The Bishop on Doctor Who: 'The Idiot's Lantern'
The Bishop has just finished watching ‘The Idiot’s Lantern’, written by Mark Gatiss, which features as backdrop the coronation of Elizabeth II, queen of England (and de facto employer of your Anglican articulator himself). The verdict: if this episode of Doctor Who were any more self-satisfied, it would fucking coronate itself.
Gatiss, as a Doctor Who writer, has never been without his troubles, and the Bishop would not be the first commentator to suggest his Who-fic can be a little on the bland side. In attempting to capture the ‘essence’ of Doctor Who, he forgets that that essence comes from the unfettered imaginations of its multifarious writers: it is not simply the average of their combined efforts. The result—something akin to a cover band doing their best with your favourite pop tune—is normally tolerable: much like that cover band, Gatiss has enough love for the original to mostly see it through; even if, unlike a good VSOP on a cold winter’s night, one doesn’t hurry back for more. But if there are two things a story (or a cognac) should never be at the same time, it is unambitious and smug. And oh boy is this porridge smug.
There are no characters in ‘The Idiot’s Lantern’; just people we are expected to admire, and people we are expected to abhor. Not unexpectedly, these stiff monotypes can’t be performed. Jamie Foreman’s Eddie Connolly is not so much acted as read through; Ron Cook, as Mr. Magpie, is two dimensions short of a solid; and it is hard to tell if Debra Gillett’s Rita has lost her face or not. Adding nothing to this nonexistent cast is Rory Jennings (Tommy Connolly), who looks like a reject from The Tomorrow People, and is a noxious little tit if ever there was one.
In fact, when it comes to beatifically good or despicably nasty, there are only two characters this ‘religious’ Doctor Who fan finds difficult to place. One presumes Gatiss and co want us to like the Doctor and Rose, but smarmy prats have never really been the Bishop’s cup of Irish tea. If it weren’t for the easy—though progressively more difficult—charm of David Tennant and Billie Piper, the pair would be like two days gone by without a double gin martini: utterly intolerable.
The one player the Bishop will raise his glass to, though, is Maureen Lipman. As the only alien lifeform to appear in the episode, she’s the most human thing here. A deliciously salacious performer who somehow locates the character Gatiss forgot to write, she has, dare the Bishop say it (of course he will): genuine ‘screen’ presence.
The plot is neither here nor there—Gatiss didn’t really bother with it, and neither should we. Something bad happens, the Doctor locates the source, then builds a contraption to fix it up. Woah, Mark, slow down there. If the Bishop might ask one question, though: Why did the Wire give a detailed account of its plan away to the one person whom it knew might be able to do something about it? Oh, and if your humble cleric never sees the sonic ex machina or the psychic get-out-of-jail-free card again, it will be far, far too soon.
Gatiss, as a Doctor Who writer, has never been without his troubles, and the Bishop would not be the first commentator to suggest his Who-fic can be a little on the bland side. In attempting to capture the ‘essence’ of Doctor Who, he forgets that that essence comes from the unfettered imaginations of its multifarious writers: it is not simply the average of their combined efforts. The result—something akin to a cover band doing their best with your favourite pop tune—is normally tolerable: much like that cover band, Gatiss has enough love for the original to mostly see it through; even if, unlike a good VSOP on a cold winter’s night, one doesn’t hurry back for more. But if there are two things a story (or a cognac) should never be at the same time, it is unambitious and smug. And oh boy is this porridge smug.
There are no characters in ‘The Idiot’s Lantern’; just people we are expected to admire, and people we are expected to abhor. Not unexpectedly, these stiff monotypes can’t be performed. Jamie Foreman’s Eddie Connolly is not so much acted as read through; Ron Cook, as Mr. Magpie, is two dimensions short of a solid; and it is hard to tell if Debra Gillett’s Rita has lost her face or not. Adding nothing to this nonexistent cast is Rory Jennings (Tommy Connolly), who looks like a reject from The Tomorrow People, and is a noxious little tit if ever there was one.
In fact, when it comes to beatifically good or despicably nasty, there are only two characters this ‘religious’ Doctor Who fan finds difficult to place. One presumes Gatiss and co want us to like the Doctor and Rose, but smarmy prats have never really been the Bishop’s cup of Irish tea. If it weren’t for the easy—though progressively more difficult—charm of David Tennant and Billie Piper, the pair would be like two days gone by without a double gin martini: utterly intolerable.
The one player the Bishop will raise his glass to, though, is Maureen Lipman. As the only alien lifeform to appear in the episode, she’s the most human thing here. A deliciously salacious performer who somehow locates the character Gatiss forgot to write, she has, dare the Bishop say it (of course he will): genuine ‘screen’ presence.
The plot is neither here nor there—Gatiss didn’t really bother with it, and neither should we. Something bad happens, the Doctor locates the source, then builds a contraption to fix it up. Woah, Mark, slow down there. If the Bishop might ask one question, though: Why did the Wire give a detailed account of its plan away to the one person whom it knew might be able to do something about it? Oh, and if your humble cleric never sees the sonic ex machina or the psychic get-out-of-jail-free card again, it will be far, far too soon.
posted by Salisbury at 9:59 am
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