“Will someone get this big walking carpet out of my way?” - Princess Leia

by Catherynne M. Valente

The 2007 Doctor Who Christmas Special brings up many tantalizing questions, not least of which are: can we really be moved and excited by a Titanic story anymore? How sad is it that Futurama managed a better Titanic in Space than the beloved flagship show of the BBC? Must fat people always be punished with fiery death? Is there anyone in any galaxy capable of not falling in love with the Doctor five seconds after meeting him, and if so, can we import them immediately? And finally, how is it remotely conceivable to become so wrapped up in your own cliches and tropes that you are a mere parody of yourself after only three years on the air?

My love for Doctor Who is a great and profound one, and so I found myself trying brutally hard to find things to like about the episode, desperately searching for a scrap of anything that didn’t suck. The Christmas Specials have never been the Best of Who in any way, but I so wanted my first review on Pink Raygun to express how much I love this show, how much it can be more than the sum of their goofy parts. And with that desire as pure as Kylie Minogue’s bleach, I was left thinking: Well, the angels were pretty cool, and I suppose one could say something about the Host and the impassive nature of God, providing only what is asked…but, wait, didn’t they do evil angels literally four episodes ago?

Yes, Virginia, yes they did.

And ultimately, that’s the problem with the Christmas special, although the Messianic, heavenward-rising Doctor with his slow-motion flames is a pretty spectacular faceplant. There was nothing we hadn’t seen before. Nothing new, nothing even interesting or shiny. It committed the cardinal sin of SF–you can be hokey, you can be sentimental, you can have terrible effects and worse actors, you can even have a toilet plunger brandished as a weapon, but saints help you if you’re boring.

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And bored I was. I’d seen it all before, on this very show, done better: evil angels (Blink), calm voices announcing horrible things (Ood), unsaveable spritely blonde (Rose, Mme. de Pompadour), Doctor Jesus (The Sound of Drums) The whole mess just recycled itself into lamer jokes, more forgettable characters, and more idiotic motives. I didn’t know any one of the characters long enough to care even a little when they died, so the whole melodramatic Astrid-is-so-awesome kissyface Doctor-angst spectacle left me cold. You, Doctor, and I, knew her for about five minutes flat. I don’t care if she has really kicky boots. Nine hundred years is old enough not to be knocked for a loop by every blonde in a maid’s outfit.

And how about that? Didn’t we just see a whole season of Martha being treated like last year’s garbage because the Doctor CAN NEVER LOVE AGAIN OH NOZ. And yet, bring on an aging white sexpot and he’s right on the horse again? But who cares, right? It’s only basic writing skill the show is lacking, I mean, that’s not all that important!

The whole circus made me nostalgic for Donna of last year’s Christmas debacle, which I suppose could have been the point, as she’s to be shortly stuffed down our throats for 13 episodes. But I found myself, for the first time, wondering if the episode couldn’t just hurry up and be over.

That’s appalling, given that Doctor Who should be in its prime, getting into its meatiest and most skillful storytelling. Instead it’s behaving like late season X-Files.

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Catherynne M. Valente is the author of the Orphan’s Tales series, as well as The Labyrinth, Yume no Hon: The Book of Dreams, The Grass-Cutting Sword, and four books of poetry, Music of a Proto-Suicide, Apocrypha, The Descent of Inanna, and Oracles. She is the winner of the Tiptree Award and the Million Writers Award and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, the Rhysling and Spectrum Awards, and the World Fantasy Award. She currently lives in Northeastern Ohio with her partner and two dogs.

For more on Catherynne M. Valente, please visit her website.