Running Through Corridors: Rob and Toby's Marathon Watch of Doctor Who (Volume 1: The 60s) (52 page)

But all in all, Rob, I think that we
are
given something of a climax here – it’s just that it doesn’t happen on the alien spaceship (where you might expect it), and instead occurs in the special environment that was the initial selling point of this adventure: Gatwick Airport. When the Commandant blasts through the Tannoy and exhorts his staff to join the search for the abductees, it opens the drama up beyond the confines of the few small rooms we’ve seen, and makes Gatwick seem like a more sprawling locale. The resolution you’re seeking can be found in the way that the Doctor has spent the last six weeks trying to galvanise the human authorities into action, and here they finally pull together for the sake of mankind.

As for the Chameleons themselves... well, I’m more than happy for matters with them to be resolved thanks to an uneasy truce. It would be wrong if cold, calculating Blade suddenly saw the Doctor off with back-slapping bonhomie because it’s the end of the story, just as it’d be off-putting if the Doctor had glibly come up with a solution to the Chameleons’ plight. What we’re shown instead is a bit more realistic and uncompromising, and the open-endedness is rather novel.

Which brings me to the exit of Ben and Polly from the series.... to my surprise, I’m less angry about it than I thought I would be, as it’s not the brusque “See, you then...” that I had anticipated. Instead, it’s genuinely affectionate and very moving, and it plucks at the heartstrings even if you’re stuck (as I am) scrutinising fuzzy still-images and listening to a purloined soundtrack. I love that Ben offers to keep travelling in the TARDIS if the Doctor needs him to, and the way the seaman tenderly says, “I’m sure you will, mate,” when Jamie vows to look after the Doctor. Anneke Wills sounds genuinely tearful and upset, and Michael Craze is nobly quiet and sincere. It’s terribly affecting, and there’s even room for a little melancholy when the Doctor tells them that he never got back to his own world.

This is a true parting of friends, and I will miss them. Perhaps I’m being overly influenced by behind-the-scenes developments – I think Wills and Craze have been rather ill-treated by the production team, and it’s hard to watch this without remembering that Craze deserved a much better subsequent career and died far too young.

I’m a genuinely a bit gutted typing this. For the first time since we began this quest, I actually cried. But it cheers me up to think that – as this story occurs on the same day as when Ben and Polly left in the TARDIS – anyone at Gatwick who had bothered to turn on the telly would probably have seen Kenneth Kendall warning everyone about the War Machines. If Ben and Polly hurry once they leave the Doctor and Jamie’s company, they can probably watch themselves embarking on their first adventure!

March 24th

The Evil of the Daleks episode one

R:
Dudley Simpson’s composing the music... and for the first time, for someone so used to his work on seventies Who, it actually sounds like Dudley Simpson! It’s a subtle point, and one that would obviously have been entirely lost on the contemporary viewer, but to fans of a certain age like myself – and you, right Toby? – Dudley Simpson’s style defined what Doctor Who was. It was the glue that made The Horns of Nimon sound like it came from the same programme as Pyramids of Mars – his use of the orchestra, his use of tense themes. Up til this point, his music on Doctor Who has sounded rather inappropriately jazzy to my ears – but now, with his menacing Dalek theme, or the repeat of the woodwind to suggest “mystery”, this links the programme with my understanding of where tonally it’s going to end up in the Pertwee and Baker years.

On its own terms, though, this episode is rather an odd one, isn’t it? It teases the audience right from the get-go with the title – it suggests that with its setting, this at last is going to be a contemporary Dalek story; we’ve seen them everywhere else in the universe, but not on modern-day Earth. And what we get instead is a curious game, in which the Doctor and Jamie are led to follow a trail of increasingly obscure clues – all of which seems to be very unDalek-like behaviour, and are instead the work of a peculiar antique dealer, Edward Waterfield, who seems to have a problem understanding twentieth century slang like “okay” or “dicey”. Here’s an episode that stubbornly refuses to give the audience anything it’s expecting. At times it feels like a piece of Dennis Spooner-like whimsy (the suggestion being made that Waterfield is using time travel to sell genuine Victorian antiques is pure Meddling Monk stuff), at times it feels a bit like a thriller with heavies plotting against the Doctor and beating themselves up. And at other times, it’s the best treatment yet of the modern day – Troughton and Hines sitting in a coffee bar listening to The Beatles feels so suddenly
natural
, a million miles away from the awkward overstatement of the sixties we got in The War Machines.

What makes it work so well is that the performances all seem – for once – to be deliberately at odds with the other. I love Griffith Davies’ very natural performance as Kennedy (the baddies’ all-purpose stooge), just as I love Geoffrey Colville’s rather mannered comic turn as Waterfield’s assistant Perry: they seem to be acting in different styles altogether, and that only adds to the strange unease that hangs over the episode. And that’s all to the fore with the brilliant John Bailey, who is playing Waterfield as a mess of contradictions – he’s a Victorian man in 1966, a man plotting against the Doctor but who seems less of a villain than a man threatened. It’s a traditional game that we won’t see a Dalek until the first cliffhanger, but in every story until this one, the opening episode has concentrated on establishing the world that they’re going to dominate, and therefore what the tone of the story will be. At this point, when the Dalek materialises in front of Kennedy, we still haven’t got the faintest clue what The Evil of the Daleks is trying to do, we simply haven’t got a handle on this story yet. It’s all rather disconcerting. And frankly, a bit thrilling.

Thank goodness that 70s stalwarts like me can rely on Dudley Simpson’s music to reassure us.

T:
I’m not the biggest fan of set-up episodes from Doctor Who’s early years – they often come across as prefaces, with the actual story only kicking in with the first cliffhanger. I’d expected the same routine here, as the Doctor and Jamie spend most of the time stalking/being followed by a couple of incidental characters. And yet, this episode really feels like we’re gearing up to an end-of-season extravaganza – it’s inherent even in the way the coffee-bar music fades out, to be replaced by the incidentals, as the Doctor grimly prepares us for a high-stakes encounter.

This is all the more remarkable when you consider how Doctor Who’s seasons have been structured prior to this. With modern TV, we’ve come to expect that showpiece episodes, monumental occurrences and actor departures will generally happen at season’s climax. The first four seasons of Doctor Who, by contrast, have been a much more organic affair – seasons have started and ended with unassuming fare such as Galaxy Four and The Reign of Terror, we’ve had cast changes (even that of the leading man!) occurring partway through the run (midway through a story, even!), and the longest story so far – a massive, 12-part Dalek epic – didn’t initiate or cap off Season Three, it was bunged in the middle of it. None of the season-enders were designed to be any more spectacular, expensive or grabby than any other story – so here, for the first time, there’s a sense that we’re building up to something epic and extraordinary, and that the script and production absolutely intend this to be the case.

With the Dalek story postponed from starting until episode two (as we’re obliged to have a Dalek appear in a “surprise cliffhanger”, in a move so bizarrely repetitious, it now defies all attempts to understand it), writer David Whitaker relies on character, language and tension to carry things through. Bob Hall is a gruff gopher who won’t resort to kidnapping, Kennedy is a jaunty little crook, Perry is wonderfully hoity-toity and Waterfield is haunted and eccentric – and it greatly helps matters that Whitaker has a discerning ear for the different idioms that highlight the contrasting backgrounds of these men. And the tension I mentioned comes from a sequence of funny, daft little clues (Hall’s overalls, the left-handed matches, etc.) that only happen in adventure series, but the beauty of this is that it’s all a huge contrivance. All of the breadcrumbs that the Doctor finds have been deliberately placed to lure and ensnare him – wonderful!

Complementing all of this is a design style that works best on a time-travel series – notice how Waterfield goes from his contemporary shop into a futuristic room and picks up an old antique – it’s a giddy melding of three time periods that plays with us on all sorts of levels. The antiques (and Waterfield’s manner and costume) all give a classy period feel, while the hi-tech equipment promises sci-fi thrills and the modern-day setting ensures it’s all believable. That’s why Kennedy makes more of an impact than most Doctor Who characters who survive only for one episode – at this point in the show, we’ve rarely had modern-day baddies who haven’t been hypnotised (The War Machines) or were really aliens behaving like cold space creatures (The Faceless Ones). Kennedy is a sprightly Cockney tough guy – a modern thug whose presence in the show is quite novel, even if he does sound like Harold Steptoe.

It’s also the first time the alias “J. Smith” is used in the series – and not by the Doctor! (It’s signed on a clipboard authorising the TARDIS’ relocation by lorry.) And by the way... what was so special about 20th July, 1966? We have
three
alien/computer menaces now, all hanging around Earth on the same day! Flipping heck.

The Evil of the Daleks episode two

R:
Consider just how good Patrick Troughton is here. In the early part of the episode he plays everything down – he’s almost complacent as the Doctor, gently disregarding Jamie’s (correct) theories about why the antiques look new, barely breaking a sweat as a corpse is found. When Perry goes to fetch a policeman, Jamie looks alarmed; the Doctor calmly says that Perry’s doing the right thing, and carries on with his own investigation as if there’s no urgency whatsoever. And then...! He’s whisked back to 1866. And he’s panicked and confused. He thought he understood what sort of story he was in, but he’s now confronted by two Victorian gentlemen talking about mirrors and time travel, and he’s angry and frustrated. Then static electricity is mentioned, and the look of fear that crosses the Doctor’s face, as he begins to work out that his old enemies are involved, is wonderful. The Doctor’s never been as out of his depth – and, conversely, Troughton has never seemed as in control of the material. The sly ease with which he responds to Jamie in 1966 contrasts with the awkward way he jumps on Marius Goring’s lines in 1866.

And he’s not the only one giving it his all. It’s really great to have this episode in the archives, if only to demonstrate that new-found rapport between Troughton and Hines; I don’t think a new companion has ever flourished away from the shadow of his predecessors as well as Jamie has. I love the way Jo Rowbottom, as the saucy young maid Mollie Dawson, flirts with Jamie (they’re all at it), and even brazenly shuts the door with her bum on first entrance. And Marius Goring (as Theodore Maxtible, the scientist who accidentally summoned the Daleks to 1866, but is foolish enough to think he can exploit them) and John Bailey spark off each other beautifully – at first both seem cast in the same jeopardy, but just look at the ways their performances contrast, Bailey playing his fear of the Daleks with despondent horror, Goring with a cigar-lighting flourish that shows you he’s really
enjoying
watching evil at work.

The Daleks are great too; as before, David Whitaker teases at them, trying to show them in unfamiliar ways. The scene in which one of them orders Edward’s daughter Victoria not to give the “flying pests” her food is brilliant – partly for the sheer incongruity of it, but also for the callous way that it threatens to force-feed her. (Maybe at last, we’ll find out at last what the sucker is for.) And it seems so typically Dalek that it’ll devise a weighing machine that gives its subject such distress. The means by which Maxtible and Waterfield have summoned them, that they’ve broken their way into our world by the use of reflective mirrors, ought to be laughable – but it gives them a curious mythic quality we associate with our worst nightmares. And it’s very telling that in his previous story, Whitaker kept the Daleks as polite for as long as possible before they went on the rampage – whereas the first thing he has them do here is exterminate the hapless Kennedy. They’re an intimidating force, however bizarre they look in the Victorian setting.

T:
I remember when this episode came back to the archives – I saw it at a convention, and it was the first episode I’d seen that was actually
better
than I’d imagined it would be. In fact, I think it’s shown me what I like best from Doctor Who – good, scary monsters, a florid villain played by a big proper actor (Goring was a hell of a casting coup in those days) and a period setting drenched in atmosphere. David Whitaker’s script helps the cause immensely, of course – just how much classier does the plot seem when it’s explained by someone using 19th century parlance? The grandeur of Whitaker’s dialogue, though, is matched by the BBC’s consistent ability to mount impressive looking period pieces.

But much of the intensity of this story owes to Whitaker’s ability in the Troughton years to keep finding new takes on the Daleks – he here treats them absolutely seriously, portraying them as alien and unknowable creatures who nonetheless have discernible traits like cunning and superiority. (I adore the fact that the Dalek doesn’t realise that Victoria’s weight loss might have something, just something, to do with the trauma of being held prisoner against her will.) And let me also sing some praises for Derek Martinus’ directorial talent – he never lets an episode flag, and he’s clearly paid a lot of attention to his casting. Even minor roles are filled by actors with impressive futures in the profession, such as Brigit Forsyth (playing Maxtible’s daughter Ruth) and Windsor Davies (playing, unless you count Tobias Vaughn, the only classic series character called Toby – and no, that’s not the reason I’m enjoying this story so much).

The scene with the Doctor, Maxtible, Waterfield and the Dalek in Maxible’s lab (which is littered with paraphernalia, and has a pleasingly Jules Verne feel to it) is one of my absolute favourites in the series thus far. Troughton is just incredible, and really sells just how dangerous the situation is. “What have you done with your infernal meddling?!”, he cries, before nervously checking to see whether the Dalek has gone. What’s so disturbing about this is that the Doctor is
terrified
– he clearly doesn’t have a plan, and nobody, not even he, knows what he’s going to do next. You can see his mind racing,
racing
, trying to get up to speed. God, Troughton is so good – the desperation with which he scampers about, flapping and panicking, is childlike but never threatens to dilute the menace of the scene with unnecessary humour.

The only thing that’s disappointing about this? The curious double mention of Victoria being the spitting image of her mother; it’s a little hokey, especially as Frazer Hines hasn’t actually bothered to look at the painting of Mrs Waterfield before asking who it’s of. Oh, yes, and if I’m being honest, the whole “Human Factor” business is utterly nonsensical... and yet, I can buy it because everything else is being done so damned well.

So, hang on. What I’m saying is that this is brilliant even though the central conceit upon
everything
relies is ridiculous and unbelievable gibberish? Yes, I am. Few shows beyond Doctor Who could get away with that...

March 25th

The Evil of the Daleks episode three

R:
The depiction of Kemel is hard to justify by modern standards. To go into details – here is a black man who’s mute and stupid (his brain, Maxtible says, is undeveloped), and only serves as a strong man. He’s so strong, actually, that he’s more animal than human – he can bend iron bars, and chop through planks. Now, within the very peculiar fairytale-like tone of this story, you can – just about – rationalise him as something from the Arabian Nights, not a character but an archetype. (And with Victorian maids and Arthur Terrall changing personality at least once every scene, and Windsor Davies – as Toby; a thug named Toby, that is, not
you,
Toby – playing every Dickensian lowlife rolled into one, it’s clear that this is a story about stereotypes. Which is exactly why the Daleks are trying to tap into the Human Factor as if the traits of mankind were just like ingredients you could read off a baked bean tin.) It also says much about the increasingly peculiar Maxtible that not only does he take pride in all the strange equipment he has in his lab, but he also has as a toy a foreign fella who can break things. Within the unnaturalistic style of this bizarre story, and set within the nineteenth century where you can imagine Kemel treated as a curio, you can
maybe
(if you’re very, very forgiving) accept it. So long as the series doesn’t do it again. Say in a futuristic story that should be more enlightened, with another strong dumb black man, in the very next adventure. Hmm.