Eruditorum Press

The bodies on the gears of the culture industry

Lux Review

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Well it’s nice that Gatwa gets a perfect episode. He’d not really had one yet, save perhaps Dot and Bubble. But here we’ve got one that it’s legitimately hard to see getting unseated as my season favorite. More to the point, we’ve got one you can just unapologetically hand to your lapsed fan friend and go “look, it’s good again.” It’s probably even worth doing—boosting the Disney+ numbers can’t hurt lolsob. Just a stone cold classic, everything you want from Doctor Who episode. I’m still grinning. Best episode since Hell Bent. 

In terms of actually reviewing it, let me take a moment from my notes document and unpack it for you. I’ve just transcribed the we just end/but that is death deadline, which I followed with, and I quote, “RUSSELL WHAT ARE YOU DOING.” I stress that this is entirely affectionate—a fannish love of the writer of It’s a Sin and Cucumber taking his stock imagery of death and doing a speed run remake of Love and Monsters with it. On the television, the tempo kicks up a bit for our promised third act change, and I’m all but liveblogging: “The Doctor crying, Murray Gold having a nervous breakdown, Penn cackling on the sofa.” It’s absolutely ecstatically good—the triumphant capstone to a fifteen minute showpiece of ostentatiously clever bullshit reaching back to a Scooby-Doo pastiche animated Ncuti Gatwa fretting that he has a two-dimensional brain. Technically, if I wanted to be a complete hardass, I could complain that I have, in fact, seen this before, but come the fuck on. I’m not going to complain about burning up another pile of Disney money on a Mind Robber remake. I’m going to cackle with my husband.

Literally everything about this episode is great. Mr. Ring-a-Ding is simply one of the greatest visuals in the history of the series, and I cannot wait to get to Doctor Who Confidential and watch Russell use a bunch of superlatives about how they did it. From his opening appearance, casually rendered in pitch perfect Ub Iwerks loops to him facing off with the Doctor in the lush art deco cinema to his ascension into the realms above Kether he simply always looks good. The script dances through its set pieces with a nimbleness not seen since at least The Giggle, if not World Enough and Time. Gatwa and Sethu absolutely kill it in every scene. It does not remotely make it look easy, but it oozes with casual confidence at every turn. 

It is in fact four perfectly executed acts. A cold open establishing the villain in the bonkers poetry of moonlight reflecting off a silver spoon, a tight investigation of, as Gatwa delightfully summarizes it, “literally an old caretaker in a haunted cinema,” the metafictional ecstasy of the middle, and then an nicely paced denouement in which the guns on the mantlepiece go off in well-structured sequence. Each one could be unpacked at length, and I look forward to going back and doing so in the context of Gatwa Eruditorum, whenever that may be.…

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Retrospective: Twilight (and baseball)

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As someone with my finger on the pulse, I naturally watched Twilight for the first time in 2025. It’s OK — trashy pulp romance. No worse than anything else Hollywood was pumping out in the Aughts, or even the Forties. Chicks in 2008 needed a fantasy where their dirtbag boyfriend was transgressive and actually sex. There’s nothing wrong with vampires for the Jonas Brothers generation — at least Edward’s shiny due to vampirism and not because he’s never met a conditioner he liked. That Twilight hatedom was mostly misogynistic backlash to a pop culture phenomenon about a woman who wants something dangerous is hardly a novel insight — nor, probably is the fact that Edward is probably no worse a boyfriend than half of Twilight‘s critics. In 2025, it’s hard to get mad about Twilight. I can’t fathom watching the sequels — two hours of Twilight is plenty. But I can’t say I minded watching it.

Now let’s tackle the real evil of Twilight: the fact that the Cullens are resolutely, horrendously bad at baseball. Let’s leave aside the Cullens’ profound failure to grasp the importance of position players, or even what position players do. We can ignore the fact that the offense and defense are played by the same vampires almost simultaneously. Hell, I’ll even set aside my theory that the Cullens have infiltrated the Seattle Mariners and are the only reason they’ve never appeared in a World Series.

No. The abomination here is that the Cullens think they’re hot shit for playing baseball in a physical space without clearly delineated boundaries. It’s not fucking impressive for Superman to catch a high fly ball. Edward Cullen cutting off a more-or-less homer is not an act of skill. There are no rules in vampire baseball. It’s a travesty of American’s finest invention, the greatest game ever invented. “Oh, I can homer in a space without boundaries!” Get fucked. Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson have redeemed themselves with Love Lies Bleeding and The Lighthouse. The rest of the cast and crew need to tour the U.S. to visit every Minor League Baseball clubhouse and apologize at length. We should have known something was wrong with American men when their objection to Twilight was the girliness of it and not the awful baseball. We know American patriarchy is about misogyny and not real strength or achievement, but the Twilight hatedom, with its nauseating silence about the fatal flaws of vampire baseball, proves it.…

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The Robot Revolution Review

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It’s strange, in many ways, to be back, or at least back under these circumstances, watching Doctor Who tick down to the first time since Time of the Doctor  that an episode will air when the next episode hasn’t been shot. And that was a two week period towards a commissioned episode—Deep Breath shot in January. Here we head towards the great unknown, perhaps even the wilderness. It’s faintly unsettling—I’ve not written about Doctor Who in a moment where it might not come back before.

What’s interesting, of course, is that this was all shot and prepared with no knowledge of that—this entire season was in the can before 73 Yards aired, and so is not in a position to respond to the anxieties about its own performance. As far as the show knows, Davies is still the triumphant returning hero. In the latter stretches they’ll know the 60th Anniversary stuff landed. This is, I suspect, to the series’ benefit—it’s in no position to second guess itself. It doesn’t know it’s going to be going out under cancellation fears as the global economy collapses and the United States succumbs to fascism. So it just comes out swinging.

The result has pleasing Cartmel vibes. “Planet of the incels” is the obvious line to point at, and Davies is plainly fishing for praise with it, but the point remains: Doctor Who is aiming at the right fascists here. It’s angry and has a head full of steam. This is good and as it should be. On top of that, it’s pretty well assembled, especially by the standards of the Gatwa era to date. Obviously it’s gorgeous, with a lushly camp 50s retro-future. The basic idea of a star registry certificate being a real and valid document is great. “Belindachandrabombs” has a delightful frisson of comedy and barbarity. There’s lots to love here.

It also doesn’t bottle the ending as badly as much of Series 1 seemed to. In some ways this is me in the odd position of praising the show for the fact that the Alan reveal and the use of the star certificates to defeat him were both extremely obvious, but in an era where the episode resolutions have so frequently been off it’s nice to have everything successfully telegraphed. To some extent this is accomplished by moving the duff bit of pacing to the midpoint instead—the beat where Belinda reactivates the polish droid so she gets captured doesn’t feel entirely earned. But the middle of the episode is a good place to bury your sketchy beat.

And yet there’s a sense of the episode as a bunch of parts in search of a whole. The moment I find telling comes at the beginning. Davies does a quick set of establishing beats for Belinda—stuff we’ve seen a thousand times, and that he does as well as ever. We get her harried at work, then straight to a flatshare situation, and with that we’ve efficiently sketched a skilled career woman in a world where that gets you fuck all.…

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Doctor Who Reviews Update

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Just wanted to give the note that the Patreon is currently slightly short—about $20—of the threshold where my Robot Revolution review will be posted publicly. I’m reasonably confident that gap will be bridged some time in the next five days, but it’s where we are.

In any case, reviews should go out Saturday mornings/afternoons at some point. With episodes dropping at 3am my time, I expect to watch them when I get up on Saturday. The exact shape of this is going to be a bit tricky, as Saturday is also the Ithaca Farmer’s Market, where I do my shopping, and also I have prior commitments for the first two weeks that were on my calendar before we had a launch date, but I’ll figure out the routine that works best, and getting reviews out as fast as possible remains a priority for me.

A final note that this is the last season whose “post publicly” threshold will be $2850. That number’s always been keyed to my rent, and that’s going up at the end of the summer, so by the time The War Between the Land and Sea airs, the public review threshold will have jumped to $2920.

In addition to helping reviews be public, of course, my Patrons already have access to the first chapter of Last War in Albion v4, early chapters of my Blake book, the magical zines Penn has been working on, and will be getting a pair of politics/AI/fascism essays in the near future.

Thanks for reading, and I’m sure I’ll see you all on Saturday.

And here’s that Patreon link again.…

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Review: The War of the Rohirrim

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Roughly half of The War of the Rohirrim‘s best decisions surface in its first scene. The opening gorgeously pans from a map of Middle-earth to its 3D details to a photorealistic shot of the Misty Mountains before being disrupted by a majestic eastle. The appearance of Héra establishes Shieldmaiden of Rohan as a tradition rather than a one-off title, permitting Éowyn (whose reprisal by Mirando Otto is immensely welcome) to belong to a larger history. Éowyn’s voiceover narration establishing that no songs have been written about Héra both builds a tragedy into her story and provides a hefty critique of Tolkien, who only identifies the character as “Helm’s daughter” in Appendix A.

The War of the Rohirrim establishes itself as a minor tale in the Legendarium, a trend Tolkien pioneered long before every attenuated nerd franchise latched onto it. And The War of the Rohirrim somewhat effectively utilizes the ambiguities of the three-page story from The Lord of the Rings by focusing on an unnamed character who’s tragically permitted to fall out of history. The Lord of the Rings, with Tolkien’s use of deliberate gaps and ambiguity in the historical record, is suited to the Rogue One approach. With Rohan, a crucial but less chartered territory of Middle-earth, that approach is a solidly logical idea.

Sadly, probably less than half of The War of the Rohirrim serves that end half as well as it deserves. The characters, while well-portrayed by their voice actors, are reducible to a handful of traits that rarely break out of two-dimensionality. Héra is Éowyn minus the everything, Helm’s mournful relationship with patrilineality is woefully underdeveloped, and Wulf is little more than a reactive revenge monster. At two hours and 14 minutes, The War of the Rohirrim has plenty of time to take its characters to interesting places. Instead we really needed to faff about with a Watcher in the Water eating a mûmak in Fangorn.

There are solid moments of pathos — a couple of character deaths bring some genuinely fantastic imagery. And a second act subplot featuring Helm leads the movie on a fun (if sadly aborted) detour into the numinous. But on the whole, this feels more like an elevated animated Superman movie than a worthy entry in the Legendarium. The hobbits’ description of Helm’s Deep’s founding in The Red Book of Westmarch probably packed more of a punch.

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Review: The Substance

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As Demi Moore awoke from unsettling dreams one morning, she found herself transformed on her bathroom floor into Margaret Qualley.

The Substance touches on a frequently quoted bit of John Berger’s Ways of Seeing about how men look at women while women watch themselves being looked at. In the first act of The Substance, we accompany (Demi Moore in perhaps her most meta role) through her decaying world. Elisabeth’s world is one where her body is commodified, where she is forced to look at herself as a spectacle everywhere she goes. Like all spectacles, she wears down; she’s treated as disposable, ephemeral, like a piece of chicken rotting in her apartment.

When Elisabeth’s double Sue (Margaret Qualley) emerges, we first see her from her own perspective: we see her through her eyes, as the object she was created to be. Sue and Elisabeth’s connection is symbiotic-turned-parasitic-turned-symbiotic-again. Elisabeth’s curse is to see herself as the world sees her: something to be used, enjoyed, and disposed of. It’s body horror, but equally, it’s economic horror, depicting a Hollywood where women are a prized commodity — a world that enlightened, post-#MeToo Hollywood pretends not to be anymore.

Imagine Cinderella meets The Metamorphosis crossed with Sunset Boulevard via Videodrome mixed with Twin Peaks: The Return, and you’d have something almost but not entirely unlike The Substance. It’s bizarre, disgusting, and one of the only intelligent statements about Hollywood this side of the turn of the century. Watching this movie slowly turn into a grosser Carrie is delicious. I giggled at some of the nastiest bits — always a sign that a movie is really effectively horrific. What a beautiful year for horror.…

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And Once Again the Truth is Found (Part 3)

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Continuing a consideration of ‘The Stalls of Barchester Cathedral’ by M.R. James and its BBC television adaptation by Lawrence Gordon Clark

Links to all previous essays in this series may be found below.

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  1. Succession

As we have seen, the character of Dr. Haynes invokes the evangelical reformers of the English Reformation.  This Reformation was a revolution from above; a top-down change of official ideology in the service of expanding the power and property of the national state and the crown.  It took the form of an ‘enclosing’ of church property, wealth, land, and ideological hegemony by new owners, by the crown, the crown’s state bureaucracy, those sectors of the aristocracy allied with the crown’s project, and those sectors of the rising middle class allied with both.

It is easy to look at Dr Haynes and declare that he had no business ascending to the role of archdeacon because he did so via murder.  But is this correct?  His expectation was that he would be given the post upon the death of Dr Pulteney, and he was right.  All he did was hasten the event.  He achieved his post but the post was always and already his.  How can a world which prizes enterprise and ruthlessness, competition and victory, declare out of the other side of its mouth that it is wrong for him to take the post by force?  By the values of such a civilisation, surely his crimes make him more deserving?  Yes, the church publicly espouses contrary values, publicly despises ambition and cruelty, but then so does Dr Haynes publicly advocate the same worldview.  Is he to be declared unfit for office because he lives by both the ideological claims and the material reality of his institution, his society?

Haynes and his story invoke the spectre of Shakespeare’s Macbeth.

It is by no means clear that Macbeth is actually an illegitimate king because he came by his crown by murder.  He is destined to be king.  We know this because the weird sisters see his kingship and its consequences in the future, already written.  And if he achieves the crown of Scotland by deadly competition, so too does Duncan before him, so too does Malcolm after him.  As Richard II says in his own play “they well deserve who know the surest, safest way to get”.

Much as Macbeth is haunted by three witches or weird sisters, so is Haynes haunted by three figures: the carved cat, the carved monk/Death, and the carved Devil.  He does not encounter the Devil explicitly but the Devil character on the stalls is described as having fearsomely long and sharp talons, and Haynes’ facial injuries at his demise are ambiguous: they could be the work of the cat or the clawed Devil – or, in some obscure way, both.  And surely his own crimes would be seen, from within the confines of his own belief system, as diabolical.  Again like Macbeth he is also haunted by women in the sense that Jane Lee’s threat of exposure and blackmail dogs him, his sister’s absence leaves him at the mercy of the supernatural forces in the house, and the entities lurking in the house are repeatedly mistaken for maids moving around.…

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Review: Conclave

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Carlo Maria Viganò will never recover from being portrayed as a guy who vapes in the Vatican.

In the wake of Paolo Sorrentino’s The Young/New Pope, there’s been ample room for more political dramas about the Holy See. Conclave takes the route of the paranoid thriller, treating St. Peter’s Basilica as the Washington of All the President’s Men or the London of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (and indeed, TTSS co-writer Peter Straughan scripted this). Conclave is low on original insights into the Catholic Church, but when the results are this much fun, that’s an easy shortcoming to forgive.

Conclave makes for a fun two hours of intrigue and deliciously Catholic doubt, rife with allusions to the Vatican Leaks, John Paul II and Benedict XVI’s neglect of clerical abuse victims, and the fascism of Piuses XI and XII. My friend Shea Vassar has described it as Mean Girls in the Vatican, and if that appeals to you, this is probably your movie. Ralph Fiennes, Stanley Tucci, Lucian Msamati, and Isabella Rossellini make the already solid script absolutely sing. Fiennes’ character Lawrence articulates the role doubt has in faith, both explaining an important part of belief and comforting himself for his uncertainty about the Papacy. Like most good paranoid thrillers, Conclave is a story about political power where the greatest institution is rudderless, struggling under the weight of an empty throne, a sede vacante. In a post-Benedict XVI world, it’s not exactly a new insight, but it’s visually poignant and well-visualized by director Edward Berger.

The ending left me slightly cold — “what if we just got a nice Pope?” is a weak response to the ongoing plutocracy and colonialism of the Catholic Church. But seeing a movie about the Vatican take on the damage caused by Humanae Vitae and traditionalist Catholicism was healing for me, and it seemed to be fun for everyone else. If Conclave is what we get instead of The Young Pope Season 3, stories about the Vatican are in good shape.…

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Bourgeois Salvations

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On Protestantism, Calvinism, Anglicanism, and their relation to capitalism.  See also this previous essay.

The religious world is but the reflex of the real world. And for a society based upon the production of commodities, in which the producers in general enter into social relations with one another by treating their products as commodities and values, whereby they reduce their individual private labour to the standard of homogeneous human labour – for such a society, Christianity with its cultus of abstract man, more especially in its bourgeois developments, Protestantism, Deism, &c., is the most fitting form of religion.

– Marx, Capital vol.1, Chapter 1, Section 4

But where Luther failed, Calvin won the day. Calvin’s creed was one fit for the boldest of the bourgeoisie of his time. His predestination doctrine was the religious expression of the fact that in the commercial world of competition success or failure does not depend upon a man’s activity or cleverness, but upon circumstances uncontrollable by him. It is not of him that willeth or of him that runneth, but of the mercy of unknown superior economic powers; and this was especially true at a period of economic revolution, when all old commercial routes and centres were replaced by new ones, when India and America were opened to the world, and when even the most sacred economic articles of faith – the value of gold and silver – began to totter and to break down. Calvin’s church constitution of God was republicanized, could the kingdoms of this world remains subject to monarchs, bishops, and lords? While German Lutheranism became a willing tool in the hands of princes, Calvinism founded a republic in Holland, and active republican parties in England, and, above all, Scotland.

In Calvinism, the second great bourgeois upheaval found its doctrine ready cut and dried.

– Engels, Socialism: Utopian and Scientific

 

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In Behemoth – the first great work of sociological and political analysis of Nazi Germany, published in 1944 – Franz Neumann, a political scientist affiliated with the Frankfurt School, commences a consideration of the roots of German fascism with an account of the ideologies of the revolutionary Protestant movements of Early Modernity.

He writes:

In the periods of religious wars and civil insurrections, the rising middle classes had great need of peace and tranquillity; merchants and industrialists yearned for equality with the clergy and the nobility. As a result, a central secular authority was established and its sovereign power was justified as that of an institution to which men owed not only outward obedience but sincere inner devotion. Charismatic justification of existing authority thus found a place at the beginning of bourgeois society…

 

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The great ideological fault line between Catholicism and Protestantism was always the issue of salvation.  How is one saved?

Martin Luther answered the question of salvation by pioneering a set of five conditions or methods by which one may be saved, sometimes known as ‘the five solas’: sola scriptura (by scripture alone), solus Christus (by Christ alone), sola fide (by faith alone), sola gratia (by grace alone), and soli Deo gloria (by glorification of God alone). …

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Joy to the World Review

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First off, I want to note that technically Penn’s and my Patreon is well short of where it should be for me to be doing this. I ain’t no grinch, and so I’m posting publicly anyway, but seriously, it’s a pretty sizeable shortfall in our monthly budgeting. I’m currently finishing up the epic Neil Gaiman section of Last War in Albion over on the Patreon, which you’ll see here in a few months, and I’ve also finally started work on my inevitable Blake book, so it’s an exciting time.  And besides. Next episode isn’t at Christmas and I can grinch it up as much as I want.

Right. On to the fun stuff, or at least this curious little thing we’re calling the Gatwa era, and may someday find out if we’ll be calling it that for more than another eight episodes. Let’s start with the obvious: this is loads of fun, in a big dumb Christmassy way. Yes, obviously this is not my favorite mode of Moffat because I’m a basic bitch who prefers dark and epic Doctor Who to comedy. But it’s still Moffat, with all his weird little idiosyncrasies, which at this point feel like pulling your favorite jacket off the rack and slipping it on. I in no way hope he takes over again after Davies (though I suspect I’d be hard-pressed to actually be unhappy if it happened), but this is always going to be the most straightforwardly “my Doctor Who” there is. The bit at the start where the Doctor realizes he’s seen something because he’s suiting up—nobody else writes that particular Doctor, and I just plain vibe.

This one even avoids Moffat’s standard tics more than Boom did. There’s a bootstrap paradox and a long way around, and there’s not a single other writer who would have done that Christmas farce cold open, but this isn’t a “play the hits” episode in the same way. In some ways it’s much closer to “play the misses”—I remember seeing the AV Club’s review drop a few days ago and being utterly bemused at its longing for the classic Moffat specials of yesteryear like The Doctor, the Widow, and the Wardrobe and The Return of Doctor Mysterio, which this was apparently not as good as, and feeling like I should quickly Google how The Berenstain Bears are spelled to make sure I was still in the correct reality. 

Mostly, though, this feels like its own thing. Boom came early enough in the Gatwa era that everything was up in the air, such that it felt like Gatwa doing a Moffat episode as part of the work of establishing himself and figuring out what this show is. This, on the other hand, feels like Moffat doing a Gatwa episode, which is to say that it feels like Gatwa-era Doctor Who is a defined enough thing to riff upon. The death of the hotel manager is a good example—Gatwa’s Doctor simply handles that emotional beat differently than Smith or Capaldi would have, and Moffat writes it accordingly. …

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