Elizabeth Sandifer

I have a cat with chronic upper respiratory issues, and about once a day she just starts sneezing really hard and snots all over her face.

It’s December 25^th, 2014. X-Factor winner Ben Haenow is at number one with “Something I Need,” with Mark Ronson and Bruno Mars, Take That, One Direction, Taylor Swift, and Ed Sheeran also charting, the latter with “Thinking Out Loud,” which has been clanking about the charts since before Deep Breath, cracking the top ten in the same week as Flatline, and not leaving it since. In news since the Brigadier returned from the dead as a Cyberman, the US resumed normal relations between the US and Cuba, while riots broke out in Ferguson after Darren Brown was not indicted. In the country we actually care about, meanwhile, Nicola Sturgeon becameFirst Minister of Scotland, while her predecessor Alex Salmond announced that he’ll stand for parliament, and the Church of England allowed women to be appointed as bishops and Libby Lane became the first person to do so.

While on television, nothing; an entire episode that writes itself off as a dream. So Moffat is continuing in the vein of cheeky arrogance, doing an episode that flagrantly commits one of the stereotypical “bad writing” twists. That this is the second time in his tenure an episode has resolved this way softens the brashness slightly, but Amy’s Choice tried to deflect from the glibness of its resolution with the simultaneous reveal of the Dream Lord’s true identity and by positioning itself as a serious-minded character piece, at least within the context of Doctor Who. Last Christmas, on the other hand, revels in its final twist, pulling an accelerating series of “it was all a dream!” reveals building up to the final episode-encompassing one so that there’s no way for the focus to go anywhere other than the ostentatious use of a cliche.

It’s dubious, however, whether any other approach could have possibly worked. We are steadily approaching the inevitable peak of Moffat’s ambition. With Last Christmas following so closely on Series Eight and being so distant from Series Nine, it functions much more as a second season finale than as a stand-alone or prelude. And with Moffat deciding to retain the same TARDIS team his only option was to keep the momentum and barrel into Christmas with the same energy that had suffused the back half of the season. Indeed, even Death in Heaven presented Last Christmas as its continuation, cutting into the credits to metatextually critique the episode as a resolution and promise a further installment of the Doctor and Clara’s story. 

And so we get Inception meets Alien, only with Santa Claus. Like a Mummy on the Orient Express or the moon being an egg, this is an exquisitely well-balanced concept. It is oversignified to a precise degree that only Doctor Who can get away with—not quite so over the top as to be unmanageable, but sufficiently so that it feels appealingly audacious.…

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Missy shows off her new Photographic Vanity Eliminator

It’s November 1^st, 2014. Meghan Trainor remains at number one before Ed Sheeran’s “Thinking Out Loud” unseats her. One Direction, Parra, Sam Smith, and Fuse ODG also chart. In news, Blaise Compaoré resigns as president of Burkina Faso, the IPCC repeats the fact that climate change is really bad, and Matthew Williams demonstrates his passionate Torchwood fandom by killing and eating a woman before being killed by a police taser. Also the US midterm elections happen, flipping the Senate back to Republican control and seeing a wealth of Republican governor elected. 

While on television, Series Eight of Doctor Who takes its bow, finding itself ending in a strikingly different place to where it began. What started with a tentative classicism has steadily acquired a swagger and confidence unseen in years. There are a handful of periods in the series like this, where every trick works and every gamble pays off so that even a flawed experiment like In the Forest of the Night or The Chase comes off as sympathetic instead of as a faceplant. What is key about this is not merely quality—there are loads of good runs of stories—but rather a particular sort of bravery. This isn’t a run like the old Season Five, which spat out six rock solid but frustratingly interchangeable bases under siege on either side of its one actual masterpiece. Rather this is like the very tail end of the Hinchcliffe era, where the show dances giddily from the avant garde dreamscape of The Deadly Assassin to the mature SF Face of Evil to an Agatha Christie pastiche with robots before settling down for The Talons of Weng-Chiang.

Even on those terms, however, Dark Water/Death in Heaven stands out. Its first fifteen minutes are unprecedented in Doctor Who, and can stand shoulder to shoulder with the best material of any other show in the history of the medium. It starts at an eleven with Danny’s sudden death and then simply doesn’t let up until it finally offers the release of cutting to him in the afterlife. The volcano confrontation is a majestic payoff to the development that Clara has been given; it’s a scene that would be unimaginable with any other character, or even with Clara just six episodes earlier. The intensity and way in which both Clara and the Doctor escalate the situation is edge-of-the-seat stuff, not because there’s any real sense that Clara might forever seal the Doctor outside of the TARDIS but because the idea of the Doctor and the companion doing things like this to one another is constantly remaining unthinkable right up until the moment the words come out of their mouths. And the subsequent TARDIS scene, with its emotional denouement of “do you think I care for you so little that betraying me would make a difference,” is simply perfect. It’s probably the most intense fifteen minutes of television in Moffat’s career, and there’s not actually a single monster or indeed antagonist in the whole thing.…

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dat beach chair tho

It’s October 25^th, 2014. Ludvig van Beethoven has written Three Piano Trios, Op. 1, Joseph Haydn has written his 103rd and 104^th symphonies, and Antonio Salieri debuts his opera Palmyra.  In news, King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia dies, prompting David Cameron and Prince Charles to immediately fly to Saudi Arabia to pay their respects. Houthi forces seize the presidential palace in Yemen, leading to the resignation of the President. And in Marysville, Washington, a student with a handgun kills four people including a girl who had romantically rejected him. In another town where that sort of thing is all too familiar, a girl who doesn’t know she is one watches television, where a forest grows from nowhere.

It’s 1795. Mark Ronson and Bruno Mars are at number one with “Uptown Funk.” Hozier, Ed Sheeran, Philip George, and Meghan Trainor also chart.  In news, the Roman Catholic Church has beatified Pope Paul VI, while a man with a hatchet in New York City attacked two police officer. In Lambeth, William Blake, fresh off of the first printings of the combined Songs of Innocence and of Experience, goes for a walk. He happens upon an acorn, and plants it in the ground.

It is somewhere in late January or early February, 2015. Meghan Trainor continues to be all about that bass, while One Direction, Vampis, and Eminem also chart. In news, the US and UK governments ratify the Jay Treaty, a series of bread riots break out across Great Britain, culminating in King George being pelted with stones, and a meteor strikes a few yards from ploughman John Shipley in Wold Newton. The occupants of two carriages riding past have their genetic makeups shifted due to ionization, creating the extraordinary family trees of the Blakeney and Greystoke families, from which such luminaries as Tarzan, Sherlock Holmes, and Doc Savage will arise.  And a game between Ghana and Sierra Leone in the African Cup of Nations is abruptly cancelled due to an unexpected forest growing over the entire world.

In druidic traditions, the tree fixes the structure of the world, defining and connecting the spaces of the various planes. In this regard, it is allied with Omega—compare “Times upon times he divided, and measur’d / Space by space in his ninefold darkness” with the Nordic Ygdrassil, which provides the structure and ordering of the nine worlds. The tree is an agent of fixity and single vision; absolute, monolithic, and simply there—a fact. The acorn dropped by William Blake in 1795 persists three hundred and twenty years later, is the same thing, “a tiny little bit of 1795” emboited forever inside it. A tree is a time machine, but not like a TARDIS.

Deleuze and Guattari describe this phenomenon in their famous introduction to A Thousand Plateaus. The tree “the image of the world, or the root the image of the world-tree. This is the classical book, as noble, signifying, and subjective organic interiority (the strata of the book).…

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Typically two-dimensional characterization

It’s October 18^th, 2014. Meghan Trainor remains at number one with “Shake it Off,” while Ed Sheeran, Ella Henderson, Jeremih, and Nicki Minaj entering the top ten, the latter with “Anaconda,” which enters one place above Taylor Swift if you’re the sort of person who wants to keep score in years-old short-lived celebrity feuds. In news, Nicola Sturgeon becomes set to take over the Scottish National Party from Alex Salmond by dint of their being no other candidates, and the first case of Ebola to be contracted in the United States is confirmed.

On television, meanwhile, Flatline. Once again, Jamie Mathieson provides a script based around a clever and highly televisual concept. It’s not quite surprising that Doctor Who has never done two-dimensional monsters before; conceptually it’s the sort of thing that’s more likely to show up in the classic series, but it would have been technologically infeasible prior to CGI. Still, it’s the sort of idea that if you asked a casual fan if had ever been done, they’d assume it must have been; it’s self-evidently a Doctor Who idea. In practice the Boneless aren’t quite as crisply realized as the Mummy—their rules become pure handwave once they become 3D—but they look good throughout and are the Capaldi era’s only real stab at a proper new monster (as opposed to henchmen for a human-appearing villain or, the more common case, not-actually-monsters), and certainly the only Capaldi-era foes you could see coming back down the line. (Indeed, they made a dreadfully unsatisfying comics appearance in Doctor Who Magazine that took no advantage of the inherent possibilities of a 2D/3D shifting monster appearing on a 2D page that represents 3D space.) And in any case, they look great, setting up the delightfully Doctor Who phenomenon of an episode that can do shambling zombies that have spontaneously gained an extra dimension persuasively, but that whiffs it completely on doing a convincing train. 

But even moreso than last week the clever premise and well-executing Doctor Whoing of the affair is just the foundation on which something interesting is being built. It’s not that Flatline’s set pieces aren’t worth celebrating; the shrinking TARDIS is a brilliant conceit, and the Doctor hand-walking the miniaturized TARDIS off the railroad tracks as Murray Gold puts his hero theme into overdrive may well be the single greatest moment of Doctor Who in which it’s not entirely clear whether anyone involved is remotely competent at their jobs. But taken on their own these things only get you a better-than-average late season standalone. What distinguishes Flatline is simple: Clara.

Obviously we’ve talked about Clara a lot already. I highlighted her more than most critics are inclined to all the way back in the Series Seven material, and since reviving Eruditorum I’ve tried to give her at least a paragraph per essay, in part because I want to devote attention to female characters, but mostly because I think she’s integral to the Capaldi era’s status as a golden age.…

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Oh no! The Doctor no longer has time to listen to all of “Minimum Wage” before he dies!

It’s October 11^th, 2014. Meghan Trainor is at number one with her body positivity anthem “All About That Bass.” Lower in the charts are Magician, Sigma, and, yet again, Taylor Swift, who has been in with “Shake it Off” consistently since “Into the Dalek” aired. In news, Douglas Carswell wins reelection as a MP, this time as a UKIP member, while the US Supreme Court declines to hear a variety of appeals on same-sex marriage cases, making it legal in all but twenty states.

On television, meanwhile, the consensus best story of Series 8, and, for some tranches of fandom, the Capaldi era. This presents something of a problem. There’s a longstanding tendency in TARDIS Eruditorum where well-liked stories come in for a bit of a kicking. Although heavily informed by my taste, TARDIS Eruditorum is not a series of reviews; it’s a cultural history of Britain that uses Doctor Who as its lens and subject. (As my pitch goes these days, “you can tell a lot about what Britain is afraid of at any given moment by looking at what the Doctor is running down a corridor from.”) And sometimes that means that perfectly nice stories get impressed into service standing in for some cultural concern, perhaps most notably when Earthshock found itself rather unfortunately saddled with being the entry where I dealt with both the Falkland War and the emergent inadequacies of Eric Saward’s writing.

And in some key regards, Mummy on the Orient Express is ripe for that precisely because of its reputation. Coming off of Kill the Moon, a story I’ve emphatically nailed my colors to the mast regarding, the fact that Mummy on the Orient Express is widely beloved in exactly the same crowds that sneer at Kill the Moon. It’s beloved, essentially, as a well-made Hinchcliffe throwback: a scary one where a classic horror movie monster picks people off one by one. The underlying traditionalism in this assessment is not something to be encouraged. Add the fact that there’s something more than a bit unseemly about everyone’s favorite Capaldi story being the Clara-light one and you have all the makings of a sacred cow that’s perfect for the abattoir. 

Thankfully (or not if you’re really into me complaining) two not entirely unrelated things spare it. The first is that the story’s trad admirers largely misunderstand it, or at least engage in a perilously superficial reading of it. The second is that it’s just really freaking good. Let’s start with the first. It’s not that it’s hard to see why a particular tranche of trad fandom glommed onto this episode. The description is accurate. It’s got a well-designed monster marauding through an enclosed space and winnowing down the cast. This is in fact traditional. What it’s not is traditionalist. Jamie Mathieson is, by his own admission, not a classic series fan, having been scared off by Terror of the Zygons and largely avoiding the program until the new series came along.…

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You can’t make an omelet without killing a few moons.

It’s October 4^th, 2014. Jessie J, Arianna Grande, and Nicki Minaj are at number one with “Bang Bang.” Iggy Azalea, Calvin Harris, Lilly Wood also chart. In news, protests in Hong Kong rapidly amp up as tens of thousands of people take to the streets in opposition to the proposed “electoral reforms” that would dramatically increase the Chinese Communist Party’s control over Hong Kong. And the US has its first domestically diagnosed Ebola case in Dallas.

While on television, magic. I can still vividly remember the first time I watched Kill the Moon. There’s a rare experience occasionally generated by art, best described as a high or altered state. It comes on as a buzzing thrum, a torrent of associations and realizations and vibrant, ecstatic sense of things coming together. This does not always correspond with greatness; one need only look to my moment of vivid and absolute certainty that Journey to the Center of the TARDIS was about to become an origin story for the Silence. But when it does come together and the work of art actually manages to pay off that thrilling crescendo of possibility the result is one of the most flatly extraordinary experiences in the world. The last time it happened to me with a new episode of Doctor Who was The Big Bang, and, well, here we are a million or so words into the consequences of that. So when Kill the Moon repeated the feat it was kind of a big deal, and I took off to the blog to write a review about it in which I proclaimed it “the single best episode of Doctor Who ever.”

What I did not realize at the time was that this would not, in fact, be a particularly widely held view. Instead Kill the Moon became, charitably, a divisive episode, and less charitably an outright hated one. It was narrowly beaten to the coveted Kinda slot in the 2014 Doctor Who Magazine poll, and was listed in a Guardian article on the Moffat era as a clunker on par with Fear Her and Planet of the Dead. And so boldly declaring it to be an absolute triumph became something of a signature position for me. Regardless of whether it’s the hill I wanted to die on, fate seems to have selected it as the one I did. If there’s one story that defines where TARDIS Eruditorum’s taste departs from mainstream taste, this is apparently the one. 

Let’s rehearse the basic argument one more time. Kill the Moon announces what it’s going to do in the cold open; a direct address to camera from Clara, who peers Troughton-like through a set of scan-lines. She speaks in the first person plural: “we have a terrible decision to make.” “We’re on our own.” And the kicker, the line that seals the deal in terms of what this episode of television is doing, “we have forty-five minutes to decide.”…

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Its gender really is basically attack helicopter

It’s September 27^th, 2014. Sigma and Paloma Faith are at number one with “Changing,” while Professor Green, Script, George Ezra, and Taylor Swift also chart. In news, the United States began intervening in the Syrian Civil War, coming in emphatically on the side of dropping bombs on a country that was already blowing itself up, while Mark Reckless, a Tory MP, times his defection to UKIP to coincide with the start of the Conservative Party’s annual conference in a fairly spectacular moment of utter dickishness.

Speaking of utter dickishness, The Caretaker. Actually, let’s pause for a moment. Because I should probably stress up front that I’ve known what I’m going to say in this entry for a while. I’ve been actively thinking about it since September. I’ve literally made major life decisions based in part on the timing of this essay. And though events in the last couple of weeks have shifted the approach slightly, it’s a matter of degree. All the main points are ones I decided on a while ago. I don’t know whether this fact matters, or if it should; nevertheless, it is a fact.

Anyway. The Caretaker is probably the last Doctor Who contribution from my friend Gareth Roberts. I am not so much being sarcastic there as I am layering a preposterous quantity of irony into a single word. I’d say “he was a friend once,” but that starts getting into Doctor/Missy territory, and honestly it’s just not that cool. But for quite a while, Gareth was vocally supportive of TARDIS Eruditorum, including very generously granting an interview for the Graham Williams book. I got along even better with Clayton Hickman, who for a while I was chatting with often enough that Jill took to calling him my Internet boyfriend. These days, they’ve both blocked me on Twitter, Clayton back in January, Gareth a couple weeks ago. Clayton blocked me (after calling me a “pompous arse”) because I used Gareth as an example in a tweet defending enjoying art made by problematic people; Gareth after I tweeted that I was torn between two jokes I could make in this essay about something he said on Twitter. (I worked them both in, for what it’s worth.)

“Problematic people.” “Something he said on Twitter.” Look at me dancing around the issue. Here. Let’s just go ahead and quote the tweets. “I ❤️ how trannies choose names like Munroe, Paris and Chelsea. It’s never Julie or Bev is it? It’s almost like a clueless gayboy’s idea of a glamorous lady. But of course it’s definitely not that.” Yeah. About the best thing you can say about that is that J.K. Rowling hasn’t hit like on it. It’s ignorant, spiteful garbage of the highest order. A clueless gayboy? I mean, I’m a lesbian, so yeah, apparently pretty fucking clueless. And this is only the tip of the iceberg in terms of transphobic bilge he regularly tweets these days. Which, to answer Clayton at least, yeah, is a bit of a problem for me.…

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