The Bishop on Doctor Who: 'The Girl in the Fireplace'
The Bishop could probably spell out ten reasons why the Doctor should not be getting it on with historical personages; or, indeed, with anyone else. But what's the point, eh? Your canonical commentator is all too aware that the effort is futile; and will only earn him the scorn of those who praise the Time Lord’s newly awakened sex-drive in the vague hope their enthusiasm for the Doctor’s ‘bedside manner’ makes it look as though they’re getting some themselves. Let the Bishop merely say that, like father and daughter sharing the shower in an effort to save hot water, it somehow doesn’t feel right, and leave it at that. What, then, to make of ‘The Girl in the Fireplace’?
It’s pretty good. The concept is original, and one only has to put this next to Russell T. Davies’s painful ‘Tooth and Claw’ to realise who’s the real adulte terrible of modern British TV. Steven Moffat knows character when he writes it, has big ideas, crafts innovative plots blending surreal science fiction and iconic horror, and, in contradistinction to his hot-and-very-cold editor-in-chief, actually thinks them through. Yet, given the choice between a re-viewing of this and a fifth of cheap hooch, it’s bourbon and bloodshot eyes all the way.
The problem, the Doctor’s new-found interest in being Michael Chamberlain aside, is that the romantic core of ‘The Girl in the Fireplace’ is simply not something Doctor Who does terribly well. Yes, it’s a polished script with some tender touches (possibly to Madame de Pompadour’s right breast), but by the standards of good boy-meets-girl TV—to which Moffat himself is a renowned contributor—it’s nothing more than Men and Women 101.* Yes, from the point of view of your average sexless nine year old (and the below average sexless thirty-nine year old he’ll probably turn into), this is deep stuff; but then, you have to remember, these are some of the people who thought Ace’s season twenty-six line, ‘I’m not a little girl any more’, represented a crescendo of character development. Of course, Moffat’s in a different league (and possibly a different phenotype) to anyone writing for that horrible era of Who, but the whole thing just doesn’t really float the Bishop’s boat—and certainly not to the extent it’s floating the Doctor’s. Like the unforgiving malaise of an absinthe hangover, it’s all just a bit bleugh.
David Tennant is enjoyable in this when he’s not being a prat, which pretty much sums up his tenure so far (the Bishop having now seen his first eight stories). Billie Piper is sidelined for most of the episode—if only coach Davies could have kept her on the bench for the rest of the season. Noel Clarke is too good for his role and, possibly, this show. Sophia Myles, as the girl in the fireplace, is appropriately wooden, but not, unfortunately, either warm or hot; she grates like a more intelligent, but equally insipid, English Ashley Judd. When Tompall Glaser was writing his yokel-inspired country music classic, ‘Put Another Log on the Fire’, he may have had her performance in mind.
*See The Office for a much better example of requited, but unrequitable, love.
It’s pretty good. The concept is original, and one only has to put this next to Russell T. Davies’s painful ‘Tooth and Claw’ to realise who’s the real adulte terrible of modern British TV. Steven Moffat knows character when he writes it, has big ideas, crafts innovative plots blending surreal science fiction and iconic horror, and, in contradistinction to his hot-and-very-cold editor-in-chief, actually thinks them through. Yet, given the choice between a re-viewing of this and a fifth of cheap hooch, it’s bourbon and bloodshot eyes all the way.
The problem, the Doctor’s new-found interest in being Michael Chamberlain aside, is that the romantic core of ‘The Girl in the Fireplace’ is simply not something Doctor Who does terribly well. Yes, it’s a polished script with some tender touches (possibly to Madame de Pompadour’s right breast), but by the standards of good boy-meets-girl TV—to which Moffat himself is a renowned contributor—it’s nothing more than Men and Women 101.* Yes, from the point of view of your average sexless nine year old (and the below average sexless thirty-nine year old he’ll probably turn into), this is deep stuff; but then, you have to remember, these are some of the people who thought Ace’s season twenty-six line, ‘I’m not a little girl any more’, represented a crescendo of character development. Of course, Moffat’s in a different league (and possibly a different phenotype) to anyone writing for that horrible era of Who, but the whole thing just doesn’t really float the Bishop’s boat—and certainly not to the extent it’s floating the Doctor’s. Like the unforgiving malaise of an absinthe hangover, it’s all just a bit bleugh.
David Tennant is enjoyable in this when he’s not being a prat, which pretty much sums up his tenure so far (the Bishop having now seen his first eight stories). Billie Piper is sidelined for most of the episode—if only coach Davies could have kept her on the bench for the rest of the season. Noel Clarke is too good for his role and, possibly, this show. Sophia Myles, as the girl in the fireplace, is appropriately wooden, but not, unfortunately, either warm or hot; she grates like a more intelligent, but equally insipid, English Ashley Judd. When Tompall Glaser was writing his yokel-inspired country music classic, ‘Put Another Log on the Fire’, he may have had her performance in mind.
*See The Office for a much better example of requited, but unrequitable, love.
posted by Salisbury at 12:21 pm
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