One has been a fan of the hero of time, Doctor Who, for many years now; ever since one was a small Damelette, in fact. There were, of course, the bleak and troubled years when the nation was subjected to Sylvester McCoy and Colin Baker, but one found the on/off switch a suitable tool against that unnecessary suffering.
In the 21st century, the hands of the gorgeous Russell T. Davies brought us incredible storylines, tension that gripped one by one’s slender, deliciously smooth neck and characters that clicked as delightfully as Dame Burley Chassis’ hips. However, since dear Russell’s departure as captain of the ship, one must confess one is slightly concerned about the latest series.
Matt Smith, clearly, is quite splendid as the new Doctor and seems to have slipped in to David Tennants socks very easily. Amelia Pond also appears to be proving the perfect companion (if not a little of a … smart arse (?) … there, one said it!). Yet it is the writing that causes the bubbles of doubt to pop inside one’s slender frame. The new writer, Steven Moffat – whom, from watching Doctor Who: Confidential is certainly not unsure of his own talents – is, one feels, trying too hard.
The first episode was a wonderful introduction to our new cast. A young Amelia Pond sitting in her bedroom praying for someone to come and help tend to her mysteriously glowing crack, only for our regenerated hero to come across her in her nightdress, then venture downstairs to spit out everything she had to offer him onto the kitchen floor. The rest – as they say – is history.
The aliens of this episode were adequately frightening until the large eyeball, suspended from a giant snowflake, entered; it all seemed a little too Sarah Jane Adventures for prime time Saturday evening televisualisation.
The third episode saw the return of the Daleks. Even here – and not content with changing the sumptuous simplicity of the TARDIS – the long running enemy of the Doctor were apparently not good enough for Monsieur Moffat and he felt the Earth’s arch nemesis required (one believes the phrase is) ‘pimped up', to the point of complete and utter campness.
In the 21st century, the hands of the gorgeous Russell T. Davies brought us incredible storylines, tension that gripped one by one’s slender, deliciously smooth neck and characters that clicked as delightfully as Dame Burley Chassis’ hips. However, since dear Russell’s departure as captain of the ship, one must confess one is slightly concerned about the latest series.
Matt Smith, clearly, is quite splendid as the new Doctor and seems to have slipped in to David Tennants socks very easily. Amelia Pond also appears to be proving the perfect companion (if not a little of a … smart arse (?) … there, one said it!). Yet it is the writing that causes the bubbles of doubt to pop inside one’s slender frame. The new writer, Steven Moffat – whom, from watching Doctor Who: Confidential is certainly not unsure of his own talents – is, one feels, trying too hard.
The first episode was a wonderful introduction to our new cast. A young Amelia Pond sitting in her bedroom praying for someone to come and help tend to her mysteriously glowing crack, only for our regenerated hero to come across her in her nightdress, then venture downstairs to spit out everything she had to offer him onto the kitchen floor. The rest – as they say – is history.
The aliens of this episode were adequately frightening until the large eyeball, suspended from a giant snowflake, entered; it all seemed a little too Sarah Jane Adventures for prime time Saturday evening televisualisation.
The third episode saw the return of the Daleks. Even here – and not content with changing the sumptuous simplicity of the TARDIS – the long running enemy of the Doctor were apparently not good enough for Monsieur Moffat and he felt the Earth’s arch nemesis required (one believes the phrase is) ‘pimped up', to the point of complete and utter campness.
Indeed, when the super multi-primary-coloured Daleks came onto our screens and spread out into their sinister formation in front of the Jammy Dodger yielding Doctor, they looked like a giant Freedom Flag. All that was missing from the scene was a glitterball, Hi-NRG music pounding out in the background, a slight aroma of Amyl Nitrate and the Doctor in a pair of backless leather chaps serving cocktails and the scene would have been complete. Aside from that, the script, again, was over worked and despite a cast of superb actorial poppets, there just didn’t seem to be a fluidity to the storyline.
The most recent episode has seen the return of the Weeping Angels (no doubt weeping more after a shufty at the script). Not only that, but we have a woman with a very tight perm acting very familiar with the Doctor. While the lovely Russell introduced a character subtly, as in the Face of Boe, Steven introduces us to this woman and by the end of the episode, one is still no further forward as to knowing who on earth she is. It is all a little off putting and certainly gives a metallic aftertaste to a perfectly poured glass of gin while watching.
Anyhoo … all said and done, one certainly approves, on the whole, of the new TARDIS interior, but do we really need taps, typewriters and sex toys to be part of the control panels? Yes … sex toys, poppets! Surely one is not the only one who has witnessed the ribbed glass penetrating device in the centre of the craft forcing itself up and down, up and down, up and down … [Chu Me! Iced water … quickly! … and one’s fan!!]
The BBC prop poppet in the first Confidential told Matt, “We had to look high and low for that new centre piece.” Chu Me told one if he’d looked at page 24 of one of his specialist catalogues, he could have picked one up for £32.95 with Next Day delivery. He could have saved himself so much time.
Still, one must keep an open mind and see how the stories develop. Rome wasn't built in a day, after all.
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