Alice Dryden (huskyteer) wrote,
Alice Dryden

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This Review Is Late, Like The Doctor Was

I should lay my cards on the table straight away and state that I didn't enjoy Saturday night's Dr Who terribly much.

So there was a plot, was there? And it made sense, did it? I must have been temporarily distracted, for I have no clue what computer viruses or Annette Crosbie had to do with anything, or why the coma patients (who were so nicked from The Seven Crystal Balls) would shout 'Doctor!'.

It's possible that I was put in a bad mood by the interminable early scene of the Doctor tasting things and spitting them out. It's not the BBC's fault, after all, that watching people spit out semi-masticated food is second only to watching people vomit on my big list of things that revolt and horrify me.

If I were feeling more generous I would put it down as a charming homage to that classic scene in The House at Pooh Corner where Tigger arrives in the wood and insists that honey, thistles, haycorns etc are his favourite food, only to find that they're not.

I think I'll like Amy Pond. I can empathise with someone who spent their childhood longing to be whisked off in the TARDIS, though she had harder evidence than I did that it might actually happen. Matt Smith seemed a bit Tennant Lite to me, but perhaps he is still not fully-formed and will start developing his own personality soon.

I did enjoy his ransacking the hospital lockers for new togs, since this is also how the Doctor refreshed his wardrobe after turning into Jon Pertwee.

However, I don't recall the Third Doctor claiming the clothes as his right because he'd just saved the world. The Doctor has always been arrogant, but recently he seems to think he's the centre of the universe; I was greatly angered by his shit-fit at the necessity of sacrificing his mighty self to save Bernard Cribbins, for example.

I reflected during this episode that, at 32, I'm probably too old to be a companion, and felt all sad and past it.
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