Tag Archives: season 6

Future visions, rear views and The Seeds of Death (1969)

seeds of death

How are you enjoying the 21st century? Did you enjoy your last instantaneous T-Mat trip to the Moon? What about your three-month stint on an orbiting space station, complete with cute astrophysicist librarians? And don’t you just love this glorious weather we’re enjoying, thanks to our climate control system on that lunar base? If not, perhaps you’d prefer a holiday in the Central European Zone, only a two-hour rocket trip from Australia?

I know what you’re thinking. From where you sit it’s all wifi and reality TV and Taylor Swift and global warming. Where are all these wonders from the 21st century that Doctor Who ­(specifically it’s cosmically hoboish Troughton years) sold us? Wouldn’t you just trade in all the smart watches and streaming and geopolitical instability for a vinyl jumpsuit, a hovercraft and electronic doctor to monitor your condition if you’ve injured yourself during a walk on the Moon?

Turns out the Troughton era is quietly obsessed with the 21st Century. The Moonbase, The Enemy of the World, The Wheel in Space, The Space Pirates and our latest random, The Seeds of Death are all set there. The Power of the Daleks too, if you believe the voice over on its trailer. That’s six more visits to the 21st century than in the whole of the rest of classic era Who (Warriors of the Deep, just to save you rushing back to your copy of Lance Parkin’s A History of the Universe. No, I’m not counting The TV Movie. But not as much as I’m not counting Dimensions in Time.)

I’m not sure why this particular three-year period of the show was suddenly so interested in the near future. And I’m not sure why it was never quite as interested in it again. Perhaps subsequent producers realised it was a little too close for comfort, at least for correctly predicting what technology, fashion, culture etc would be doing.

If we judge the 21st century from the Troughton era, it presents a world coming closer together; where travel across the globe takes no time and where people working in multi-cultural teams is the norm. Where space travel has been mastered, where weather control is possible, where Earth has set up colonies and new cosmic frontiers are flush with space police, space pirates and space cowboys.

(Meanwhile, in actual 2019, I have about 27 login/password combos and can remember precisely none of them.)

Faced with this carefully conceived view of future history, The Seeds of Death then cheerfully throws it all out the window. An expansive human world of rockets and space stations? All obsolete, replaced by T-Mat! You’ve got to hand it to writer Brian Hayles. In the midst of moon shot obsessed 1969, he looks sardonically up from his typewriter and says, “well this space travel stuff is all well and good, but what happens when we’re sick of that?”


But anyway, to the story itself. As in The Ice Warriors, Hayles presents us with a society which has become overly dependent on technology: then it was outsourcing our decision making to computers, here it’s adopting T-mat at the expense of all other transport. The result is a strategic weakness the Ice Warriors can exploit to invade the Earth, by use of seed pods which expand, explode and start transforming the Earth’s atmosphere. This echoes another of The Ice Warriors’ themes – that of catastrophic climate change. Plus it’s yet another excuse to wheel out the BBC foam machine and suds up the joint.

(The seed pods, by the way, are clearly just balloons, being inflated and burst on demand, suggesting there was no budget or inclination left to realise them more convincingly. There’s a similarly ramshackle feel to the rest of the production; not only are the Doctor (the Trought), Jamie (Hineszy) and Zoe (the Padberry) forced to travel to the Moon via rocket without any spacesuits, they’re also forced to simulate their own g-force effect by pulling their skin tight across their faces.)

Director Michael Ferguson compensates for this with some stylish film work on location, and even in studio he manages some nifty shots, like silhouetting characters against a wall of glowing lights. Although why a Moonbase needs a wall of glowing lights is about as clear as why its floors slope up and down randomly, why it contains a hall of mirrors specifically for wacky chases, or why it needs a thermostat capable of turning the temperature up to a deadly 70 degrees.

It’s a diverting enough runaround between the Moon and T-Mat control on Earth, as the Ice Warriors’ plan sedately reveals itself and the Doctor takes his time to foil it. Turns out the seed pods, the foam and the whole bubbly affair washes off with H2O. It was always going to be a risky plan, therefore, to invade a planet with so much of the stuff, but there you go. And to launch the invasion plan in England, a country famous for its rain. But that’s the daring Ice Warriors for you, they fear nothing! “Yesss, our plan can wasssh off with water, and yesss, 70% of the Earth is covered by it, but why do you think that would put usss off?! Of courssse it will work!”

Since they last turned up, the Ice Warriors have gained a new sub-breed. Hayles must have realised that impressive though they are, those big egg shaped masks come helmets reduced the chance of actors offering compelling performances. So he gives us a more streamlined officer class, represented here by Slaar (Alan Bennion).

Slaar is far more louche than his Warrior chums. Apart from his sibilant middle management accent, he also likes to stand around conspicuously making sure his tightly clad arse is kept in shot. (Actually, it’s a busy story for bums, what with so many of them being pointed at the camera and hugged by black trimmed space pants. Choose your favourite behind, but it really should be Miss Kelly’s.) They should have given him an elegant cigarette holder and a big armchair from which he could slouch, while sending deadly foam emitting balloons to exotic cities of the world like Oslo, Hamburg, Zurich and, um, Canberra.

Though he’s completely upstaged when the Ice Warrior Grand Marshall (Graham Leaman) turns up for a grump, flourishing his helmet which has been bedazzled with fetching gemstones! Slaar seethes in jealousy at the sight of such unabashed glamour. Well, he does in my head canon anyway. In the same head canon, my daily commute is by T-Mat, I can use rain control to break the drought and I holiday among the picturesque mercury swamps of Vulcan. You live in your 21st century, I’m quite happy in the Trought’s.

LINK TO The Daleks’ Master Plan: So here’s a thing: because Bret Vyon was “bred on Mars Colony 16”, both stories feature Martians.

NEXT TIME: We reach the end of our random journey, with our last story The Battle of Ranskoor Av Kolos.

Troughton, trouble and The Space Pirates (1969)


28 February 1969. A bitter night. Michael Troughton, 13, is waiting for his father to come home from work. He’s been rehearsing today, part of the all-too-familiar treadmill of working on Doctor Who: rehearse all week, unless you’re called away for pre-filming, then record on a Friday night, in a tense and often fraught race against the clock. Then, forget all that and do it again next week. Rinse and repeat for 42 weeks of the year.

Normally, his father walks through the door ebulliently, complete with a jaunty whistle. But tonight is different. As he walks through the front door, his Dad -TV’s Patrick Troughton – is solemn and pensive. “He looked haunted,” Michael would write years later in his biography of Patrick, “and highly stressed.”

Over dinner, it transpires that Patrick is far from happy with his lot on Doctor Who. He’s fighting with the producer. And the director. The problem at hand is the current story, in which Troughton’s Doctor and his companions are stuck in a one-room spaceship for two episodes. So irritating are these problems that Troughton seems to have lost his love for the show.

And the production which has driven the show’s usually affable star to despair?

Welcome to The Space Pirates. The story which broke a Doctor.


Troughton, like Hartnell before him, and Tom Baker after him, became “difficult to work with” TM after a few years of being Doctor Who. Troughton described it to a friend as the role making him feel schizophrenic, although he could also be forgiven for simply being exhausted. In the series fifth production block (from The Abominable Snowmen to The Mind Robber), they made an incredible 46 episodes, at a rough rate of one a week. That pace seems not just punishing, but also mentally disorienting. Who would know which base was under siege by which monster from week to week?

Troughton famously complained about the workload and scored a few concessions such as shorter episodes and better scheduling of pre-filming. The Space Pirates feels like it was written in response to that, and the Doctor and his companions’ involvement in a plot about mineral stealing bandits being chased by po-faced space policemen and a moustache-faced space cowboy, is correspondingly minimal. If it was a deliberate strategy to give Troughton a break, it doesn’t seem to have placated him. His son remembers him complaining about the story being boring. And although he was right on that count, it does begin to sound like Troughton was so exhausted he didn’t know what he wanted.

He asked for and got a reduced workload, but this resulted in less involvement in the story and thus less screen time; few leading actors would ever be happy with that. This strikes me as reflective of Troughton’s contradictory relationship with stardom, which seems to have both attracted and repelled him. From all accounts, he was a deeply private man, who had taken on one of the highest profile jobs in television. He created a character beloved by a generation of children but avoided doing public appearances. He seems to have been a man who wanted to have his cake and eat it quietly, out of sight of anyone.

Then on top of all this, there’s an actor’s understandable concern about stability. Michael Troughton’s book paints a picture of a man who worried about typecasting and about not being able to find work because of it. This was not unwarranted fretting; after all, the man had not one but two families to feed. It seems he wanted the stability of income which being Doctor Who brought but also wanted the creative freedom to do new things. With all this on his mind, no wonder he was a bit tetchy as the end of his Doctordom loomed. The rest he longed for was within reach but so was the precariousness of freelancing.


Even though it represents the fag end of his era, The Space Pirates pushes Troughton’s Doctor into some new places. There is, for example, an emphasis on his Sherlockian deduction, like noticing a wound up clock in a supposedly long abandoned room or that an intact but fragile bowl at the bottom of a pit indicates a secret entrance. He also seems to have gained Felix the Cat’s ability to pull exactly the right piece of random ephemera out of his bag of tricks as needed to get out of trouble: marbles, magnets, drawing pins and tuning forks. As written by Robert Holmes (whose second Doctor Who story offers no hint of the greatness to come), his Doctor has suddenly turned into a man with a quirky fix for all occasions.

Holmes is also using The Space Pirates to dry run a few of his favourite set pieces. The Doctor and his companions being locked in an airless room, for instance, ala The Two Doctors and The Ark in Space. And also reused in that later story, the risk of the Doctor being trapped in the exhaust of a departing spaceship. But in other ways, it feels distinctly unlike the cinema horror pastiches Holmes would regularly offer the series in future. Never again would he give us goodies and baddies chasing each other in space. And never again would he dabble with familial drama as he does here, with Madeleine Issigri (Lisa Daniely) re-discovering her long lost father Dom (Esmond Knight), who’d been locked in Edwardian study for years. Holmes doesn’t seem comfortable with this element at all; he leaves their eventual reunion offscreen.

Madeleine, who turns out to be in league with the pirates, at least until they start to get all murdery, is Holmes’ only concession to complexity of character. Again, it’s not what we’ll grow to expect from him, but the other characters are one-note, like bad guy Caven (Dudley Foster), and space cop Hermack (Jack May, he of the fruitiest voice ever). The only variation is the first of Holmes’ mavericks, prospector Milo Clancey (Gordon Gostelow), and he is so overplayed that any potential pathos Holmes gives him when he discovers his old friend Dom is alive is lost underneath an absurd cowboy accent.

We might blame director Michael Hart for these all-too-obvious approaches to characterisation. Or we may need to look again at the working atmosphere our leading man was engendering. As Jack May recalled (and please, imagine him saying this in the world’s plummiest accent): “In rehearsals (Troughton) would sound off at the smallest thing… He seemed paranoiac and unusually serious about the whole thing.”


28 March 1969, Lime Grove Studio D. The recording of the last episode of The Space Pirates. Troughton’s scenes have all been pre-filmed so he doesn’t have to turn up. Presumably, no-one missed him.

That it had come to this: a show which doesn’t need its star and a star who doesn’t want to make his show. Whatever strengths and weaknesses The Space Pirates has, they’ll always pale in comparison to the languorous impression it leaves, that of a show in desperate need of change.

PLEASE CHECK OUT: Patrick Troughton: The Biography by Michael Troughton, much referenced in this post.

LINK TO Demons of the PunjabLong lost family secrets in both.

NEXT TIME: It’s down there. In the pipes. Waiting! Time to unleash the Fury from the Deep.

Psychedelia, stimuli and The Mind Robber (1968)


So here’s the thing: it’s not called The Land of Fiction. Or even The Fact of Fiction. It’s called The Mind Robber. And I suppose that could be an attempt to disguise the nature of the fantasy world that our friends the Trought, the Fraze and Padders find themselves in during this surreal adventure. Not trying to give away the game too soon.

But I think it’s more than simple misdirection. This story is ostensibly about a land of fiction, but is more concerned with attacks on the mind. Perceptions are altered. Characters from fantasy are brought to life. Our heroes experience nightmare situations from twisted memories of childhood. It’s not just a trip into a land of story books; it’s simply a trip. It’s a mind altering experience. It’s Doctor Who‘s only real brush with psychedelia.

The show may have still been seen by many in 1968 as a children’s programme, but the makers of Doctor Who were clearly considering how drug taking was leading to new physical and mental experiences. The show’s first change of Doctor was described in terms of the effects of the ‘LSD drug’. Now two years later, we have a five week break from ordinary Doctor Who, which starts with being taken out of reality, and ends so abruptly that the whole thing might have been a dream. If our TARDIS team had started this adventure by all taking little white pills, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

It doesn’t start like that, of course. It starts with an episode of filler, required when the production team decided they couldn’t face a sixth episode of The Dominators. This opener, written by script editor Derrick Sherwin, although he wasn’t proud enough of it to take a credit, is an unusual the-dog-ate-my-homework sort of effort. With the scantest of resources available to him – the TARDIS set, a blank white studio and an empty black soundstage – Sherwin fills the episode with time-killing incident, none of which he feels obliged to explain. What is the ‘nowhere’ in which the TARDIS lands? How does it relate to the Land of Fiction? Why does the TARDIS disintegrate? Why does an unseen force want to lure our friends outside? And what exactly happens when the console spins away through space, Jamie and Zoe hanging on for dear life, arses in the air, leaving the Doctor rotating on the spot?

There are no answers. Sherwin seems to take his cue from the rest of the story, which being set in a fantasy land, gives him carte blanche to do what he likes and keep the explanations few. It’s a kind of narrative free pass – do whatever you like! It’s The Mind Robber, the normal rules don’t apply. It’s the same approach which allows Sherwin and fellow writer Peter Ling to change Jamie’s face when Hines contracts the chicken pox. Both are story saving expediencies born of this story’s dabbling with surrealism.

So in lieu of narrative logic, the writers give us arresting imagery. Don’t worry about what makes sense, worry about what looks cool. The TARDIS exploding and the console spinning through space are two memorable examples, but there’s also Jamie’s rejigged face (Hamish Wilson), Zoe stuck in a glass jar, a forest of letters, a charging unicorn (on another empty black set), the stop motion animation of Medusa’s snaky head, our friends being crushed in a giant book and so on.

This story serves up a continuous stream of surreal images. There’s even a word puzzle in the middle of it, which requires superimposed letters onscreen to make it clear what’s going on. It’s telling that this story has never been released on audio; it’s a story which demands to be seen. Lord knows what we’d have made of it if it hadn’t survived the junkings.

This smorgasbord of surreal imagery helps add to the trippy feel of the thing. It’s not so hard to imagine having a hallucinogenic experience akin to The Mind Robber, where crazy, random images picked out of memories of childhood stories parade past you. But that’s the style of the story, not the story itself. Within the narrative, none of our heroes ever question the reality of what’s going on around them. No one ever asks, “are we dreaming?” None of them question the reality of this world any more than they questioned whether Dulkis or the Space Wheel were real.

So while everything around them suggests this is a bizarre fantasy, the Doctor, Jamie and Zoe never treat this as anything other than a standard Doctor Who story. They cling to their real existence… Which itself is confusing because they are also fictional. When the Doctor starts drawing a line between himself, Jamie and Zoe as being real and Gulliver, Medusa et al as being fictional… Well, it’s so meta it makes my head spin. The Mind Robber? More like The Mind F*cker.

In the end, the thing which has actually stolen a mind is another computer with ideas above its station (see also The Keys of Marinus and The War Machines). It has enslaved a writer from Earth in the 1920s, who has filled this world with copyright-free fictional characters. Why the computer wants to create such a world remains unexplained but don’t worry, it looks cool, right?

As we race to the story’s end, we learn that the computer has plans to invade the Earth, and one of the Troughton era’s familiar themes reasserts itself: the importance of self and of retaining identity. When he hears the full plan, the Doctor’s appalled that humanity will become just like a string of featureless sausages, all the same. And in encouraging Jamie and Zoe to resist the mind control they’ve submitted to, he urges them to “think for yourselves!”.

This then, is the threat of opening your mind up to perception enhancing experiences, as The Mind Robber sees it – that you lower your own mental defences and sinister controlling influences might sneak in. It’s not quite a repudiation of psychedelia, because this story is not quite dealing with it in the first place. But it’s comforting that while Doctor Who flirts with psychedelia, it’s also sending a message to the kids; this might look like fun, but no good is going to come of it, right?

It ends in classic style, with Jamie and Zoe ‘overloading’ the computer by pressing all the buttons all at once (that’s usually how it’s done) and the Doctor rescuing the enslaved writer. They all run onto yet another empty black set and wait for the story to end, as if they’re waiting for a bus to arrive. Somehow it all gets magically put to right. They’re transported back to reality. The TARDIS reassembles. How? Who knows. But it looks cool, right?

LINK TO: Silence in the Library/Forest of the Dead. Well, maybe I’ve been taking the mind altering drugs, but is it too trippy to suggest that the Land of Fiction might be the kids’ lit section of the Library?

NEXT TIME: Dad Shock. We get a lot of it around our place. It’s time to meet The Doctor’s Daughter.

Catalysts, chemistry and The Krotons (1968)


I wonder when it was during the production of Season Five, that someone on the production team counted how many ‘base under siege’ stories they done. Blimey, there are a lot of the buggers. It’s no wonder that by Season Six, they wanted to try something different.

It’s a wild old thing Season Six. One minute they’re heaping scorn on a world of pacifists, the next they’re taking an excursion into a story book, the next it’s James Bond with Cybermen. The series really did take a sudden left turn away from isolated scientific outposts, truculent commanders and lashings and lashings of foam.

Certainly, I think writer Robert Holmes noticed, because in his debut story for Doctor Who he inverts the standard Season Five structure, by placing the alien Krotons crystalline base (ladies and gentlemen, a big round of applause for Miss Dinah Trope!) inside the humanoid Gonds’ city, and have people constantly trying to break in to get at them. It’s the Krotons’ base which is under siege. Nice work, Mr Holmes. You’ll go far.

Holmes tells the story of how the Dynatrope sits like a permanent tumour in the heart of the Gonds’ city. The Gonds are educated by teaching machines provided by the Krotons, and every so often, the two smartest swots are given fancy cloaks and sent inside the Dynatrope, never to return.  This is the state of affairs that the Gonds have put up with for thousands of years and the reason why they’ve never rebelled is that the Krotons have edited out all the information which might have helped them put two and two together.

“It’s a kind of self-perpetuating slavery,” muses the Doctor (the Trought, in playful form). He’s right, but it’s also a throw back to one of this era’s other themes, of whole races of people kept subordinate by being deliberately kept in ignorance. Think of the hapless colonists of The Macra Terror, or more recently the subterranean dupes of The Enemy of the World. I’ve written before about how this era of the show is often about threats to personal identity, but this theme is about the ability to enslave through manipulation rather than the threat of physical violence.

But as is so often the case, the arrival of the Doctor is a catalyst. Hotheaded Thara (Gilbert Wynne) leads an attempt to vandalise the teaching machines. In 1968, students rioted against authority on the streets of Paris, so we can see the mirroring of real life events. But it’s not an analogy Holmes keeps up for long. In plot terms, the machines are needed to facilitate the Doctor and Zoe’s (Wendy Padbury) entry into the Dynatrope. They answer a few sums on the machines and are declared ‘high brains’ so are given access.

In fact, our heroes’ brains are so high that they cause the reanimation of the Krotons themselves, creatures who get less impressive the further you get away from their heads (which are solid angular creations on broad metallic shoulders, which unfortunately give way to plastic tubing arms, which unfortunately give way to a smooth shiny skirt). They emerge out of bubbling tanks, like some Hammer horror off a mad scientist’s bench top. Holmes penchant for the gothic gets an early workout here (Holmes will pull off a similar tanky reanimation a few stories later in Spearhead from Space). When they speak, it’s with booming South African accents, which, as The Sontaran Experiment will tell you, is the go-to accent for strange and alien. We never get monsters which speak with French accents, mores the pity. Or Swedish. Or Dutch. The campaign starts here.

But despite these glimmers of interest within The Krotons, the rest of it is a shabby affair. Not just because the sets and props look terribly creaky (perhaps they spent all this story’s budget on The Invasion) but the script is nowhere near as witty and well rounded as we’ll learn to expect from Holmes. The supporting cast are all fairly unimpressive, but it’s not like they’re helped along by any memorable dialogue or consistent characterisation. A howling example comes at the end when head Gond Selris (James Copeland) sacrifices himself to get a bottle of acid to Zoe and the Doctor. His death goes uncommented by everyone, including his own son, that firebrand Thara. You really are a forgettable character if your own son can’t be arsed to mourn your death.


It’s easy to write The Krotons off as tacky, uninspiring addition to Troughton’s era. But in some ways it’s a story which has continually punched above its weight. It really shouldn’t exist at all; it was commissioned as a fall back option in case any other stories had to be shelved. Which is exactly what happened – imagine how awful The Prison in Space must have been if they thought making The Krotons was a better option.

But it’s wasn’t to be so easily forgotten (try as we might). It gained prominence by its inclusion in the Five Faces of Doctor Who repeat season in 1981, by virtue of being the only surviving four part Troughton story at that time. For many fans, this makes The Krotons their first taste of Troughton’s era, and so I think it’s gained a special place in people’s memories, if not affections. (It kind of happened in Australia too, when in 1986, we suddenly got repeat screenings of this story and The Mind Robber). And that’s not so bad, because although the story’s pretty ordinary, Troughton, Zoe and fellow traveller Jamie (Frazer Hines) are on good form trying to liven things up, so at least an impression of their joint chemistry had been formed by The Krotons’ encore viewing.

Even more recently, we haven’t quite been able to give up on this story. Lawrence Miles’ terrific Eighth Doctor novel Alien Bodies, turned the doddery Krotons into Dalek killing predators. And Big Finish Productions, those champions of long forgotten B-listers of Whos past, conjured up a Return of the Krotons for the Sixth Doctor. We can’t quite seem to let these also-rans go.

It’s in part because we’ve grown to admire the work of Holmes so much through his subsequent, more interesting Doctor Who stories. We want to go back to this, his earliest, formative work and re-examine it, to find in it some speck of genius which has been hidden from us for so long. Surely Holmes, that master of Who, hid something up his sleeve which we can find in retrospect. Sadly, though, I don’t think he did.


Mad old Season Six. What did it have in store for us next? Why, The Seeds of Death, with lumbering monsters, an isolated scientific outpost, a truculent commander and lashings and lashings of foam.

Ah well, maybe after the terror of The Krotons, there’s still some comfort to be found in a base under siege.

THING I COULDN’T FIT ANYWHERE ELSE: All the episodes start with a shot of a circle, or some vaguely round shape. What’s that about then?

LINK TO Castrovalva: actually it’s about the same as for The Enemy of the World – a small community kept in ignorance of the true shocking nature of their world.

NEXT TIME: Burn with me! We’ve got 42 minutes till we fall into the sun.

Shoulder pads, curtains and The Dominators (1968)


By far my favourite parts of The Dominators are the Dominators. They come in a mighty invasion force of two. And they wear mountainous shoulder pads which a. make them look like turtles and b. prevent them from looking at each other, unless they are standing face-to-face. This last point’s a real problem, because they spend most of these five episodes bitching at each other.

The leader is Navigator Rago, played by Ronald Allen. Rago is like that irritating flatmate who’s permanently worried about the electricity bill, so goes around switching all the appliances off without asking. He’s always moaning about how much power the Dominators’ robot servants the Quarks require. When he discovers that their energy has been squandered (which happens over and over again), he lowers those dark eyebrows of his and hisses about power levels being dangerously low. I keep waiting for himself to argue that as he’s only been in the house 3 days in the last 7 he should only pay 3/7ths of the bill.

It’s a fairly unedifying role for Allen, who turns up in Doctor Who the following year as a much suaver character in The Ambassadors of Death. What was that call from his agent like? “Doctor Who again? OK, but no dark make up, no dodgy spaceships and it’s got to be a role which does more than growl about the power bill all story. And at the first sign of shoulder pads, I’m out.”

Rago’s offsider is flagrant power waster Probationer Toba, played with seething resentment by Kenneth Ives. Toba’s solution to every problem is to destroy it, via Quark. Hence the constant depletion of their batteries which sparks Rago’s ire. Toba has a kind of barely suppressed blood lust which drives him to want to kill at the slightest provocation. My favourite moment is when he stands mid quarry and  orders the Quarks to “Destroy! Destroy!”, but his restrictive costume means he can merely punctuate each “Destroy!” with a vigourous sway.

Rago and Toba bicker like an old married couple throughout, but Toba always has to bow to his senior colleague’s will with a sullen “command accepted”. At one stage their simmering tension threatens to boil over into open conflict and as a race of belligerent warriors you might expect a few punches to be thrown. But those costumes don’t offer the freedom of movement to allow it. Still, I’d have enjoyed seeing Rago headbutt Toba bull-style in the gut, and leave Toba lying helplessly on his tortoise shell back, limbs flailing.

Unlike Allen, Ives never returned to the series. “Doctor Who? No way. Last time, I had a I costume meant I couldn’t move my arms for weeks. And I spent the whole time standing in a quarry shouting at kids in boxy robot costumes.”

And so to the Quarks. Writers Mervyn Haisman and Henry Lincoln, here writing under an outraged pseudonym, were reportedly trying to recreate the appeal of the Daleks when they dreamt up these odd little cubes with legs and spiky heads. Many had tried before them; Chumbleys, War Machines even Terry Nation’s own Mechanoids were all attempts to replicate that mysterious appeal. And although the Quarks have a sort of geometric charm, they are no Daleks.

For a start, you can understand what a Dalek says. Quarks have squeaky little voices which are, in the main, unintelligible. The DVD’s subtitles are essential. And although a Quark has two more legs than a Dalek, this doesn’t seem to make it any more mobile. At one stage, companion Jamie (Frazer Hines) immobilises one by tipping it over and gently leaning on it. Any alien you can stop by sitting on is not destined for greatness.

The hapless targets of the Dominators’ aggression and the Quarks’ warbling are the gentle Dulcians. Pacifists one and all, they have abandoned fighting and concentrated on loftier pursuits. Sadly dressmaking is not one of them. They dress in unflatteringly revealing numbers which look distinctly like curtains. This is fine if you’re as pretty as Felicity Gibson who plays Kando and manages to transcend her own drapey number. But the other Dulcians must be eyeing off those power dressing Dominator outfits with envy.

Among those Dulcians is Cully, a hot headed young firebrand, who’s all about doing his own thing and sticking it to the old man back in Dulcian HQ. Unfortunately in a piece of woeful miscasting, this young hero is played by Arthur Cox, who looks like a mild mannered insurance salesman. In a dress. There’s nothing wrong with Cox’s acting, it’s just he’s cast mystifying against type. Cully spends a lot of time blowing up Quarks with new bestie Jamie; if anything he should be out highlandering the highlander. But he’s less wild thing than mild thing.

The other Dulcians, be they gormless students on excursion or procrastinating bureaucrats are difficult to sympathise with. And with the bombastic Dominators on the other side of this conflict, there’s no-one to side with really. Haisman and Lincoln designed this story as a critique of pacifism, and if that sounds politically dodgy to you you should read Philip Sandifer’s demolition of this story here.

Me, I find it difficult to take this story too seriously. If there is a politically iffy message behind it, no-one seems to be honouring it with much effort. It’s left to the fag end of the season, its performances and design work are half hearted and it famously bored its producer and script editor into lopping off an episode. (Certainly the right decision; Episode 5 takes a brisk pace missing in the story’s earlier installments). But if you’re looking for a saving grace, here’s Patrick Troughton (in the studio anyway), refusing to let a dodgy script dampen his inventiveness and charm and basically holding the whole thing together.

Haisman and Lincoln were apparently less than pleased with the serial’s abbreviation. Then they got into a stoush with the BBC about who owned the merchandising rights to the Quarks (the Quarks, Lord help us. If Quarkmania was a thing, I missed it). Apparently they even threatened to stop The Dominators from being broadcast. I can picture them now in some dingy BBC office, sniping across a desk at the suits from legal. Glaring and bickering. I like to think of them wearing jackets with big shoulder pads. The Rago and Toba of their day.

LINK to The Tenth Planet: mechanical baddies. Three in a row!

NEXT TIME… How shall we know if gods walk among us? It’s the beauty and horror of The Aztecs.