Doctor Who’s 50th Episode

You, dear single solitary reader, know that I like Doctor bloody Who. I’ve done posts on the subject of the show, and once upon a time, this blog had a weekly vent as to how the ongoing series was doing.

Over time it trickled to a stop. Why was that? Was it really that I didn’t have enough time? Or was it the episodes that changed? The writing, perhaps?

Now we get to it. Some of the time, the writing and the episodes are pretty good. They do a good job of keeping me interested in the franchise as a whole. Rarely (these days), the episodes are brilliant and they match the energy and acting skills of Matt Smith, and are worthy of his time. I’m not saying he’s a better actor than David Tennant, or any of the other Doctors. I’m saying the episodes have been lacking, and he’s been wasted. Put him up against David Tennant and I guarantee you would find reasons for calling each of them better at some point. Strengths and weaknesses, swings and roundabouts, then.


Which brings us to the 50th anniversary episode, ‘The Day of the Doctor’. Those who haven’t seen it, look away now.



Warning! Danger, Will Robinson!
Here be SPOILERS for the DOCTOR WHO 50th ANNIVERSARY EPISODE!


Where do we start? Let’s start with something like 10.6 million people watching the episode live on Saturday, 23rd November. It was the same day that it first aired, albeit 50 years before, which was why half of us were there. It started well - the original opening from 1963 played and it all seemed fab. Then we get Billy Piper back as Rose - except she’s not. She’s just the voice of the WMD of the plot (that will seem ironic, in that ‘Rose Tyler’ is telling the Doctor to have a conscience, when in fact the Doctor that would have listened to her could neither see nor hear her). The actress is brought back sheerly because of her face. She’s not Rose, she’s a GUI for John Hurt’s use. Billie Piper is not a poor actress and I was happy to see her again - she played the part well enough for me to realise in the first few moments that she wasn’t Rose at all.

Then in comes John Hurt as ‘The War Doctor’. When I went to the official celebration on Sunday 24th November in the ExCel, London, I got to hear Steven Moffat’s reaction to the fans and the episode - and hear his reasoning behind it. And a few things grated. First, there was his idea that we shouldn’t be sticking to the whole ‘silly’ 12 regenerations and out, idea. Second, that he felt Tom Baker’s appearance at the end was just for fun and ‘for the fans’. Then there was his assertion that John Hurt’s ‘War Doctor’ doesn’t count as a ‘Doctor’ because he didn’t apply that name to himself - he considered himself not a Doctor at all, because he was apparently fighting in a war, not healing or fixing things.

BOLLOCKS, Mr Moffat. He’s ‘the War Doctor’. Three words, one of which is ‘Doctor’. This whole thing about his real name, this whole side trip to hype DW up to the point where it’s something more mythical and fantastic that it is, just so you can burn it down by eradicating all the mystery, is ridiculous. When you’re a child and you’re making up stories, and you escalate it more and more but then realise that you can’t finish it because you just can’t pull out that one aspect that would top everything and be mind-blowing and genius because THERE IS NOTHING IN THE STORY TO DO THAT - that’s where Moffat is, most days, I’m sure.

Getting back to John Hurt, Moffat seems to regard him as the 9th Doctor. I have no issue with that. The little webisode that was released (not very fairly, considering some people won’t have seen it before the 50th) showed me that Paul McGann - who SHOULD HAVE BEEN THE WAR DOCTOR IN THE ANNIVERSARY EPISODE - regenerated into John Hurt. I saw it. He had a new face, a new body. What wasn’t clear was whether he started as John Hurt with 12 new regenerations (seeing as the elixir he drank supposedly brought him back to life - or gave him new life?). I’d like to think… no. Because John Hurt was the 9th Doctor. Sorry, 9, 10 and 11 - you’ve all been bumped along one. Which makes Peter Capaldi the 13th Doctor, and therefore the last.

Oh don’t look at me like that. Yes, I believe there should be 12 regenerations, otherwise the programme would go on and on until it turned into Smallville, A.K.A. the series that wouldn’t die. Have a spin-off all about Romana (seeing as it was never confirmed or even mentioned where she was during this ‘Time War’). Have a spin-off with the Doctor’s Daughter. Have a spin-off about Donna Noble. Have a spin-off about Martha Jones and Mickey Smith working for U.N.I.T. Bring back Torchwood, but with more Gallifreyans in it. I don’t care - but don’t piss about with the 12 regenerations theory, just so Moffat can keep on doling out substandard shite and passing it off as ‘something the fans will love’.

And while we’re on that subject, pack it in, Moffat. Making shit up and then trying to justify it afterwards when people point out how it made no sense is no way to run a series. Bringing out a Sherlock trailer the day after DW airs, just to distract us with something else shiny, does not work. Sherlock is a completely different animal, and it bears no relation to the whole furore surrounding DW right now.

When I was at the ExCel in London on Sunday to hear the panels and see the fallout from ‘The Day of the Doctor’. I really enjoyed listening to everyone - but I wanted to punch Moffat. Everything out of his mouth made me want to stand up and ask him why, or how, but most especially WHY THE BLOODY HELL HE INCLUDED TOM BAKER AT THE END, WHEN IT MADE NO SENSE. I’m all for including Doctors, but when one of them is significantly aged more than when he was dying and regenerated, how can he be there like that? And don't go ‘wibbly wobbly, timey wimey’, Moffat, because that’s just pathetic. Explain it. Don’t expect that we’ll be so dazzled by a JJ Abrams-bomb that we’ll blindly find it hilarious and a ‘touching’ end to a so-so episode. It was stupid, and it stuck out like a sore thumb. I really do think Moffat just whacks this stuff in there as in-jokes and ‘look at me, I can bring you all this’, when in fact it doesn’t make sense and it shouldn’t be there. It’s not big and it’s not clever, Moffat. It just invokes Fridge Logic and enrages fans.

Tom Baker could have been just a curator. He could have been someone a little bit eccentric who the Doctor met and liked. But implying so heavily that he was the Doctor? Bollocks. Wrong. Annoyingly so.

In short, I did enjoy a lot of the episode. It’s always good to see David Tennant as the Doctor, and this was no exception. I liked how they got along. I liked the door argument, I liked how they brought in other Doctors, and that we saw more of Gallifrey (and, by the by, how the head Gallifreyan said he saw ‘all 13’ Doctors at the end in the TARDISes). There was a lot to like. But there were points where Moffat, again, brought his own indulgence into it. Forget Russell T. Davies' efforts to squeeze in things he liked - Moffat does it like it’s owed to him. And I really, really despise that. I hope with Peter Capaldi coming in, the tone changes slightly, and we get good stories to really ground this new Doctor. After all, we now have a new Doctor and a companion whose back-story and Being Very Speyshall moment has passed. There is so much potential here for a fantastic series - and hopefully, Capaldi will stay for a few years.

More than anything, I hope Steven Moffat hands the show over to someone who isn’t all about the shiny things they can flash in our faces, in the hope that we won’t notice the plot holes and his failure to finish off a decent story.

Rant over. I need a cup of tea.



Tags:
~ Doctor Who ~ Steven Moffat ~ Matt Smith ~ David Tennant ~ Peter Capaldi

On Returning to Blighty After an 11 Year Absence

How to relocate to a country you left behind 11 years ago:

1. Close all accounts, utilities and communication channels in your life, related to where you are leaving.
2. Change addresses for local government and council registries in the country you will go to.
3. Un-learn everything you have come to accept as normal in the last 11 years.
4. Learn how to operate in a country of a different continent. WARNING: things that you thought you knew will all have changed. No, you will not be able to pick up where you left off. No, the protocols and methods of local government or utilities that you knew will no longer work like you remember. Good luck.
5. When people say “but you know that, you’re from here and you did it for 25 years before you left”, gently remind them that you’ve been away for 11 years - the length of time many people spent in education in their life.

Saying Goodbye

Had my last archery lesson in Hong Kong yesterday. It was fun, and I felt I was finally up to speed with my new bow (a Mathews Conquest Prestige called Nerys). It was great. Until it came time to end it and say goodbye.

I am an emotional person, I know. But I normally hide my real feelings from others - unless it’s anger, disgust or approval. Everything else is kept neatly locked away. I do feel it. I just don’t want other people to see it on my face. It’s just how I am - and I’m not a crier. I get angry, or Hulk-out with long words and facts, but I don’t cry. So when I suddenly feel soul-crushing sadness and actually feel like I’m going to cry, it’s hard to keep it in check.

The archery lesson ended. I didn’t feel sad - I felt good. The day had been a very, very good one, and everything had gone as I’d planned. I had recovered my score level from before I changed to a brand new, unused bow. I had got back to my own personal level of concentration and comfort, with a new bow. I felt happy.

I went home. I got a call from my coach - I’d forgotten to return the fletching jig that I’d borrowed to prep some brand new V6 arrows before the outdoor shoot. We agreed he could swing by and pick them up from near me Sunday morning. I got ready and went out for my official leaving do, at the Hard Rock Café. We had fun. The resident band, Black Widow, was as bloody good as ever, and we shouted along to the songs with glee. Loads of people attended - and I realised I didn’t think I had that many people I wanted to be there. I got home, went to bed, tried to sleep off the drink, woke up, got ready, and made sure I had all of the borrowed items to give back to my coach.


I met him outside my residential block. And as I stood there, thanking my coach for everything he’s done for me in the past year, all the feelings hit me like a brick in the face. He’s always been in the background of my week, ready for me to arrive for the lesson or the outdoor shoot, letting me stay longer, discussing makes, models, technical specifications, physical demands - and how I can improve as an archer. How to be better; how to use the different parts of myself to better my concentration; how to turn myself into someone who knows how they work, and more importantly, own all those parts of myself that I didn’t like.


Sounds kind of deep, right? I suppose it is. I suppose that’s why they’re called coaches and not teachers - he may as well be Master Yoda, or the Stephen Fry of my archery world.


I was sad, yes. I knew I was about to cry if I told him that losing him as a coach may be the worst thing about leaving Hong Kong. So instead I exchanged postal addresses and updated e-mail addresses, and said that I’d keep in touch with pictures and info about my prospective local club and how I went on in FITA rankings and such. He was happy. At least his face was. I know mine was. But I wasn’t.

But what do you do? I thanked him, returned his gear, and went back up to my flat and pretended I wasn’t feeling like I wanted to cry it out. Instead I helped my flatmate move some of her stuff to her new home round the corner. Job done.

I went to the afternoon hotel tea arranged by my mate, and we had some really good food (that was very welcome after the night before). We moved on to the pub quiz a few streets away. Our team actually won (thanks to a visiting acquaintance), and got free shots as prizes. We got ready to go, and that same feeling of overwhelming sadness hit me. I think I just about got away with hiding how upset I was on the inside - I got my big goodbye from the world’s best barman, and then as I was saying the goodbye things I always say to him, that’s when it hit me that I wouldn’t be saying that again. At least, not for the next few years. I had my last hug. I had my last goodbye. I managed not to cry, managed to look normal.

We were on the street, waiting for a taxi home. The quiz master came out to say goodbye. I nearly lost it - we had a quick chat about how many years I’d been going there, how the place had changed, how the people had changed, and wished each other luck, exchanged e-mail addresses etc. I got a hug and managed to leave, dignity intact.

On the way home I thought about all the people I’m leaving behind. I wasn’t sad before. I am now.

I have a full day tomorrow - packing the last box, making sure I haven’t forgotten anything I’ll need, and then handing it all over to the shipping company in the afternoon. I have my last nails appointment (if you think I’m taking on Blighty without the requisite nail camouflage then you’re sadly mistaken) in the evening, and then it’s Tuesday. Packing my suitcase, checking in online for my flight, and then dinner with friends in the evening. Then it’s Wednesday. Last minute checks, then checking in my cases in the afternoon - and then waiting around for my plane.

I’m looking forward to the flight. I’m just not prepared to handle all the sadness surrounding it. I never knew I was so out of practice as far as emotional control went. I never knew it would affect me this much. But I should have known - I’ve always had a slow emotional build-up to everything. It takes me weeks to begin to like someone. It takes me a while to recognise that I like something enough to buy it. And it takes me a while to process all the sadness at my leaving here.

The actual country of Hong Kong can go jump; I will not miss the people, or the red tape, or the various systems in place. I will miss my friends. I will miss having my flatmate to talk to and have TV series and movie marathons with and share good tea with. I will miss everyone who has always been good to me, and let me look out for them. I’ll miss how easily I find all of them when I want to.


I guess what I’m saying is I’ll miss the life that I’ve built here. I never even considered that I had one. In the eleven years I’ve been here, it’s been struggle, work, struggle, more work, struggle, paperwork, struggle, pay tax, struggle, go to Uni, struggle, get a better job, struggle, find out the job is letting you down monumentally badly, struggle some more - and leave. I never noticed that, yes, life happened while I was busying wishing I could make other plans. I like the people I’ve made friends with, I like them being here, even if I don’t see them as much as I used to when other flatmates were here, and my lifestyle was disposable. Now I’m older, more tired, completely ready to leave this country for what I hope is a better one. Whether it is or not is irrelevant; I have to leave here, I have to get out before it drives me completely mad. It’s not where I’m supposed to be. I don’t know where I am supposed to be, but I’m one up - I know I can cross this place off the list of options.

I do have fond memories; the nights out in Wan Chai and the mahoosive bar bills we paid easily because we had disposable incomes and consciences; Patrick the taxi driver who communicated solely through the medium of English swear words; the pub quizzes where we won alcohol as Waldorf and Statler, or We Don’t Google; the live rock band round the corner and the patrons who paid for us to keep drinking so we’d keep singing; the ladies in the TWG tea shop who always recognised us; the cigarette breaks when we didn’t even smoke; the naked man I found on the sofa the next morning; the red wine meltdown and my mop of bleach; the chimichangas across the street; the fan club e-mails and the website translation; the karaoke every month with the uni crowd of drinkers; the Doctor Who discussions with former students, the First Class flight to Bangkok and the champagne and cake; walking home in the pissing rain during a typhoon number 8, the woman in the computer shop who knew exactly what I was looking for without me even saying or pointing; wandering home at 5:30am to have a young woman give me a beef dumpling, because she’d bought too many, and the consequent conversation we had; the man upstairs in the Wah Po Building who practised the cello right when I needed some soothing background music; the workmen at North Street who put my flat right in under eight hours, owning my first iPod and finding it the best damn thing to stop HK people getting on my nerves on the way to work; going to the cinema and seeing the Guangdong Investment Tower - my bus stop - being used in the country’s biggest selling film in the last twenty years, setting fire to the instant noodles in 7-11, the bar-top dancing and the Olympic marks we gave the participants, the Games Nights and the Outback Steakhouse…

There - I’ve talked myself into a better mood. Hope it keeps tomorrow.


Peach and lube, people. Peach and lube.