Tag Archives: season 22

Tittilation, taunting and Timelash (1985)

timelash

1980s Doctor Who impresario John Nathan-Turner used to have a matronly rule, banning “hanky-panky in the TARDIS”, to ward off any suggestion that the Doctor might have a romantic interest in any of his companions. It’s a rule which had a cold shower-like effect on the show in the early 80s, which became its most platonic era. The 70s, by comparison, had allowed companions to have gentle romances with guest stars. It dabbled with sexual tension between characters like Jo and Mike Yates, and Harry and Sarah. And by the end of the 70s, the Doctor and Romana were basically an item. But in Nathan-Turner’s early years, romance in any form, even among guest characters, was rare. The only exception to this puritanical regime was Mariner’s obsession with Tegan, which had the unsettling air of stalking about it.

In 1983, something began to change. Nathan-Turner became interested in girls. Specifically, he started mandating that the female leads in the show be costumed in more revealing clothes. Tegan started wearing skimpy shorts and tight skirts and in one story, Nyssa stripped down to her underwear. This increasing sexualisation of the companions (after a period of relative chasteness), culminated in the casting of Nicola Bryant as Peri. Who, in her very first episode, appeared in the scantest of hot pink bikinis. 

Like a (straight) teenage boy suddenly hitting puberty, mid 80s Doctor Who abruptly became obsessed with emphasising its female companion as both desirable and desired. In Peri’s case, it did this in two ways. Firstly, by some particularly exploitative costuming, favouring shorts and bust boosting tops (watching Doctor Who randomly really makes this stand out; returning to a Peri story always puts this costuming brazenness into sharp contrast). Secondly, by presenting a string of male characters who express their carnal interest in her. And these men are not kind, charming heroic types who used to make eyes at Jo or Sarah. These would-be suitors are villains and monsters.

The first is deranged drug dealer Sharaz Jek. The next is giant slug Mestor (who expresses his ardour with the classic line, “I find her pleasing. Pleasing!” regularly mocked in the Spandrell household). Later on, there is the sleazy Jobel, and before him there’s Shockeye, who wants Peri for his dinner, but whose hunger is often indistinguishable from lust. Even Sil, who famously finds Peri repulsive, is compelled to join this horny bunch by judging our Bostonian friend on her appearance.

In Timelash (which I had to get around to eventually), Peri’s admirer du jour is the Borad (Robert Ashby), half man, half saurian. His plans for Peri are the most explicit of all her creepy admirers. In the ultimate homage to b-grade “I married an alien” type films, he wants Peri so that he can procreate. (Why it has to be Peri, and not a Karfelon woman is not made clear). And with that intent we have reached, I think, Doctor Who’s nadir in both its treatment of Peri (a big call as she was once, infamously, strangled by the Doctor) and its treatment of its female regulars.

When the plot revolves around using the companion as a breeding machine, something really has gone seriously awry. And to add even more shame to this already awful scenario, Peri gets nothing else interesting or proactive to do in the story. Plus, there’s the whiff of sexual violence about the thing. She’s tied to a pole and menaced by a phallically long necked monster (twice). She’s shackled by the neck and led around by a man holding her by a rod. It’s icky.

Timelash has its faults (he says, in the understatement of the year) and chief among them is its treatment of Peri. But coming a close second is its uncomfortable alignment of physical deformity with evil. True, Doctor Who (particularly as written by Robert Holmes) has a long history of this, but here, it collides with the story’s degradation of Peri in a truly awful narrative conclusion.

The Borad takes Peri hostage and in response, the Doctor (a bullish Colin Baker) taunts him about his ugliness. “Show yourself to Peri,” he suggests. “If she doesn’t scream, the wedding can take place.” As Peri points out, she has no to say in this. The Doctor then reveals a hitherto boarded up mirror (All mirrors having been banned on Karfel, along with fan art and naturalistic dialogue) and the Borad is consumed with self loathing. As predicted, Peri screams. “I told you she’d scream,” says the Doctor, helpfully.

The Borad’s a killer and a despot. But the Doctor doesn’t defeat him in a contest of ideas. Or by showing him the error of his ways. He defeats him by taunting him about how ugly he is. “The possibility of perfect companionship shattered because of your grotesque, ugly, excuse for a body,” he says. He doesn’t even upbraid him for his crimes. The overriding message is that it doesn’t really matter what wicked things you do, you’ll ultimately be judged on your appearance – just as Peri constantly is. The Borad spirals into anguish and the Doctor pushes him into the Timelash with a last brutal confirmation of the story’s moral, that you’ll never be loved if you don’t fit the bodily norm. “Nobody wants you. Nobody needs you. Nobody cares!” he booms. Yup, that “never cruel or cowardly” thing has definitely gone out the window. Or down the tinsel covered time corridor.

If there’s a light of hope in this dull, matte story, it’s that it marks an end to this thoughtless, exploitative treatment of female companions. Peri’s successors Mel and Ace will both be more proactive presences in the series and neither will be the constant focus of villainous lust. And Peri too, although she still has Jobel to manouver around, has more to do in her final stories, and is at last, costumed without so much consideration to the randy teenage boys in the audience. Timelash at least marks the point where the lot of the female lead starts to improve after a brief but blatant period of decline into sex objects for men (in the narrative and in the audience) to leer over.

I mean, she’s still got to get married to Brian Blessed. But after that.

SPARE A THOUGHT FOR: innocent Scots in 1189, who keep getting bombarded with banished Karfelons, wearing jumpsuits made out of dirty curtains and bewildered expressions. What will they do with them?

LINK TO Let’s Kill Hitler: cases of hidden identity in both.

NEXT TIME: Paper! How fascinating! We’re off to find The Witchfinders.

Late response, lasting impact and Vengeance on Varos (1985)

Radio times letter

Dear Harry,

I am a little late responding to your letter in the Radio Times, 9-15 February 1985. To be fair, there were a few impediments to me to doing so.

For a start, when your letter was published, I was only 10 years old and living in Nowhere, Australia. Also, I’d never heard of the Radio Times, its letters page or indeed, you. And on top of all that, I’ve only just become aware of your letter, via what is now, in the space year 2019, called a website. And if you think entering into correspondence about your thoughts on a program broadcast 34 years ago, expressed in reply to a letter which wasn’t addressed to you is both unusual and obsessive, well, you obviously haven’t met many Doctor Who fans.

Doctor Who was the subject of your disgruntled letter back then. Specifically, the story which stoked your objections was Vengeance on Varos. You’ve probably forgotten all about it and gotten on with your life, like a norm. Good for you.

But to jog your memory, VOV (as no one has ever called it) is about a dystopian society where capital punishment and torture are served up as entertainment to an oppressed public. The planet’s governor (Martin Jarvis) is trying to negotiate a trade deal with a capitalist slug called Sil (Nabil Shaban) but is hampered by a corrupt police state and regular public votes from the viewing public, which if lost, result in painful retribution. The Doctor (Colin Baker) and his friend Peri (Nicola Byrant) turn up and get caught up in all this.

Your letter ends with the memorable phrase, “the kids deserve better than this…” and after reading it, I suddenly remembered that I was one of those kids.

In 1985, I had made the transition from casual viewer to book collecting, t-shirt wearing fan. And I was just becoming aware of other Doctor Who fans and their complex organising principles. Through fan clubs and their newsletters, I knew what was coming up in Doctor Who’s 1985 season and I was looking forward to Vengeance on Varos. I knew that it had attracted some criticism about the levels of violence in it; I even remember worrying about whether it was going to edited for local transmission, or perhaps even omitted (Doctor Who‘s Australian broadcaster, ABC, had a habit of doing both these things). The things you worry about when you’re 10.

Oddly enough, Doctor Who tended to worry its fans a great deal in 1985. Having just started to make contact with my fellow Whoheads and read their opinions in homemade fanzines (cheaply printed but lavished with extensive outrage), I was confused to find that most of my fellow TARDIS followers seemed to hate Doctor Who, at least in its current iteration. Which you might think is a contradictory position for people who loved something enough to form themselves into a fan club to take, but then, as I’ve speculated above, you’ve probably haven’t met many Doctor Who fans.

Like you, they worried about its violence. But also, they worried about this new Doctor, dressed like a demented fairground attendant and with a fractured personality to match. His newfound tolerance for, and occasional participation in, violence signalled a relaxation of the Doctor’s moral code, and they hated it.

On viewing VOV, fans concentrated their ire on the “acid bath scene” where the Doctor makes a tasteless quip after two men fall in a pool of acid, and the last of a string of set pieces in the planet’s “punishment dome,” where the Doctor engineers the deaths of two bad guys by slapping them with poisoned vines. (They didn’t worry that the only two black people in the show are voiceless, musclebound servants or that the only female characters are two housewives and Peri, costumed to accentuate her breasts, but there you go).

But Harry, I’m here to tell you I survived the ordeal of watching VOV when I was 10. In fact, I loved it. It was my favourite of the season. At 10, I don’t think I could fully grasp the satirical points it was making about the corrosive effect both television and violence have on a society, or the dangers of tying government to populism – a message which seems particularly relevant in 2019. Mainly, I think, I liked the character of Sil, a slimy but hilarious business type, who laughed like a broken propeller when fortune deserted our heroes. Plus, the Doctor being bold and ingenious, and more prepared to dive into immediate action than his cautious predecessor.

I certainly wouldn’t have been able to identify its faults and contradictions, most glaringly that it seems to be indulging in the sort of gratuitous gore it was busy criticising. But also that the Doctor and Peri take ages to arrive on Varos, with loads of valueless TARDIS scenes delaying their entrance into the story. There are a few dodgy performances. And special effects. And buggies. And mysteriously, two old men in nappies. But none of this stayed with young me, only the afterimage of an engaging and witty story, inhabiting some of the darker corners of Doctor Who, which I always liked to explore.

What has the lasting effect of VOV been on me? Well, it didn’t scar me for life. It didn’t turn me into a violent sociopath. It has, along with the rest of that visceral 1985 season of Doctor Who, made me fonder of this difficult era of the show than most. That’s partly as a rebellious response to the vehemence of its critics I found inhabiting fan clubs; I’ve never liked being told what to like and their strident complaints served only to draw me closer to it, to search harder for the good stuff in it. I’m glad I did.

But perhaps it also made me more tolerant than others of a sort of darker version of Doctor Who, one which can test its own boundaries about violence and grimness from time to time, as long as the Doctor’s core values are maintained. It’s something the show does occasionally – it went this way in Tom Baker’s second and third years and does it again in Colin Baker’s first and Peter Capaldi’s first. Each time, it emerged with a greater commitment to the Doctor as a figure of compassion, empathy and intelligence over brute force.

But did I, as one of those kids you mention, “deserve better than this”? Well, what we kids got was the first Doctor Who story teaching us to read television, and to think about how television is constructed by producers and politicians alike. We got a story mixing the storytelling traditions of Greek theatre and contemporary television. One which had something to say about democracy, entertainment, colonisation and violence. One that blurred its fictional world with the techniques of its own production (watch the end of Part One to see what I mean).

At 10 years old, it was my introduction to metatextuality and post-modernism. More than any other Who story up to that point, it prompted me to think beyond the surface level of a story. And despite its faults, it’s remained a story which Doctor Who fans (a far nicer bunch these days), return to time and again to deconstruct and find new meaning in.

So no, I don’t think we did deserve better than Vengeance on Varos. On the whole, we were pretty well served with what we got. And we still are.

Love to the kids,

Johnny

 ***

LINK TO Snakedance: JN-T produced both. Plus both have guest stars called Martin.

NEXT TIME: Talking of questionable levels of violence, we match wits with The Brain of Morbius, you chicken brained biological disaster!

Gore, gall and The Two Doctors (1985)

twodoc

I idly glanced at the cover of my DVD of The Two Doctors and was surprised to see it had been granted a G rating, for a general audience. That’s a bold call, given this is a story which features, among other things, a stabbing, a dismembered leg, the murder of an old woman, a character eating a rat and another lapping up spilled blood. Perhaps when determining the rating back in 1993 for the VHS release, the overworked assessor simply slept through most of his/her viewing of story. Or maybe they were genuinely content with giving a story which shows an attentive viewer how to poison someone with cyanide the same rating as other G rated titles from 1993 like Bananas in Pyjamas and Babar.

(Mind you, Australia’s classification of Doctor Who home video releases has always been a bit eccentric. Other stories confidently rated G for “go kids, go!” include The Seeds of Doom, The Robots of Death and The Talons of Weng-Chiang. All rated lower than PG (parental guidance recommended) outings like City of Death, Arc of Infinity and The King’s Demons. Only two classic stories scored an M (mature audience) rating, and while we might nod worthily about Attack of the Cybermen, you do have to wonder what it was about The Ambassadors of Death that so twisted the classification bureau’s knickers. It’s not like anyone clubs an old woman or eats a rat in that one.)

When DWM’s Time Team of fresh-faced millennials came to view The Two Doctors Part Three, they were so appalled they couldn’t finish the episode. “I certainly wouldn’t show that to children,” said Beth, who should clearly be applying to Australian Classification for a job. As a father of two little Spandrells, I can report that lots of kids’ entertainment contains surprisingly adult concepts and the average kid can probably safely absorb more of it than you might think, but I take her point. I’d hesitate to let my 6 year old watch this. I’d veto Arc of Infinity too, but for different reasons.

This is a violent story, but no more violent than say The Seeds of Doom or The Deadly Assassin. What differentiates The Two Doctors and Season 22 in general, is its love of gore, which it adds to the punch/shoot ‘em up violence of the Hinchcliffe years. A Hinchcliffe story might blow up an alien monster but only Season 22 waves about the resultant, bloodied limb.

It’s interesting that for the Time Team members, drawn to the show by its carefully crafted 21st century version, the tone and content of The Two Doctors makes it unwatchable. We’re an age away from both 1985 and 1993, when it was considered by broadcasters and censors alike to be suitable for children. But seeing as the Time Team were recently counselled that “you can’t judge the past by the standards of the present,” I think it’s only fair that we consider what was happening in 1985 to make the show take this alarming turn towards blood and guts.

*****

“It’s the eighties,” Matt Smith’s Doctor says in next week’s random story. “Everything’s bigger.” This is certainly true of The Two Doctors, which lies smack in the middle of that garish decade. This is a story bigging it up in order to be a blockbuster. It’s got two Doctors, two companions and two sets of monsters. It’s got an overseas location. It’s the longest story for seven years. It’s huge. It’s also the story which was on air when Doctor Who got cancelled for the first time.

One of the things that gets lost in the retelling of that drastic intervention in the show is how much of a surprise it was to everyone involved. The Two Doctors, brash and brutal as it is, is no example of a show in crisis. If anything, it, like the rest of Season 22, is supremely confident about the changes it’s making to the show. Its move towards a tougher, bloodier aesthetic was made in the assumption that that was what a public watching The A-Team and Miami Vice wanted. And on average, it rated almost exactly as the previous season, so you could argue the production team were giving the public what they wanted. Doctor Who’s budget couldn’t compete with the stunts and action of those US imports, but it could use cut price gore instead. And it could put a busty girl in a halter top just as exploitatively as The Dukes of Hazzard.

It’s tempting to point to The Two Doctors’ early evening timeslot, its generous ratings classification and the more action oriented milieu of the 80s and say that the Time Team’s disgust for this story shows how tastes have become more conservative over time. But it wouldn’t be true; this story’s gross out violence had its fair share of criticism in 1985. Not least of all from Michael Grade who called the show violent and its makers complacent when cancelling the show. So times haven’t changed that much.

No, the point is that The Two Doctors has always polarised views. For some, this story is so over the top and cartoony that its violence appears no more confronting than that of your average Doctor Who story. For others, this is Doctor Who turning bewilderingly and offensively to the schlock horror genre for inspiration. But it was done loudly, confidently, unapologetically and in response to the colourfully tasteless 1980s themselves. It’s the narrative equivalent of the sixth Doctor’s coat of many clashing colours.

*****

Into the colourful but blood-splattered world of Colin Baker’s sixth Doctor lands Patrick Troughton’s second, looking quietly out of place. You’d think that if you were going to bring back Troughton’s shabby, sly aging schoolboy of a Doctor, you’d attempt in some way to harken back to those base under siege stories of old. Rassilon knows, Season 22 doesn’t mind asking its audience to recall stories from the 1960s.

But this feels nothing like a Troughton story and it’s partly because the second Doctor’s not allowed to do anything particularly Doctorly. He starts as an emissary from the Time Lords, is captured and tied up for an episode and then transformed into a permanently hungry Androgrum. He’s this story’s damsel in distress and had Troughton suddenly become unavailable to shoot the story, his role could have easily been reassigned to some generic Time Lord diplomat.

So although it’s called The Two Doctors, we only really get one. And that’s a shame when you think of the fun which could have been had two Doctors. Steven Moffat has said the show doesn’t really work with more than one Doctor (didn’t stop him writing it like that twice though), but surely we needn’t have had The Two Doctors prove that. Couldn’t we have had each Doctor unwittingly working against each other, unaware of each other’s presence, one comically undoing the other’s efforts? Or could they not have been farcically just missing each other all the time? Some mechanism which would have shown the different modus operandi of each Doctor.

But perhaps we should be grateful that the second Doctor is relegated to the status of a more interesting than normal guest star. Had he been fully integrated into Season 22’s gratuitous tone, perhaps he, rather than the boisterous sixth Doctor, may have been the one smothering someone with cyanide. And for an encore, he could have beaten a Sontaran to death with its own severed leg. Surely that would have bumped it up to PG.

LINK TO The Woman Who Fell to Earth: Hmm, not much here, except that the Doctor briefly gets excited about eating in both.

NEXT TIME… Rug up, we’re off to fight a Cold War.

Confidence, conspicuousness and Attack of the Cybermen (1985)

attackcyb

Part One

Here is a story which has a number of objectives: to be a bold and brilliant season opener, to be a celebration of Doctor Who’s history and to be a kickass Cyberman story. Script editor Eric Saward was so committed to this vision that when BBC rules prevented him from writing the story, he did so anyway and put his girlfriend’s name on it. Extraordinary really, that he had such a burning ambition to tell this story of gangsters, Cybermen and ice maidens that he’d deliberately deceive his employers to allow him to do so. Imagine risking your job and career so you could give the world Attack of the Cybermen.

The first episode gives the best indication of what Saward was seeking to achieve. He offers us space mercenary Lytton (Maurice Colbourne) and his gang of crooks, apparently trying to break into a bank through the sewers. In fact, Lytton’s out to contact a random group of Cybermen, who are hiding out underground. These sections are sharply written and stylishly directed by Matthew Robinson. Although a common criticism of 80s Who is that it moved too far away from the creepy,  tea time suspense that won the show so many fans in its earlier years, these sections are textbook Doctor Who. Interspersed with a subplot of events of the planet Telos, where Cyber-converts Bates (Michael Attwell) and Stratton (Jonathan David) are plotting rebellion, there’s a sense of something interesting and exciting developing, although through a bleak, mostly humourless filter.

Weirdly enough, what really jars in this episode are our heroes, the Doctor (Colin Baker) and Peri (Nicola Bryant). He is in his trademark red patchwork coat, she in an eye poppingly tight, hot pink leotard. Whether it be against the stark white of the TARDIS or the sunny location work in some London backstreets, they stand out like dayglo paint splashed across a newspaper.

Nor are they pleasant company to be with (to borrow a Saward-ism). They bicker and moan and swap needless continuity references. He’s a bully and a boor, she’s tremulous and shrill. And because they chase a couple of red herring plot elements for most of the episode, it’s not until they eventually descend into the sewers and tussle with some Cybermen that they finally intersect with the story. Frankly, up until that point, they are a garish distraction from more interesting things.

Saward is on record saying that 45 minute episodes, an innovation in this season of classic Who, afforded greater opportunity for character development. But his approach to them is misjudged. It seems to have been to simply expand a 25 minute structure to 45 minutes; the same sort of scenes happen in the same order, they all just take longer. The result is that the typical first half of each of the episodes in season 22 seem unnecessarily slow. That approach would be unthinkable today, where there’s a constant need to engage and re-engage audiences with new incidents, ere they get switch channels or devices. And now we’ve had ten seasons of 45 episodes of 21st Who, we can see that what the 45 minute format needs is rapid, not leisurely pacing.

Even if he was right, that with longer episodes comes a better opportunity to develop character, that surely demands that the characters are worthy of being developed. But these two fluorescent quarrelers, banging on about the chameleon circuit? Really Eric?

Part Two

And suddenly everything switches around. The Doctor and Peri become more agreeable and everything else goes a bit potty.

The change in the Doctor and Peri’s relationship, and in the likeability of their characters is immediate. It’s tempting to say that this is because they’re separated for most of the episode, but even when they’re together, there’s a concern for each other and a rapport which could have developed into a formidable combination (particularly if Peri could have been given more a  proactive role in the story. It should also be noted that when given a chance to change out of that leotard, she opts for a more practical jumpsuit number, but still in retina burning hot pink. That is some commitment to colour.)

But although we now have a TARDIS team we can feel comfortable watching (albeit with sunglasses on), the rest of the story loses focus. Where Part One concentrated on two or three plotlines, in Part Two they multiply like cybernised rabbits. Suddenly there’s a race to steal a time machine, the plight of the indigenous species (the waggily fingered Cryons, played by skilled performers giving carefully crafted performances completely hidden behind anonymous vac formed masks), a brave rebel waiting for her chance to a room full of conveniently stored explosives, rogue Cybermen bursting out of tombs, a plot to blow everything up, another plot to divert a comet into Earth, a reminder of what happened in some Doctor Who from 1966 and a quick shoutout to the Time Lords.

It’s traditional to bash Attack for its overreliance on continuity details, long forgotten by anyone but the most devoted of fanboys (and blimey, if that twists your Tom Baker knickers, just wait until next week). But although it’s clunkily delivered, I don’t think that’s this episode’s worst sin. The Tenth Planet stuff is, after all, confined to one scene and is quickly moved on from. It’s more that Saward seems to suddenly want to include every possible plot line, as if he’s worried he’ll never get another chance to write anything ever again. This seems to blind him from some plot basics. For instance, the Doctor, although getting plenty of action is kept well away from the story’s centre, never gets a chance to confront his old enemy, the Cyber Controller (Michael Kilgariff). Considering Earthshock put the Doctor’s ideological differences to the Cyber Leader (David Banks) front and centre, that’s a conspicuous omission.

The story ends with a sudden escalation of violence including the bloody crushing of Lytton’s hands and the Doctor in a firefight with the Cyberfolk. There’s no attempt to show the Doctor’s ingenuity or problem solving. There’s no attempt to sum up what the central theme of the story has been, which leads to the conclusion that this story’s full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Except perhaps that the Doctor was wrong to assume that a ruthless mercenary was working for one side of an internecine war and not the other.

Although Attack may not be “about” anything, it’s infused with one palpable characteristic: confidence. It has absolute confidence that it knows its fannish viewers and what they want. It has absolute confidence that they will be so fascinated, that they’ll stick around through a tricky format change, embracing the change of pace. It’s confident in its brash new Doctor, its ability to shock and thrill. When you think that a few short weeks after it went out that confidence would be shattered by the series’ first cancellation, there’s also something grand and tragic about its hubris.

LINK TO Rosa: More Americans. Three stories in a row!

NEXT TIME… Get your own stick! I’m in one of your hot countries to meet The Magician’s Apprentice/The Witch’s Familiar.

Small business, big plans and Revelation of the Daleks (1985)

revelation1

The run of Dalek stories from Genesis to Revelation (I know it actually goes to Remembrance but it’s not as cool a phrase, OK?) is the closest Doctor Who gets to an ongoing chain of sequels. Revelation of the Daleks in particular has the sickly sweet aroma of a late, late sequel about it. But the star of this popcorn movie is not the Daleks, but Davros. This is really Davros 4: Weekend at the Great Healer’s. And like many a third sequel, things have taken a bizarre turn for our favourite mutant in a chariot.

Life used to be so simple for him. Standard villainy. First he was raising a new race of monsters from the mutated remains of his own race. Then, he was breaking the deadlock between them and a race of disco robots. Then he was curing a deadly virus while starting a factional war. But in this fourth installment, he’s done something far more challenging. He’s opened a small business.

Wisely, he’s chosen the funeral business, so there’s never any shortage of clients. And because they’re not so much dead as in suspended animation, he can upsell them some addition extras, like music and ongoing commentary from Alexei Sayle. But in an even shrewder move, he’s found two different ways of making use of the bodies on the sly. The smart ones he turns into Daleks. The dummards he sells off as food to a galaxy of hungry mourners.

Unfortunately, he’s plagued by many of the problems that beset small business. Firstly, he’s got problems with his suppliers. Relations have soured so much with factory owner Kara (a Disney villainess brought to life by Eleanor Bron), that she sends a hired killer to bump him off. Somewhat extreme; most people just pay their bills late. Sensibly, Davros acts like any good CEO would do and constructs an elaborate machine bound clone of himself as a decoy for the assassin’s bullet.

Then there’s corporate espionage, with a pair of grave robbers infiltrating the place just by putting on some blue dental gowns. Somewhere within that chariot of Davros’s there should be a post-it note saying ‘beef up security’.

And of course, there’s the common pitfall of being distracted from your goals. So Davros goes to the trouble of constructing a giant statue of the Doctor (Colin Baker, in acerbic form) to lure him to Necros to um, what exactly? Why attract the one man who could, and probably will, thwart your plans? Send that one back to the working group, Davros, it’s not thought through properly.

But as any business owner knows, it’s the staff which are the main problem. Take embalmers cum brutes-for-hire Takis and Lilt (Trevor Cooper and Colin Spaull). Sure, they’ll take time off from the flower arranging to rough up some intruders for you. But then later on they’ll get a bit squeamish and call in your rivals for a hostile takeover. Very disloyal. That’ll come up in their performance reviews.

And then there’s always the problem of your staff getting romantically attached to each other. A boss should never get involved in these situations, but that’s just what Davros does with ageing Lothario Mr Jobel (a quite aggrieved Clive Swift) and hapless attendant Tasambeker (Jenny Tomasin). She adores him, but he couldn’t care less about her. And there the whole thing could rest, except Davros wants to interfere.

He cranky at Jobel, you see, because he offered to turn him into a Dalek and he refused. Why this should bother Davros so much, or why indeed if he really did want Jobel Dalekified he didn’t just take him by force, is never explained. Nevertheless, Davros plots his revenge. Shall he set Takis and Lilt on him? Should he simply send a Dalek to exterminate him?

Too simple! A better idea is to slowly needle at Tasambeker’s psyche, preying on her insecurities until she wants to kill the man she loves. ‘Watch him’, Davros purrs through his clone’s rubbery mouth. ‘Use the security cameras to observe his activities, then tell me if your hate doesn’t grow.’ Slowly he turns her against Jobel. Then one day his insults prove too cutting and she stabs the oleaginous creep with a hypodermic needle.

So Davros took the long way round to murder his chief embalmer by proxy. Overly complex, perhaps but gruesome enough to appeal to the mind of a despot, you might think. But then he immediately rewards Tasambeker by exterminating her. Now that’s not only tough on Tasambeker, but utterly bewildering. What did she do except exactly what Davros wanted her to? Meddling in your staff’s love life is bad enough, but needlessly killing the obedient ones is just poor human resource management. Sure, she’s no Nyder, but at least she could follow an order.

In the end, grey Daleks swoop in making a corporate raid. They of course, have no interest in commerce, but they have a newfound interest in justice, and they vow to put Davros on trial (in the proper legal wigs and gowns, I trust.) And as they whisk him away, no doubt he’s thinking about giving up this business lark; long hours, hard work and limited rewards. That day job he used to have as a super villain must seem ever more appealing. And so it is that when we get around to Davros 5: The Emperor’s New Polycarbide Casing, he’s restricting himself to stealing an alien super weapon. After all, there’s nothing wrong with sticking to your strengths.

LINK to Dalek: Apart from the obvious, there’s the underground setting and both feature levitating Daleks. And Davros is referred to in Dalek as well.

Sacrificial BLAM!: Orcini blows himself up with a great big bomb.

Adventures in subtitling: When Davros says “You are a fool, Jobel. I have offered you immortality, but you are content to play with the bodies of the dead, so you will join THEIR NUMBER!”, the DVD subtitles suggests he’s saying “you will join THE DOCTOR!”. Now there’s a thought; Jobel as a companion. Yeesh.  Now I’m the one who’s quite aggrieved.

NEXT TIME: I love a knees up! You’re cordially invited to The Masque of Mandragora.