What's Up Doc?
Jun. 6th, 2025 06:28 pmLate the party as always, but I'll gladly bore the stragglers. Disney Doctor Who, series 2, my takes:
The Well - 8/10
Right-o, here’s what we’re going to do for the peace of mind of all parties concerned: let’s just ignore the pre-credit scenes of all stories from here on in. Just pretend they don’t exist because they all routinely suck. Then, we can get on to the real story, which so far has been pretty good.
The Well is definitely a win for style -over substance – but what style! A spooky dark planet with a mystery to solve, and a massively high body count to go with it. We haven’t had this kind of out-and out space-slasher since, when, Oxygen? If the story is more basic than it appears to be, and its connection with Midnight tenuous at best, the atmosphere is a triumph, dark, tense, and at times, genuinely scary. At least until Murray Gold’s shrieky string section kicks in, diffusing the tension like a leaf blower to a sand-sculpture. Ye Gods, can we please bring back Segun Akinola? At least he respected Delia Derbyshire’s theme!
Credit must go to co-writer Sharma Angel Walfall presumably injecting some guts into the proceedings.
Lucky Day 2/10
For the first time in forty years - in forever really – I skipped the intro. I can’t do it anymore, sorry. I should have skipped the episode. I did skip large segments of it.
Pity about Conrad. I liked him. I suppose we were supposed to. He was more than a bit of a buffoon, but I was attracted to his burning curiosity and open mindedness – qualities I admire. I thought he’d have made a good companion, and yes, I thought he and Ruby made a cute couple. I suppose that’s what’s supposed to have given the story its dramatic punch. Instead, I felt it to be more of a bait-and-switch, following an agonizing sixteen minutes of set up.
I suppose I should be grateful that the schmaltz was undermined in such brutal fashion, but that’s not what I wanted. I didn’t begrudge Ruby her boyfriend; I just didn’t want to be stuck in an elevator with them. And for God’s sake, I didn’t want her suffer. It was squirmy and awkward and uncomfortable, and didn’t at all make up for the torturous sixteen minutes. It felt mean.
And how about this throwaway bit of dialogue.
“Was he [the Doctor] your boyfriend?”
“Oh no. If he were here, he’d be flirting with you.”
Notice: once again, it’s entirely the sexuality of the character/ actor that determines whether the Doctor fucks his companions. NOT because he’s an ALIEN!!!! Not because he’s more than A THOUSAND YEARS OLD!!!!! No one ever brings that up. Why tf not?
Anyway, if Pete McTighe’s script offered a much needed take down of conspiracy fantasists and online post-trutherism, well that’s great, but it also made for miserable television.
The Story and the Engine – 8/10
Holy shit, did he really name his ship “Nexus”? Bugger all, that was a key term from MY latest fiction! Bloody hell, it was the title! Granted, it was always a tentative title, but now I’ll have to come with another one.
But onto the story, we are taken to the heart of bustling Lagos where an interdimensional spider-shaped vessel fueled by fiction is disguising as a barbershop. It’s an inspired, almost brilliant idea that makes for immensely entertaining television. Here’s the thing: I rather like stories, and have always been a sucker for stories about stories. So something like this has me in from the beginning. It’s rather reminiscent of “Rings of Akhnaten” in terms of this theme (another, much maligned, tale I just melted for): some big malignant entity craves stories, and who knows more stories than the Doctor? I suppose I could quibble with the Doctor’s contention that a night in the life of Belinda is more compelling than his adventures with Cybermen and Ice Warriors – it ain’t.
A more serious quibble might be that there are altogether too many mini-climaxes, so many long, drawn out triumphalist speeches underneath Murray Gold’s ear-splitting score - and I cannot emphasise enough, for the fifth time in a row, how much this hackwork ruins the episodes (who knows how they might have been under a more sensitive artist). It feels like the episode spends nearly a third of its running time ending itself. When things are going so well, what’s the hurry?
I’m also not thrilled about the Doctor hobnobbing with “gods” – we’re in full mythological territory now, but then again, we have been for quite some time. The abandonment of rationalism is something I deeply mourn.
Interstellar Song Contest 7/10
Argh! It looks like music won’t be getting any better between now and 2925, and I’ll be stuck with drum machines forever. Argh!
Alas, alak, if we could side-step the episode for a moment, I wonder if some audience members who balk at values espoused in episodes from fifty years ago might similarly bat an eyelid at the presumption inherent in this on that human culture, to say nothing of Western pop-culture, will not only survive but remain fundamentally unchanged for nine hundred years. I grudgingly accept that to mention it is to rather curmudgeoningly overlook the (undeniable) joys of the story, but I can’t help myself: it is a grumble I have with virtually every show of this nature, not just Disney-Who. Granted, it is impossible to predict the future, and not the purpose of every story to do so, but disappointing how few even bother to try.
Ce serra, the story is otherwise a hoot, mandatory sentimental drek (as probably mandated by Head Office) notwithstanding. I was tickled by the idea of some scruffy rocker type hijacking the futuristic Euro-vision, and the actor Freddie Fox’s superficial resemblance to a young Thomas Gabriel Fischer even more so, but it is probably for the best that the story did not go down this road. Besides which, the character states quite unequivocally that his favourite music is pop: I choose to believe that he meant it and was not just making an incredibly morbid pun. I would be willing to bet that far more mass murders have been committed by pop fans than rockers, but am in no mood to compile that data.
Back to the point, I was distracted from this train of thought by what I thought might have been the biggest onscreen body count in – nevermind Doctor Who, in television history. I’m glad it wasn’t – the spectacle of a hundred thousand dead human beings (and other species) floating around like so much glitter was truly nasty.
As per usual, schmaltzy violins ensure we never break out into autonomous emotion, and we are somewhat encouraged to believe that a song can halt a world-wide corporate genocide. Don’t get me wrong, I believe in the power of Song – just not that one.
Whatever. Gatwa’s a blast, Sethu’s earned my respect, and if I don’t particularly like these song contests, at least I take comfort know that in that space station’s museum, there is probably an exhibit for Lordi.
(Yes, yes, this isn’t Eurovision, but don’t YOU get technical on me!)
Wish World – 5/10
One of these days, I will avoid the spoilers.
I think I managed to miss one of them, but it was so damned obvious it was hardly a surprise. The other one might have been, but I’ll never know. I’m takin’ it all in stride now. It’s almost like the big reveals don’t work anymore. We’ve come a long way from the time Derek Jacobi revealed himself as the Master. For one thing, they’re all practically unrecognizable, often sharing not much more than the namesake of the originals (I think only Davros got through unscathed). That, and it’s almost become routine. Who’s left I wonder? The Black Guardian most obviously. But who else? The Meddling Monk? Morbius? The Graf Vinder K?
How is this new reinvention? Well, Archie Panjabi is a delectable Rani. She drips evil, and megalomania, and even somehow delivers her lines like Kate Omara used to, even though her latent sexiness is miles away from Omara’s virtually robotic psychopath. Possibly we’re meant to think of Michelle Gomez’s Missy instead, though I doubt Missy would have the patience for. . .whatever the fuck this is.
Damned if I know what she’s up to strutting about in that celestial Fred-Flinstone palace. Something about getting all the energies aligned so that the Seventh Son of Seventh Son (no Iron Maiden in the soundtrack? Wasted opportunity!) becomes the Wish Master god who creates a world only so that it can implode and crack open the fabric of reality and unleash Omega. . . but she’s failed to notice a differently-abled encampment underneath who will doubtless be key to unravelling her plans.
I’ve almost stopped paying attention. There are so many disparate elements – Conrad, baby Poppy, two Ranis, the Wish God baby, the wheelchair Underground, a really big clock – I can’t tell you how it all adds-up, and pretty past caring because I’ve learned from hard experience that it probably won’t add up. None of it will matter because none of it ever does. The Rani will go “blah blah blah *something bad happens”. The Doctor will go “blah blah blah *something good happens” and it will end with long sentimental goodbyes amidst an ear-splitting violin assault. Destroying the world yet again will have no lasting consequences. It won’t make any sense because it never does.
Last year’s emergence of Sutekh was at least cool. This is just a blob. I don’t know how Conrad reading “Dr. Who” stories to the world every night contributes to the Rani’s plan. I don’t know why she wants to bring back Omega. Nor did I catch how her indulging Conrad’s retrograde fantasies serves her purpose – something about. . . oh why bother?
Taking the piss out of post-war American suburban utopia is old hat. It’s been done a hundred times from Stepford Wives to Wandavision. It reeks of complacency and smugness. It’s easier to satirize a long-dead social illusion from some seventy-five years ago than to turn the mirror on one’s own society. As for the mental slavery – the illusory world of false memories, false histories, and false contentment, well it all seems a retread of “Lie of the Land”. And we all know how badly that particular Hindenberg crashed and burned. . .
Still; breaking through illusions, confronting doubts, defying the gods and thinking the unthinkable are themes near and dear to my heart (why then am I not a bigger Matrix fan? Long story. . .). “Tables don’t do that” is a kinda neat moment. It made me long for a longer story which could unfold at a more natural pace and wasn’t so obviously a set-up for something that had been foreshadowed since last year. As is, it doesn’t amount to anything: the Rani breaks the illusion for him, which makes me wonder why she bothered putting him through it in the first place.
Overall, I get the sense that there’s nothing new here, just the usual overblown setup to the traditional end-of-season letdown. I can’t get excited because I know nothing of consequence will happen. Magic will save the day and none of it will have mattered. Call me cynical, but hey, I’ve learned to recognize patterns.
(And just suppose the next one, miracle of miracles, manages to deliver? Will that change my outlook? Probably not. A really good episode would have me caring what came next. A good follow-up may compensate for a poor build-up, but cannot retroactively fix its flaws).
Reality War – 0/10
Right, we’re done.
The Well - 8/10
Right-o, here’s what we’re going to do for the peace of mind of all parties concerned: let’s just ignore the pre-credit scenes of all stories from here on in. Just pretend they don’t exist because they all routinely suck. Then, we can get on to the real story, which so far has been pretty good.
The Well is definitely a win for style -over substance – but what style! A spooky dark planet with a mystery to solve, and a massively high body count to go with it. We haven’t had this kind of out-and out space-slasher since, when, Oxygen? If the story is more basic than it appears to be, and its connection with Midnight tenuous at best, the atmosphere is a triumph, dark, tense, and at times, genuinely scary. At least until Murray Gold’s shrieky string section kicks in, diffusing the tension like a leaf blower to a sand-sculpture. Ye Gods, can we please bring back Segun Akinola? At least he respected Delia Derbyshire’s theme!
Credit must go to co-writer Sharma Angel Walfall presumably injecting some guts into the proceedings.
Lucky Day 2/10
For the first time in forty years - in forever really – I skipped the intro. I can’t do it anymore, sorry. I should have skipped the episode. I did skip large segments of it.
Pity about Conrad. I liked him. I suppose we were supposed to. He was more than a bit of a buffoon, but I was attracted to his burning curiosity and open mindedness – qualities I admire. I thought he’d have made a good companion, and yes, I thought he and Ruby made a cute couple. I suppose that’s what’s supposed to have given the story its dramatic punch. Instead, I felt it to be more of a bait-and-switch, following an agonizing sixteen minutes of set up.
I suppose I should be grateful that the schmaltz was undermined in such brutal fashion, but that’s not what I wanted. I didn’t begrudge Ruby her boyfriend; I just didn’t want to be stuck in an elevator with them. And for God’s sake, I didn’t want her suffer. It was squirmy and awkward and uncomfortable, and didn’t at all make up for the torturous sixteen minutes. It felt mean.
And how about this throwaway bit of dialogue.
“Was he [the Doctor] your boyfriend?”
“Oh no. If he were here, he’d be flirting with you.”
Notice: once again, it’s entirely the sexuality of the character/ actor that determines whether the Doctor fucks his companions. NOT because he’s an ALIEN!!!! Not because he’s more than A THOUSAND YEARS OLD!!!!! No one ever brings that up. Why tf not?
Anyway, if Pete McTighe’s script offered a much needed take down of conspiracy fantasists and online post-trutherism, well that’s great, but it also made for miserable television.
The Story and the Engine – 8/10
Holy shit, did he really name his ship “Nexus”? Bugger all, that was a key term from MY latest fiction! Bloody hell, it was the title! Granted, it was always a tentative title, but now I’ll have to come with another one.
But onto the story, we are taken to the heart of bustling Lagos where an interdimensional spider-shaped vessel fueled by fiction is disguising as a barbershop. It’s an inspired, almost brilliant idea that makes for immensely entertaining television. Here’s the thing: I rather like stories, and have always been a sucker for stories about stories. So something like this has me in from the beginning. It’s rather reminiscent of “Rings of Akhnaten” in terms of this theme (another, much maligned, tale I just melted for): some big malignant entity craves stories, and who knows more stories than the Doctor? I suppose I could quibble with the Doctor’s contention that a night in the life of Belinda is more compelling than his adventures with Cybermen and Ice Warriors – it ain’t.
A more serious quibble might be that there are altogether too many mini-climaxes, so many long, drawn out triumphalist speeches underneath Murray Gold’s ear-splitting score - and I cannot emphasise enough, for the fifth time in a row, how much this hackwork ruins the episodes (who knows how they might have been under a more sensitive artist). It feels like the episode spends nearly a third of its running time ending itself. When things are going so well, what’s the hurry?
I’m also not thrilled about the Doctor hobnobbing with “gods” – we’re in full mythological territory now, but then again, we have been for quite some time. The abandonment of rationalism is something I deeply mourn.
Interstellar Song Contest 7/10
Argh! It looks like music won’t be getting any better between now and 2925, and I’ll be stuck with drum machines forever. Argh!
Alas, alak, if we could side-step the episode for a moment, I wonder if some audience members who balk at values espoused in episodes from fifty years ago might similarly bat an eyelid at the presumption inherent in this on that human culture, to say nothing of Western pop-culture, will not only survive but remain fundamentally unchanged for nine hundred years. I grudgingly accept that to mention it is to rather curmudgeoningly overlook the (undeniable) joys of the story, but I can’t help myself: it is a grumble I have with virtually every show of this nature, not just Disney-Who. Granted, it is impossible to predict the future, and not the purpose of every story to do so, but disappointing how few even bother to try.
Ce serra, the story is otherwise a hoot, mandatory sentimental drek (as probably mandated by Head Office) notwithstanding. I was tickled by the idea of some scruffy rocker type hijacking the futuristic Euro-vision, and the actor Freddie Fox’s superficial resemblance to a young Thomas Gabriel Fischer even more so, but it is probably for the best that the story did not go down this road. Besides which, the character states quite unequivocally that his favourite music is pop: I choose to believe that he meant it and was not just making an incredibly morbid pun. I would be willing to bet that far more mass murders have been committed by pop fans than rockers, but am in no mood to compile that data.
Back to the point, I was distracted from this train of thought by what I thought might have been the biggest onscreen body count in – nevermind Doctor Who, in television history. I’m glad it wasn’t – the spectacle of a hundred thousand dead human beings (and other species) floating around like so much glitter was truly nasty.
As per usual, schmaltzy violins ensure we never break out into autonomous emotion, and we are somewhat encouraged to believe that a song can halt a world-wide corporate genocide. Don’t get me wrong, I believe in the power of Song – just not that one.
Whatever. Gatwa’s a blast, Sethu’s earned my respect, and if I don’t particularly like these song contests, at least I take comfort know that in that space station’s museum, there is probably an exhibit for Lordi.
(Yes, yes, this isn’t Eurovision, but don’t YOU get technical on me!)
Wish World – 5/10
One of these days, I will avoid the spoilers.
I think I managed to miss one of them, but it was so damned obvious it was hardly a surprise. The other one might have been, but I’ll never know. I’m takin’ it all in stride now. It’s almost like the big reveals don’t work anymore. We’ve come a long way from the time Derek Jacobi revealed himself as the Master. For one thing, they’re all practically unrecognizable, often sharing not much more than the namesake of the originals (I think only Davros got through unscathed). That, and it’s almost become routine. Who’s left I wonder? The Black Guardian most obviously. But who else? The Meddling Monk? Morbius? The Graf Vinder K?
How is this new reinvention? Well, Archie Panjabi is a delectable Rani. She drips evil, and megalomania, and even somehow delivers her lines like Kate Omara used to, even though her latent sexiness is miles away from Omara’s virtually robotic psychopath. Possibly we’re meant to think of Michelle Gomez’s Missy instead, though I doubt Missy would have the patience for. . .whatever the fuck this is.
Damned if I know what she’s up to strutting about in that celestial Fred-Flinstone palace. Something about getting all the energies aligned so that the Seventh Son of Seventh Son (no Iron Maiden in the soundtrack? Wasted opportunity!) becomes the Wish Master god who creates a world only so that it can implode and crack open the fabric of reality and unleash Omega. . . but she’s failed to notice a differently-abled encampment underneath who will doubtless be key to unravelling her plans.
I’ve almost stopped paying attention. There are so many disparate elements – Conrad, baby Poppy, two Ranis, the Wish God baby, the wheelchair Underground, a really big clock – I can’t tell you how it all adds-up, and pretty past caring because I’ve learned from hard experience that it probably won’t add up. None of it will matter because none of it ever does. The Rani will go “blah blah blah *something bad happens”. The Doctor will go “blah blah blah *something good happens” and it will end with long sentimental goodbyes amidst an ear-splitting violin assault. Destroying the world yet again will have no lasting consequences. It won’t make any sense because it never does.
Last year’s emergence of Sutekh was at least cool. This is just a blob. I don’t know how Conrad reading “Dr. Who” stories to the world every night contributes to the Rani’s plan. I don’t know why she wants to bring back Omega. Nor did I catch how her indulging Conrad’s retrograde fantasies serves her purpose – something about. . . oh why bother?
Taking the piss out of post-war American suburban utopia is old hat. It’s been done a hundred times from Stepford Wives to Wandavision. It reeks of complacency and smugness. It’s easier to satirize a long-dead social illusion from some seventy-five years ago than to turn the mirror on one’s own society. As for the mental slavery – the illusory world of false memories, false histories, and false contentment, well it all seems a retread of “Lie of the Land”. And we all know how badly that particular Hindenberg crashed and burned. . .
Still; breaking through illusions, confronting doubts, defying the gods and thinking the unthinkable are themes near and dear to my heart (why then am I not a bigger Matrix fan? Long story. . .). “Tables don’t do that” is a kinda neat moment. It made me long for a longer story which could unfold at a more natural pace and wasn’t so obviously a set-up for something that had been foreshadowed since last year. As is, it doesn’t amount to anything: the Rani breaks the illusion for him, which makes me wonder why she bothered putting him through it in the first place.
Overall, I get the sense that there’s nothing new here, just the usual overblown setup to the traditional end-of-season letdown. I can’t get excited because I know nothing of consequence will happen. Magic will save the day and none of it will have mattered. Call me cynical, but hey, I’ve learned to recognize patterns.
(And just suppose the next one, miracle of miracles, manages to deliver? Will that change my outlook? Probably not. A really good episode would have me caring what came next. A good follow-up may compensate for a poor build-up, but cannot retroactively fix its flaws).
Reality War – 0/10
Right, we’re done.