doctor who

I slipped sideways.

The Time Lords may have banished the Doctor to Earth, but they didn’t specify which Earth precisely, allowing Don Houghton’s “Inferno” (Story Production Code DDD) to transport our time traveller to a parallel Earth where the biggest difference is that the Brigadier has no mustache. Oh, and in this other dimension England happens to be fascist, too.

The story starts innocently enough, with the Doctor mooching nuclear power from a massive drilling project that aims to tap “Stahlman’s Gas,” a powerful energy source trapped just under Earth’s crust. He’s bent on jump-starting the TARDIS console, which he’s had installed in a pre-fab garage near the drilling site. Apparently he believes that with an independent power source, he can use the console itself to travel through space and time, defeating the Time Lords’ ignition lock. And it works, after a fashion, briefly propelling him, well, somewhere, and allowing Jon Pertwee to ham it up for the cameras again during a scene of dematerialization gone awry.

As for the drilling project, the stage seems set for a standard bureaucratic showdown between an officious administrator and a scientist bent on fulfilling his life’s ambitions, as seen most recently in “Doctor Who and the Silurians.” Almost immediately, the dangers of the drilling project manifest themselves when a rigger is exposed to a green goo leaking from a drill pipe. The viscous viridian substance rapidly de-evolves him into a slavering, primordial being (shades, again, of “Doctor Who and the Silurians,” where encounters with the old lizards trigger a mental retrogression, with hints of the sentient seaweed from “Fury from the Deep” for good measure). Once the lead scientist, Stahlman, accidentally infects himself with the goo, the story seems set on its rails: the goo is dangerous and threatens everyone, so naturally the Doctor will step in and stop the drilling. But after being confronted with evidence of some strangeness afoot, including a a vial of the goo itself and Stahlman’s increasing derangement, the Doctor petulantly focuses his efforts instead on getting more power for his pet project.

And the goo isn’t even the real problem. In a neat bit of subverted expectations, Houghton manages to make green-skinned pseudo-werewolves into mere set dressing, because the planet is about to explode.

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What about reducing the g’s by mixing K and M3?

What if they held an invasion and nobody came? With “The Ambassadors of Death” (Series Production Code CCC), series regular writer David Whitaker provides an engaging answer to the recent profusion of alien invasion plots in Doctor Who by neatly subverting all expectations of how an alien invasion story should play out.

Comparisons between “The Ambassadors of Death” and its immediate predecessor, “Doctor Who and the Silurians,” cannot be avoided. We have aliens, to be sure, and the threat of invasion from beyond (or below) gets bandied about, but this time, the aliens actually do come in peace. While Malcolm Hulke toyed around with the idea in his story, Whitaker comes right out and finally says what the series has been suggesting for some time now: the real monsters are human beings and their foibles.

To Whitaker’s immense credit, and in keeping with the series’ long-standing tradition of concealing the monster as long as possible, the viewer doesn’t quite know what humans and which foibles are at fault until nearly the finish of the seven episode story. A tangled set of interwoven conspiracies develops around the mystery of the missing astronauts from Mars Probe Seven, and the cast of players seems immense at first. Will it be the bureaucratic pride of the civil servant, the simple greed of a cunning con man, the unbridled Promethean lust for knowledge of the foreign scientist? We’ve seen them all before. Instead, we find at the core of this story a sad tale of misplaced morality coupled to the human destructive impulse. All summed up with a swagger stick.

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My dear fellow, how nice to see you again.

Absence, they say, makes the heart grow fonder. Or hearts, perhaps, in the case of Doctor Who.

Six months elapsed from the end of Season Six to the beginning of Season Seven, making Jon Pertwee’s debut story as the Third Doctor, “Spearhead from Space” (Story Production Code AAA) by series regular Robert Holmes, a long awaited reunion for viewers indeed. And what a change they found when they tuned in. A new Doctor and the use of color footage, to be sure, plus a new companion in Caroline John’s Liz Shaw, but also a vigorous sense of confidence in the storytelling that manifests itself in a four episode story filled with fast pacing and dynamic directing by Derek Martinus. Never did the camera zoom in on people in various stages of horror quite so often as in this story. Shame the Doctor spends the first two episodes in bed, though.

And the cause of this extreme terror? A plastics factory run by aliens has been turning out plastic automatons, none of which are quite as terrifying as their usual line of work, plastic dolls. The establishing scenes in the factory, with conveyor belts lines with disembodied plastic baby heads, must surely count as some of the most disturbing in the series’ history.

The intended monsters in the story, the Autons, derive their menace from their nearness to human beings, humanoid without quite being human due to the slight angularity of facial features and the overall blankness in the visage. The effect harkens to the original, Mondasian Cybermen, whose obvious similarity to human beings causes a degree of ontological dread that the later versions simply lack. The Autons function quite similarly to Cybermen as well, lacking any affect or individuality and obeying the orders of a centralized hierarchy. And wouldn’t you know it, they want to conquer the Earth, too, only while wearing blue coveralls and cravats.

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