Monday, September 17, 2012
And we're back.
In the company of the Eighth Doctor and current companion Mary Godwin aka Mary Shelley.
The story begins with one of the less convincing moments of horror in Big Finish history but sets us up rather nicely. A horrid creature is released from the well by workman on behalf of Aleister Portillon (Andrew Havill) whilst in the woods a pair of teenagers - Finicia (Alex Wilton Regan) and Lucern (Kevin Trainor) are looking for something. Something important.
As usual the Doctor stumbles into things and decides to nip back to the 17th century to check out the causes of this mysterious 'Witch'. For their safety he brings Finicia and Lucern along but they are clearly up to something significant.
The Doctor is rather patronising to Finicia and Lucern from the off. Indeed his whole tone is a bit odd in the first couple of episodes. He's being rash, rude and rather stupid on occasions. Almost blasé about landing smack bang in the middle of a Witch trial he blunders about drawing more attention to himself than usual. He get unusual treatment at the best of times but even the Doctor's not that oblivious to his surroundings. It's rather off putting really.
Anyway the Doctor and Mary get split up and unusually (and rather neatly) find themselves in two different time zones. The Doctor stumbling about the 17th century like a man determined to be executed and Mary in the 21st century looking for a solution to their problems, which are manifold, confusing and laden heavy with gobbledygook.
That's probably a bit unfair actually. There's lots of ideas here about an alternative and universally frowned upon energy which looks uncannily like magic. There's a whole cultural history and 'holocaust of witches' sketched out and laid before us but nothing is given room to breath. There's almost too many ideas here. It's bulging with them.
The Doctor is face-to-face with Witch-Pricker Kincaid (Simon Rouse) whose a bit of a cliché for the first two episodes, almost becomes three-dimensional in parts three and four but falls apart again. There's an interesting entwining of his story and that of the beliefs of the Veraxil (and I'm sorry that spelling could be total nonsense). Simon Rouse does a better job with the role than the character might deserve. He's especially skin crawly when he tells Squire Portillon (also Andrew Havill) that he's going to talk to his children, 'starting with his daughter'. However he's a bit too light on the torture really for a man of his time and faith but it is hinted that he's rather squeamish, verging on the cowardly.
Kincaid and the Veraxil are different creatures doing the same task, ridding the Commonwealth of Witches. They just have distinct reasons for doing so.
There's an interesting thread buried in there about faith, perception and judgement.
There's a couple of heart-breaking moments in the last couple of episodes involving Mary and Aleister in the 21st century and the Doctor and Agnes in the 17th.
Mary, played with ongoing panache by Julie Cox, is tempted to find out about her future but resists. Initially I was a little worried that Mary was too focused on The Doctor being the only solution to her problems. However once she realises she's on her own, she's quite focused on sorting things out, aided by Aleister, who clearly has a bit of a thing for her by the end. Rather sweetly.
Also worthy of mention is Serena Evans, as Agnes Bates, the healer whose the initial target for the Witch-Prickers investigation. Evans helps raise her above the Blackadder wise woman territory into which, with the best intentions, she could have fallen.
Truth is this period of English history is horribly fascinating and difficult to understand for us in the allegedly enlightened 21st century. There's a stories here worth telling but I think the writer has had too many ideas and not enough time in which to give them a proper airing, which is a shame.
That's not to say it is a bad story. It just doesn't quite work for me I'm afraid.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Sometimes as a Doctor Who fan friends will say something along the lines of 'Why do you like a children's programme?' or 'It's just a kids programme."
They say this as if it is a bad thing.
I say sod being grown up. It's over-rated. It's bills and backache. It's responsibility and regret.
Doctor Who probably means a lot more to me than it should but then its always been there. It's entwined in my childhood. Memories of watching Tom Baker episodes through the crack in the door because I was so scared. Of my Mum saying, "Don't be scared. It's only a television programme." She said it every week but come the cliffhanger each week she'd have to say it again. I have always watched, listened or read Doctor Who stories. I suspect some people are still expecting me to grow out of it. As if it is a phase.
I probably spend too much time thinking about Doctor Who. I take it far too seriously. After all it is only a television programme. Like football is 'just' a game. But those in-depth fan discussions about small trivial things are part of the joy of being a Doctor Who fan.
I've made good friends through Doctor Who. When I'm unhappy it makes me happy. What more can you ask from a television series. Whoever it is supposed to be made for?
I write all of this not as way of an apology or even explanation. I don't care whether you think I should be watching something more adult, like the X-Factor. Or Eastenders. Or Britain's Got Talent. Or whatever it is I'm supposed to like at the age of 41.
I write this because I think today has been spectacularly brilliant from the purely Doctor Who fan point of view - although Brentford also contributed to my current mood of joy and exhaultation.
This morning I went to Barking and met William Russell and Carole Ann Ford who played Ian Chesterton and Susan in the first ever episode of Doctor Who. That was nearly forty-nine years ago. I suspect neither of them ever expected they'd be receiving the homage of fans of the programme all this time later. I suspect the idea of fans of the programme would have been mysterious enough. It was brilliant to meet them.
Then tonight at 7.35 I settled down to watch The Doctor and his gang in the most recent episode a journey of nearly forty-nine years in a small hop. From a mild curiosity in a junkyard to Dinosaurs on a Spaceship. And whatever it is that makes Doctor Who my favourite television programme ever kicked in again. That childish suspension of disbelief. The excuse to forget about the real world for a while and spend time adventuring with the Doctor. The shear, stupid joyful fun of the whole thing.
And I know none of this really matters but thank you William Russell and Carole Ann Ford and thank you Chris Chibnall and Steven Moffat. Thank you Matt Smith, Arthur Darvill and Karen Gillan.
What a bloody brilliant day.