its conclusion. One such detail – albeit it a rather throwaway one – is the manner in which Roberts invokes ‘timey-wimey’ as a means for the Doctor to have arrived at the flat in the first place. The twist as we realise that the flat itself is, in fact, actually a bungalow instead (with a perception-filtered spaceship acting as its ‘upstairs’) is extremely disappointing and manages to make what might otherwise have been a head-turning moment seem bungled and illogical (had the flat been situated above a shop, with a fake second floor above that, the twist would have been far more convincingly accomplished). And the explanation for what the spaceship is (with its faux TARDIS interior), where it came from, why it is here and to whom it belongs is left open – presumably for the next series to address – which simply leaves the viewer scratching their head and wondering what the story was really all about.

The Lodger is about relationships, of course, and the last ten minutes can’t really spoil the thirty or so that got us there.

Most importantly, it’s about Owens’ indecisiveness in his relationship with Sophie. He’s in love with her, and it’s apparent from the start that the feelings are reciprocated. But rather like a lovelorn, cheap accommodation-renting version of Hamlet, Owens can’t act upon his feelings until he has proof of their reciprocation. The arrival of the Doctor only serves to undermine Owens and in two ways; firstly, the Doctor and his investigations are forever – comically – getting under Owens’ feet just as Owens’ own investigations are about to get under way. And secondly, the Doctor – however amusingly – begins to make Owens feel second best, and inadequate to the challenge of becoming Sophie’s choice. If Owens begins to feel he can’t match up to the Doctor, then it’s in the football match itself when this is at its best illustrated. The Doctor (wearing number eleven) discovers a hidden talent, and Doctor Who ventures into territory it’s never quite visited before – save for a brief dalliance between the fifth Doctor and cricket in Black Orchid. It’s all rather eye-opening, and is a sharp reminder to viewers who don’t think the show ought to do this kind of thing, that the programme really shouldn’t be pigeon-holed. Bravo for The Lodger being brave enough to try such things, and bravo for some pretty unbelievable timing, too, as the episode was broadcast on the same night as England’s opening World Cup match in South Africa.

The Lodger is one of those odd episodes – rather like The Doctor’s Daughter – that truly would feel more at home in a comic strip or an annual. It’s so unlike the rest of the series’ television output, its appearance is incongruous at best. But that’s not a reason to dislike it; for just as Love & Monsters divided fan opinion so thoroughly back in 2006 that it is almost impossible not to have a strong opinion about it (and for what it’s worth, I absolutely adore Love & Monsters), so The Lodger is one of those Marmite episodes that you either love or you loath.

Truth to tell, it’s not quite on a par with the best of these sideways glances at the show’s tropes and format; having said that, if you don’t get something back from episodes like this, then you’re probably watching the wrong programme anyway. 

 

(If you’d like to go further into the programme’s past, I’ve collected together various reviews and articles that I’ve posted online over the years here: http://watchingdoctorwho.weebly.com/)

(Between the demise of the old Starburst and the birth of its new incarnation, there were fourteen Doctor Who stories broadcast that the magazine never got around to reviewing. This is one of them.)

 

If the idiosyncrasies of Steven Moffat’s take on Doctor Who have been a while coming (and while there have been flashes of it, notably in The Eleventh Hour, we haven’t really had the real deal unto this point), then here they finally arrive with a (Big) Bang. The whole of Series Five has found itself in a sort of limbo between what it was replacing and what it was replacing it with, but with his two-part finale, Moffat at last lays his cards on the table and invites us to inspect the results. To mix the metaphor even further, it’s something of a mixed bag.

One thing we’ve come to expect from Moffat, a development that arrived fully-fledged with his Library two-parter and was even more obvious in this year’s Angel story, is that the two halves will be significantly different to one another. So it is here; in fact, it’s almost impossible to write a review of this story without considering the individual episodes as being entirely separate from one another. The Pandorica Opens is, if anything, a rejoinder to the past five years’ worth of Doctor Who finales, an exclamation of “Anything you can do…” to which Moffat replies “I can do bigger!” Although not necessarily better, but Moffat will do it his own way and so he does.

And so, we have a pre-titles sequence (I hate the misuse of the expression ‘pre-credits sequence’; the credits come at the end of the episode, and so the entire 45 minutes is ‘pre-credits’) that builds and elaborates upon the already elaborate sequence that began The Time of Angels. There’s a mystery to resolve and characters to manoeuvre into position, and in the space of just a few short minutes of bravura planet-hopping and cameo-making, we arrive in the midst of the Roman Empire, somewhere near Stonehenge. So far so Steven, as it’s becoming apparent that Mr Moffat loves his faux history (even The Beast Below was set in a futuristic version of the 1970s). River Song is Cleopatra, and Rory’s not dead (the Cleopatra thing would seem like grandstanding if it wasn’t so cheeky; the Kenny-from-South–Park thing would seem lazy if it wasn’t so funny), and the action relocates to an underground cavern for the majority of the episode. It’s a way of keeping costs down and tensions high, and mirrors – again – the first episode of the Angels story. It’s like we keep getting lost in a time-travelling variation of Indiana Jones. That is not a complaint.

More of Moffat’s tropes make an appearance: the Doctor’s stance of “Look me up if you want to have a go,” is endearingly broadcast to an entire sky full of spaceships (Matt Smith sounds a little drunk during this bit), and beneath his feet there’s a perfect and impossible prison. The kind that River Song keeps escaping from, presumably. Just to rub it in how these end-of-series finales seem to enjoy the inclusion of a kitchen sink’s worth of entertainment, Moffat then assembles an entire wardrobe department’s worth of available aliens (although the lone Cyberman guarding the Pandorica Chamber sequence was probably the episode’s single best moment of alien danger), and has them imprison the Doctor in a box that has been specifically built for this purpose. The most impossible box to escape from ever built. This is the moment Rory chooses to reveal himself as an Auton and shoot Amy dead.

It’s Steven Moffat’s take on the Get-Out-Of-That! cliffhanger.

So how does he do it?

He doesn’t! The very next thing we know we’re back at the very beginning of Series Five, with little seven-year-old Amelia Pond. It’s the kind of sleight-of-hand that Moffat’s been delivering quietly across the whole series, only this time, he does it boldly and brassy as you like, right out in front of our very eyes.

How does the Doctor escape the impossible box? Why, his future self comes back and sets him free! And what complex and technically-absurd apparatus does he require in order to open this box? Why, it’s only the sonic screwdriver! And how will we get around the fact that Amy’s dead? Why, just stick her in the box – it magically brings people back to life!

Speaking of magic, there’s a fair bit of that on display in this episode. It’s as if Steven Moffat is just now delivering on his promise of steering Doctor Who into a world of fairy-tale, and by having everything made alright again at the end as a consequence of Amy Pond clicking her heels and clapping her hands three times, we’re whisked right out of reality altogether. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves…

What The Big Bang does that’s so different to any of the series finales we’ve seen before, is it ignores the magnitude of the peril we encounter at the previous episode’s cliffhanger and presents us with a small, intimate and as light-on-its-feet as you please chamber episode instead. Gone are the Cybermen, Sontarans and Silurians (except for cameos as fossilised statues), and in their place we have a delightful and witty little runaround (inside a night at a museum) with a Stone Dalek. There’s a fez, a mop, and a momentarily-dead fop, and its displacing qualities are breath-taking. We ought to have been expecting the Monster Alliance Retribution; nobody was expecting this.

In fact, it’s only while actually watching this episode that something becomes particularly obvious about Steven Moffat’s Doctor Who: it makes perfect sense as it unfolds, and it’s only afterwards that you begin to question the validity of what you’ve been watching. There are so many questions raised about the logic of how it all fits together, that as soon as you start asking those questions, it really does fall to pieces remarkably quickly. Yet at the time, it really does make sense. Steven Moffat writes Doctor Who that invites you to think, but just not too hard. It’s the perfect programme for an intelligent child and the most frustrating thing ever for the over-intellectualising parent.

Despite its all-too-obvious flaws, it’s really rather bracing. And exceptionally involving.

Of course, we’ve watched for twelve weeks expecting answers to the questions that the series has been posing and, as we draw to the series’ conclusion, it’s probably the most idiosyncratic conceit of all that Moffat only bothers answering a handful, while leaving as great a number hanging over to the next series – and posing a whole heap of new ones. It’s as mind-blowing as the explosion that rocks the whole of space and time, as frustrating as the reset that ensures that everything we’ve ever seen never really happened, and as exciting as the newly married Mr and Mrs Pond feel embarking upon their new life together in the TARDIS. For such an ostensibly unsatisfying episode, the resolution and conclusion have a strangely most satisfying quality. Steven Moffat’s Doctor Who has landed, and all the cobwebs that the last five years have accumulated have been resolutely blown away. This is where the new kid on the block really makes his mark.

Which was a huge surprise, because on paper, I ought to really hate this story. 

           

(If you’d like to go further into the programme’s past, I’ve collected together various reviews and articles that I’ve posted online over the years here: http://watchingdoctorwho.weebly.com/)

(Between the demise of the old Starburst and the birth of its new incarnation, there were fourteen Doctor Who stories broadcast that the magazine never got around to reviewing. This is one of them.)

There’s a germ of an idea here that could have made for an absolutely magnificent episode of Doctor Who. The ingredients are all there and plain to see; but somehow in the mixing they’ve conspired to create a somewhat less-than-appetising dish.

Imagine if this episode had begun simply with the Doctor and company fetching up in Leadworth, no sign of a belly bump in sight. And everything was not quite right. Wherever the three intrepid travellers went, they kept encountering the same man but in different guises, and he didn’t offer them an early explanation of who he was or what he was doing. The mystery could have been carried across half an episode, with the regulars putting together clues along the way before working it out for themselves. (Indeed, something similar was very successfully attempted in The Android Invasion.) The latter half of the episode might have worked in a similar fashion with the TARDIS-set scenes. And the result might have been as well-remembered as The Mind Robber or The Dalek Invasion of Earth’s opening instalments.

Instead, we’re furnished with quite enough clues to come to the correct conclusion before Amy’s Choice even gets going. The sight of a pregnant Amy Pond and a pony-tailed Rory Williams (fantastic and hilarious choice, by the way) instantly makes us aware that we’re not looking at reality, but instead are somehow experiencing a dream or fantasy sequence. And when the Dream Lord lets us in on the puzzle – that the Doctor, Amy and Rory are caught between two realities, one actual and one fictional, and that they themselves must decide which is which in order to survive – the very fact that the first encountered reality is the false one also tips the nod that the other must be false too, otherwise there wouldn’t be any dramatic tension to the reveal at all. So far so so, and it’s only the mystery of who the Dream Lord really is that is in any way a mystery at all.

A fatally missed opportunity.

Having said that, this is another case of Series Five throwing up a story whereby if you can ignore its inconsistencies and its crucial lack of ambition, then there’s an awful lot of fun to be had with what remains.

Toby Jones, for instance, playing the Dream Lord himself, is a fantastic actor, and relishes the chance to play the part with a dryness and a knowingness that immediately gives him one over on the regulars. It’s an unsettling and perfectly pitched performance (and could have been even more effective in an alternative version of the episode), and it puts Jones at centre stage for the entire story, his presence looming large over the action even during some fairly long spells in which he doesn’t appear. Any other choice of actor might have unbalanced this, and it’s to Jones’ credit that he underplays which therefore emphasises the peril – if Amy’s Choice works at all, then it’s because of him.

That’s two stories in a row with strong villains. Let’s hope it’s a development that continues.

An odder choice is that of Simon Nye as the writer for this latest episode. Nye is best known as a writer of situation and other comedy (Men Behaving Badly is, of course, his most infamous achievement). While that might have proven an ideal background for Doctor Who writers in the past (both Terry Nation and Stephen Moffat himself were both far better known for comedy when they got their first Doctor Who commissions), in this instance there’s a certain tipping of the balance towards the surreal and the amusing that only serves to undermine the drama. If your premise is one of surreality – as it must surely be here – then it’s an imperative that you treat it with seriousness and allow your situations to conform to their own internal logic. Rampaging pensioners might be a thoroughly amusing and unnerving sight (although bashing one over the head might be a spectacle too far, but that’s perhaps to be expected from the ‘laddist’ creator of Men Behaving Badly), but the image they conjure up does tend to undermine the question of which reality is which – less so than the redundant question of Amy Pond’s pregnancy, admittedly (but then there’s maybe a reason of propheticism for including that).

When Rory ‘dies’, it’s all we can do to care. We know, before it even happens, that it doesn’t take. And sadly Karen Gillan’s reaction is as removed from reality as is the rest of this fake storyline – all of which will undercut any subsequent similar threats to the character that future episodes might throw his way. Amy’s Choice (and why Amy’s ‘choice’ after all? Surely it is all of the TARDIS crew who are included in the choosing?) is here doing more damage than it is proving itself a beneficial addition to the series’ canon.

It’s a shame, really. Because if Amy’s Choice had taken itself either a little more seriously or a little less seriously (and if it hadn’t made the solution to the ‘choice’ quite so apparent from the outset), then it might have been a thrilling drama or a classy comedy. But it’s in the inconsistency of tone (an inconsistency of tone that the weather on location appears to have taken up sympathy with!) – as with so much of this fifth series so far – that the magic has failed to emerge.

Amy’s Choice might still be one of the outstanding episodes of the run (in terms of how different it is, in terms of plot, to the rest of what’s on offer), but it has badly squandered the opportunity to make of itself one of the outstanding stories of the show’s entire catalogue. 

 

(If you’d like to go further into the programme’s past, I’ve collected together various reviews and articles that I’ve posted online over the years here: http://watchingdoctorwho.weebly.com/)

After the shocking revelation at the end of last week, episode 6 of Miracle Day needed to hit the ground running. Doctor Juarez is dead. Esther and Rex are trapped. Gwen’s dad will be burned alive at six o’clock. Here, then, is an episode that is expected to deliver high tension and drama.

But what we can have is Captain Jack back – at last. He plays a more… er, Captain Jack style role this week, and the show is much better for it. Wit and charm shines through as Jack meets with Owens’s secretary in a bar, revealing that he knows everything about her, along with some suspect emails where Owens is asking for her to be moved from his offices. A woman scorned, the secretary plays along with Jack, who next meets with Owens himself, telling him he has kidnapped the woman, and will kill her unless Owens reveals all. As we know, Owens has nothing to tell, but there is some exposition as he slips in a reference to The Blessing. Before the police can arrive, Jack slips away, presumably to get his coat back from the waiter he flirted with (very amusingly, I might add) on the way in.

This scene is a brief pause, a pit stop while the rest of the episode hurtles around a track. Rex is still recording his video diary within the camp, understandably devastated with the loss of Vera, determined to expose the Overflow Camps for what they really are. Captured after failing to impersonate a guard – good to see that the soldiers actually recognise each other – Rex is interrogated and subsequently tortured by Colin Maloney, who takes pen-pushing to the ultimate extreme. Who can save our hero now?

Esther, that’s who. Yes, Esther. In what is effectively her first mission, Esther shows initiative and is able to stay in the camp after her shift to keep an eye on developments within the office. Unable to contact Vera, Esther’s concern rises when Maloney returns without the doctor. Later, Esther follows Maloney and rescues Rex, ‘killing’ the evil accountant in doing so. As she searches his body, Maloney grabs her ankle. Esther is almost beaten when shots ring out; Ralph the pathetic soldier, like Esther, finally shows his strength. It’s a nice touch that Esther admits she was stupid to use her own name, the writers putting me in my place for the criticism last week.

Torchwood’s roots are firmly in Wales, and it’s here where Gewn shines. We can often tell what’s going to happen depending on what Gwen’s wearing. This week, dressed as a nurse, she’s caring and concerned for her father, as well as the other patients. She also fights with doctors; the concentration camp analogy is by no means subtle, but there’s no denying the emotion of the scene. “Don’t you dare tell me you’re obeying orders”, Gwen argues, “Don’t you dare.” It’s powerful stuff, suggesting that man had learned nothing from the lessons of the past. To teach them a new lesson for the future, Gwen dons her leathers, finds explosives and a motorbike, then rides off into the night, the modules behind her exploding. Let’s hope they were empty…

Gwen then takes a flight back to the US, where her name is called out on loudspeaker. I’m not sure how convincing it is that the CIA can’t find her, while the shadowy villains behind PhiCorp know exactly what flight she’s on, but hey, this is Torchwood. Able to hack into Gwen’s Mission: Impossible contact lenses, the bad guys reveal they have kidnapped her family and will exchange them only for Jack Harkness. It’s a good ending, the perfect setup for next week.

So, good stuff. Not the best, but a solid, well-paced hour of TV. Yet, it feels again like something’s missing. This could have been any espionage based TV series; beyond the underlying concept, there’s little here that could be called sci-fi. While there’s more clues being dropped – admittedly, I’m intrigued regarding The Blessing, which shows further religious connotations – it’s frustrating that we still don’t know who, or what, is behind PhiCorp. Torchwood’s remit was to protect the world from aliens; at the moment, it appears to be protecting mankind from itself.

No Oswald Danes this week and, to be honest, it doesn’t suffer from the lack of his presence. Next week looks like we’re going to see more of Jack; based on what we’ve seen this episode, it should be welcoming. So, come on, Torchwood – we know you can deliver thrill and drama, let’s see sci-fi come to the fore.