Tag Archives: Jo Grant

The Green Death (Special Edition)

24 Sep

A review of the DVD for Doctor Who Magazine, from 2013

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UK GreenDeathSE DVD-2DLet us take a moment to grieve for Tom the Sea Captain, long since mouldered under the Glamorgan sod. “Who?” you will surely cry, for such is his tragedy. And what of Mrs Cartwright’s ginger cat; nameless and unmourned these last 40 years? Both cat and Captain died a gruesome death. A green death. Each was a victim of the callous indifference of a so-called, self-styled ‘Doctor’. Their blood is on his hands, and it is long past time he was called to account. What he did, he may have done in the name of peace and sanity. But it was not – we can be sure – in the name of Mrs Cartwright’s pussy.

We shall address this lamentable affair in due course. First, we need to get our bearings.

The Green Death is among Doctor Who’s most admired adventures, and rightly so. It’s wildly entertaining, and, as a deft pulling-together of the key themes of its era, it packs real emotional punch. Furthermore, its value has only increased with time. The Green Death is a seed with all the ambition and potential of 21st-Century Doctor Who coiled within, like the infinite whorl of a fractal. And, back in the summer of ’73, that seed fell on fertile ground. In Swansea, it took root in the imagination of Stephen Russell Davies, age 10. In Paisley, it tendrilled through the brain of 11-year-old Steven Moffat And just along the Glasgow Road, it coiled thickly about Peter Capaldi, 15. It would blossom, decades later, with astonishing vigour. Truly, all of modern Doctor Who – a decade of glory, a potent future – is the fruit of The Green Death.

This one story has such significance because it is not just one story – it is three. It’s a love story. It’s a monster story. It’s a ‘message’ story, built to tell us something about how we live our own lives. And if we take some time to tease these stories apart and consider them in turn, we can see that all three have something to say about Doctor Who as it is written today.

“You’ve got all the time in the world,” says the Doctor to his assistant Jo Grant, as he senses that their journey together may be coming to an end. “And all of the space,” he adds, sweetening the deal. “I’m offering them to you.” This sense of the Universe as the Doctor’s gift – something that he might offer to the talented, the blessed, the especially sassy – was, in 1973, something new. Today it is Doctor Who’s main engine. Each new protégée comes to understand, as Jo once did, that she cannot wander forever. She must, in the end, take charge of her own destiny. Generally by sticking her tongue down its throat.

For Jo, destiny takes the dishy form of Professor Clifford Jones, six-foot-something of Nobel laureate: proud and passionate, with a flowing mane, like Aslan trained to walk on his hind legs. From the moment the camera tracks in for his first ‘hero’ close-up, Cliff is presented to us as a god among men. It’s the kind of shot that normally finds and favours the Doctor, but not here, and with good reason. It is often said that women fall in love with men who remind them of their fathers. We know nothing of Jo’s biological father, but there’s no doubt that the Doctor has been emotionally in loco parentis for the past three years. Now, as Jo resolves to travel to Wales to meet Cliff – whose politics she admires – the Doctor says mournfully to himself, “So, the fledgling flies the coop.” It’s clear that he sees himself as a nurturing parent.

p01bqlzbA great joy of The Green Death is quite how brazenly it presents the crusading Professor Jones as a younger version of the Doctor, and then propels him into a karaoke of the Doctor and Jo’s own greatest hits. Their first meeting, over a wrecked science experiment, is a note-for-note encore of that first encounter in Terror of the Autons, but it’s a later duet which proves the sweetest cover version. Famously, Jon Pertwee would lobby his script editor to provide his Doctor with ‘moments of charm’, quiet little scenes where he would be at his most comforting and paternal: a call to a companion’s inner courage perhaps, or a Platonic musing upon the beauty of “the daisiest daisy”. But here, it’s Cliff who gets the goods. Following the death of a coal miner called Bert, Cliff comforts Jo: “You shouldn’t feel ashamed of your grief,” he says, his voice a lulling Welsh sing-song. “It’s right to grieve. Your Bert, he was unique. In the whole history of the world, there’s never been anybody just like Bert. And there’ll never be another, even if the world lasts for a hundred million centuries.” What he’s really saying is that Bert was ‘the Bertiest Bert’ – and Jo is a sucker for precisely this kind of blarney. While the rest of us struggle to keep down our lunch in the face of such nauseating flannel – this moment of smarm – Jo laps it up, and Cliff makes a confident and unchallenged move to first base. Sadly, we’ll never know how much further Cliff might have got that night, with his skilful playing on Jo’s grief. The Doctor harrumphs in and, equally expertly, sabotages any further tangling on the tufted Wilton; perhaps less irritated by Cliff’s theft of his girl than by his stealing his best material.

23But Jo isn’t mere guileless prey in all of this. There’s another neat reminder of how far she’s come, when, trapped up a slag heap with an unconscious Professor, and beset by beasts, she produces a screwdriver and rewires a broken radio, just as she’s seen the Doctor do. It’s a shame the script doesn’t gift Jo the leaving present of allowing her to make the big intellectual leap which saves the world this week; a luxury still reserved for the Doctor. That said, it’s Jo’s ambition to save humankind that ultimately leads her to leave the Doctor for Cliff, and a trek through the Amazon to find a high-protein fungus to feed our teeming billions. But why go such a long way? She should ask at the nearby chemical factory. After all, Quorn was developed by ICI.

When the end comes, it comes suddenly, as true endings are wont to do. Jo is swept off her feet and the Doctor is left – one can’t help but feel – gulping back his tears. Their parting is perfectly shot and perfectly played by Jon Pertwee and Katy Manning. It’s a triumph of understatement, and has, in four decades, not lost a scintilla of its bittersweet magic.

Modern Doctor Who, while well-seasoned with the bittersweet, regularly reassures us that love conquers all. It’s also ringingly clear in its thesis that when the Doctor’s friends leave him, and he travels alone, bad things happen. This we also see demonstrated for the first time in The Green Death, when Jo chooses Wales over a jaunt to the Acteon galaxy’s famous blue planet.

The Doctor is so desperate to see Metebelis III that he’s wired the coordinates into the TARDIS’s steering circuit. (If he’d also wired the pronunciation into the telepathic circuit, we might all have been saved significant later grief.) It proves to be a quite hilariously anti-social destination – the Malia or Faliraki of intergalactic holiday resorts – thrashing him with rocks, spears and tentacles. Never has a planet had it in for the Doctor more than Metebelis III. And like all that’s best in Doctor Who, it’s roundly ridiculous and squarely entertaining at the same time. You have to admire the gusto and creativity with which director Michael E Briant and his team deploy their limited resources. As mayhem rages around him, the Doctor escapes with a precious blue jewel. It’s a bit of souvenir collecting that will ultimately prove the death of him, but one does feel that the production team misses a trick here. In the Third Doctor’s final adventure, we’re told how an ordinary spider is believed to have come to Metebelis in a rocket from Earth as an unseen and accidental passenger, and grew to awesome size and intelligence thanks to the planet’s uncanny radiation. Well, that’s the legend. Surely, instead, that spider was merrily spinning its web around the TARDIS lamp in UNIT HQ, and was actually delivered to Metebelis by the Doctor himself. That would make him in every way the architect of his own downfall.

Giant spiders haunt the Doctor’s future, but it’s giant maggots that await him in Wales, when he joins Jo, Cliff, the Brigadier and his crew. The Green Death is an excellent love story, but it’s an outstanding monster story. “Good grief!” cries the Doctor when the creatures first squirm into view, and you can’t blame him. The maggots are wonderfully realised and repellent to almost all our senses at once, with their greasy bloat, malicious hiss, and – as Jo puts it – “that smell… like something rotting.” Trapped down a coal mine, the Doctor and Jo have to punt a mine cart through a lake of green ooze squirming with a million maggots. And while the special effects deployed may be, well… less than wholly convincing, the twisted brilliance of the idea – and the wild ambition – make the heart sing. Doctor Who might sometimes fail, but it does so in areas where others don’t even dare to try.

Escaping the mine, the Doctor and Jo head to Professor Jones’s gaff clutching a trophy: an egg as big as your head. Later that night it hatches, and the baby maggot – like Cliff mere minutes before – makes straight for Jo’s temptingly creamy neck. However, it’s distracted by a passing villain, bites him instead and makes off into the night. “The egg!” wails the Doctor, on hearing the tale. “It must have hatched out!” Goodness. Who’d have thought? It seems that dumping the egg in Cliff’s post tray was not, after all, the most responsible way to deal with it. The maggot is now on the loose in Llanfairfach. “It can’t be helped,” huffs the Doctor – when it really can, perhaps by organising a search party. The next day, an unsuspecting local milkman complains about the Brigadier’s fixation with the coal mine: “But what about Mrs Cartwright’s ginger cat? It’s at death’s door it is, poor dab! Not to mention Tom the Sea Captain!” The Brigadier ignores him, but with Jones the Milk and his ailing, failing Captain and cat, it’s practically Under Milk Wood. Clearly, the escaped maggot has nibbled them in the coal-black, sloeblack night, and now they’re dying a sea-green, pea-green, mean, gween death. We never hear of their fate, but as a cure for maggot bites is still two episodes away at this point, they’re surely doomed. And it’s entirely the Doctor’s fault. What a git.

So much for The Green Death’s tales of love and loss. What about that ‘message’? While Cliff Jones is the Doctor’s mini-me, he’s also the avatar of Doctor Who’s producer – and the co-writer of The Green Death – Barry Letts. A 1972 issue of The Ecologist magazine, subtitled A Blueprint for Survival, had left Letts boiling with righteous fury. This closely-argued polemic predicted that human civilisation had only a short time left, and that it will all be over by, well… roughly ten years ago. If A Blueprint for Survival doesn’t quite suggest that giant maggots will spew from the rotting carcass of the Earth, it’s certainly forthright in its view that a happy ending is rapidly slipping away out of our grip.

The Professor speaks straight from Letts’ heart, as he condemns the dirty practices of the Global Chemicals facility in Llanfairfach (“More muck! More devastation! More death!”) and the skewed priorities of modern society in general. A Blueprint for Survival makes several references to “a green revolution”, years before ‘green’ was adopted in the mainstream as a shorthand term for environmentalist politics. So, while it’s easy to see The Green Death as one of Doctor Who’s most deliciously basic and lurid story titles – green is the colour of monsters, after all – might it also be a smart play on words by Barry Letts?

The Green Death’s ‘message’ ends up a trifle muddled, however. Quite why the goo being pumped out of the Global Chemicals refinery causes maggots to swell to the size of spaniels is never made clear. The whole operation, we learn – in a left-field twist – is run by a crackpot computer called BOSS, who shares a kind of symbiotic relationship with the managing director of Global, Stevens. It’s a right old laugh – thanks to brilliant playing by actors Jerome Willis and John Dearth as man and mainframe – but even the Doctor doesn’t seem to take it entirely seriously. BOSS is defeated using the blue crystal that the Doctor happens to have just collected from Metebelis III. The maggots are killed by the particular fungus that Cliff happens to have stockpiled in his shed. Rather brilliantly, the writers hide the second of these outrageous coincidences in plain sight, with much talk of ‘serendipity’ – a rarely-heard word that’s simply a poetic way of saying ‘outrageous coincidence’. It does, however, bring home the other great lesson that modern Doctor Who has taken from The Green Death: if you get your romance right, and your frights, then your story will be remembered and lauded forever. It really doesn’t matter if your plot doesn’t quite tie up, or if your resolution relies upon coincidence, or the pressing of a great big OFF switch, or Deus himself leaping gaily ex machina. When all is said and done, it’s the love and monsters they’ll remember.

The words of Professor Jones echo on, however. “Who does like the petrol-stinking, plastic-wrapped society we all live in?” we hear him rumble. It’s a question we may ponder as we peel the polyethylene covering from our Special Edition DVD of The Green Death; or later, when we fail to find a local council with the recycling facilities to process the silver polypropylene box from the 2003 DVD that’s now surplus to requirements. “A thick sludge you can’t break down in any way,” is how Cliff sees it all ending. The only sensible response, of course, is for us each to gift our original DVD to a charity shop, or to an eager relative; a boy or girl aged around 10 or 15 would be ideal. It’s a blueprint for survival. The green life. Plant a seed. Let it grow.

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DVD Extras

The%20Green%20Death%201And, yes, this new edition is definitely worth your investment. The Restoration Team has worked uncanny magic upon the extensive film footage, leaving it fresher and sharper than one would have imagined possible. In addition, there are excellent new commentaries and ‘info text’, and a wealth of interesting new extras crowd out a packed second disc.

What Katy Did Next is a compilation of clips from a 1973 arts and crafts magazine programme hosted by Katy Manning called – for no clear reason, but with surely ultimate serendipity – Serendipity. And it’s pulse-quickening stuff. “We went to a beach in Lowestoft,” our host tells us, cueing a location film, “where I found out how exciting and easy pebble collecting can be.” It turns out to be precisely as easy and exactly as exciting as you might think. Trudging across a gloomy bank of shingle, Manning peers myopically into the distance, perhaps in hopeful expectation of Axos. Then it’s back to the studio for an item on carving, which has her prodding gingerly at a chunk of polystyrene. A dour sculptor asks of the ertswhile Miss Grant: “If I gave you only an old screwdriver and a file, could you make a dog?” She can’t, of course – but she certainly knows a man who can.

The crafting fun continues in a short documentary about the visual effects of The Green Death, brought over from the original DVD release. “I’m chamfering and shaving the bulbous foam mouth parts,” says visual effects designer Colin Mapson – for the first and last time in the entire history of mankind – as he shows us how to build a giant maggot of our very own. Mapson has the soft voice and hangdog expression favoured by former BBC staff designers, but is adamant when expressing his pride for his work on Doctor Who, and the giant maggots in particular – and rightly so. To make a maggot, Mapson explains, one must begin with a plastic weasel skull. That’s all very well, but there’s no clue offered as to how we might first catch a plastic weasel.

In a pleasing new production documentary, The One With the Maggots – which sounds like a rather outré episode of Friends – the creatures become a prism through which we might view the glamour and cruelties of showbusiness. Karilyn Collier, assistant floor manager on The Green Death, tells us of being tasked with collecting maggots (real ones, that is, not chamfered weasel foam) from London Zoo. “It was was a battle to keep them all in one pot to get them back to TV Centre,” she tells us. “Maggots go as fast as anything!” Now, while it’s easy to be wise 40 years after the fact, one feels that some kind of lid might have helped Karilyn there. These eager little wrigglers were to be background extras for crowd scenes, and perhaps dreamed of making it big at the BBC. But when the director called ‘cut!’, it was the last trump for our long-shot larvae. “We popped them with blow lamps,” chuckles Mapson, “and some were put out in the recycling.” Non-speaking artistes the world over will nod in recognition and sympathy.

This new DVD also invites us to revisit Global Conspiracy, again from the original release. It’s a witty mock-documentary investigation of “the Llanfairfach incident”, written by and starring Mark Gatiss, which outclasses anything else of its type attempted by the range; most notably in its brilliant pastiche of the 1970s current affairs series Man Alive. While it’s a wry look back the anxieties of yesteryear, the film also highlights its writer’s own concerns – at which we might now, ten years on, also take a wry look back. The sketch ends with BOSS and Stevens now in charge of the BBC, demanding “efficiency, productivity and profit” and “an orderly TV schedule.” It’s a dig at the Beeb’s lack of imagination, and desire to play it safe. But the script was written in the summer of 2003, mere months before the announcement of Doctor Who’s return to TV, and Gatiss’s own commission to write The Unquiet Dead. A decade on, there’s nothing Doctor Who fans would like more than “an orderly and productive TV schedule”. Thirteen episodes a year and a Christmas special – that sort of thing.

Chiming in with perfect resonance, the behind-the-scenes story of that second coming is told by Russell T Davies and Jane Tranter in Dr Forever! It’s a first-class documentary from James Goss, though many of its treats have been roundly gazumped by DWM, thanks to great minds thinking alike and going in search of the same story.

While we like to think it a truth universally acknowledged that Doctor Who was always fated to return to TV in one form or another, it’s here, listening to Tranter and Davies tell their story, that it becomes clear that it’s only thanks to their immense willpower and enormous personal integrity that the programme came back as any kind of worthy successor to its former self. Perhaps the most telling revelation is of how Doctor Who’s extraordinarily profitable revival was almost stymied by BBC Worldwide, who argued there was no ongoing interest in the show. Some time in the future, a member of the BBC Worldwide marketing team will stumble upon the secret of time travel. Voyaging back through the years, he will make it his mission to assist with the press launch of Doctor Who in 1963. However, due to the misreading of a vital memo, he will instead accidentally assassinate John F Kennedy.

Finally, all our threads come together thanks to the apt bonus inclusion of The Death of the Doctor, the two-part Sarah Jane Adventures serial which saw Jo Grant – Jo Jones – meet up with the Eleventh Doctor and Sarah Jane, her successor in the role of sorcerer’s apprentice. It’s an exquisite script – so smart, so funny – by Russell T Davies: a love letter to his own childhood.

Even here, the story continues. As Jo wobbles off toward new adventures, Sarah’s young protégé, Clyde, comments to his friend Rani: “That’ll be us, one day.” And he’s right, you know. Everything comes back.

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The Daemons

3 May

A review of the DVD for Doctor Who Magazine, from 2012. (Sadly, there was no room for my theory that Bok is the Master’s Tardis. A glow-eyed, peripatetic statue, like a mini Melkur. At the the end of this story, it sits there, cross-legged, in the churchyard, waiting for the Master to escape from prison.)

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There comes a point, in the final minutes of The Daemons, when the Doctor inches perilously close to losing our goodwill. He’s locked horns with the alien Azal – 20 feet tall in his stockinged hooves – regarding the creature’s interference in the development of our race. “Thanks to you, Man can now blow up the world,” our hero heckles. “And he probably will.” Probably? Well, thanks for the vote of faith, mate. Who’s spat in your coffee today?

The Doctor has a chip on his shoulder throughout The Daemons. “I’m obviously wasting my time trying to turn you into a scientist,” he huffs at Jo in their first scene. Later, he bitches her up for criticising the Brigadier, even though he’s just done it himself. So why, we might ask, is the Doctor so grumpy today? Well, with his car undergoing its latest comedy upgrade, it’s possible he’s had to take the bus to UNIT HQ this morning. British public transport can bring out the misanthrope in even the most gracious and high-minded of life forms, especially if there’s a 20-minute tailback due to roadworks at Devesham. Two years in, perhaps the chains of exile are starting to chafe, and he’s finding his beloved humanity not so much indomitable as insufferable – they’re fun to hang out with on holiday, but you wouldn’t want to actually live with them. And if our erstwhile citizen of the Universe really can feel the Earth spinning wondrously beneath his feet at a thousand miles an hour, he must be deeply resentful of the fact that, every seventh rotation, it delivers a Tuesday.

We can sympathise. We can forgive the Doctor’s bad mood. Anyway, we don’t want him to be cute and cuddly all the time, do we? The Doctor must be eccentric, of course; but not merely whimsical, and certainly not entirely adorable. The first thing he ever did to a human travelling companion was electrocute the poor bugger, so these catty remarks to Jo are practically a charm offensive. Even today, Matt Smith’s performance is at its most bewitching when the twinkle fades and he turns to ice. His eyes slip their focus, and you sense an old and troubled soul gazing out from behind. And so it is that, from first to last, our hero has shown a dark side. The Third Doctor’s selfishness and sententiousness make him difficult for many to warm to, but they’re the reasons to love him most. Without the brittleness, this era would be long strings of “moments of charm”, and all the syrup and saccharine would rot it away to nothing. Doctor Who’s unique flavour is as much salt as it is sweet.

If you remain unconvinced, and are looking for someone warm and loveable to snuggle up with in The Daemons, then there’s always the Master. Roger Delgado steals the show from the moment of his reveal, early in Episode One, and only Nicholas Courtney’s Brigadier – at his droll best – ever comes close to taking it back from him. The majesty of the idea has perhaps become dimmed with familiarity, so let’s linger for a moment to appreciate the brilliance of seeing the Master in dog collar and thick-rimmed spectacles, but as saturnine as ever, posing as the vicar of an English village. He’s hoping to encourage the aforementioned Azal – an interstellar busybody who’s been bricked up in a local long barrow for centuries – to share his immense power. Witchy Miss Hawthorne, who knows that something’s up, scoffs at the idea of “a rationalist, existentialist priest”. It’s as good a description of a Time Lord as we might find. She thinks that the Master should be worried about “the souls in his care”, but he dismisses the soul as “an outdated concept”. That’s ironic. Later in his life, the Master’s own incorporeal essence will find a home – at various times – in a pocket watch, a signet ring, Nyssa’s old dad, and a string of snot dribbling from the TARDIS keyhole. If anyone in this Universe proves the existence of the soul, it’s our remorselessly reincarnated Master.

As he glides about churchyard and vestry, one has to wonder how long the Master has been playing the role of the Reverend Mr Magister of Devil’s End. He’s recruited a coven of a baker’s dozen to chant at his secret black masses, and that could have taken some time. Our tale begins on the last day of April. Was he here for the winter? Did he have to bless the Christmas crib? Has he invited eager grooms to kiss their spring brides? Has he christened the newborns of the parish? Certainly, his congregation must wonder why their vicar makes them sing He Who Would Valiant Be at every single service, giving them a peculiar kind of glare each time they reach the end of the first couplet.

In Episode Three, the Master seeks to blackmail the whole village into joining his band of disciples. He’s learned all their secrets, you see. There’s Thorpe the grocer, “padding the bills of the local gentry”, and Charlie, defrauding the post office. But best of all is the way the Master skewers poor Mr Grenville. “Has your wife come back from her sister’s yet?” he smarms. “Will she ever come back, do you suppose?” What’s the Master implying? Has Mrs Grenville merely run away with the coal man, or has Mr Grenville poisoned her beef tea and buried her under the rockery? We’ll never know, and it doesn’t matter, because what’s most wonderful is how casually the Master can indulge in this petty gossip and innuendo. The Doctor, whatever his incarnation, is forever struggling to understand humans and their funny little ways. The Master has no such difficulty; which, if you think about it, makes the Doctor look foolish at best, and thoroughly closed-minded at worst. The most recent extrapolation of the Master, by a modern series understandably eager to find a new angle on old material, painted him as psychotic; his mental illness caused by a kind of trans-temporal tinnitus and a fear of being taken out at night by old men to be shown the Doctor Who title sequence. That’s all good fun, but I prefer my Master sane. He shouldn’t represent madness, blind destruction or boring old ‘evil’. He’s temptation; just as the Doctor is salvation. The Master views human weakness, greed and desire with the same cool cynicism as the serpent in the Garden of Eden. And that’s why the Master is at his best in The Daemons, offering the citizens of Devil’s End “whatever they want in this world… whenever they want it”. It’s his finest moment in this, the character’s foremost adventure.

To their well-recorded pleasure, The Daemons serves all its regulars well. Sergeant Benton gets a couple of good punch-ups and Captain Yates joins the mid-story runaround that’s a tradition of this era. It’s padding, of course, but of the highest standard – with car and motorbike stunts and an exploding helicopter – and it displays a wild ambition in terms of physical action rarely seen in Doctor Who since, even in the modern era. Across its five episodes, The Daemons makes the most of its extended time on location. A lovely sequence sees the Doctor beset by morris dancers, of all things. Again, we mustn’t let familiarity distract us from the great wit of it all – especially the moment when the Doctor, hastening to save the world, is roundly beaten with a pig’s bladder on a stick.

The Brigadier, meanwhile, is kept away from the action by a force field placed around the village by Azal. He’d have got in if he hadn’t rocked up late. Lethbridge-Stewart is off to a regimental bash at the start of the story, but when Yates tries to track him down, he’s told that his commanding officer “went on somewhere after dinner – no one knows quite where”. Ooh! It’s another tiny mystery to ponder, but an image of the Brig dancing on a podium at an all-night disco flashes unbidden to the mind of this viewer. The fact that the Brigadier spends the next episode playing catch-up allows Nicholas Courtney to be quite brilliantly deadpan when replying to a report from his captain. “I see, Yates… So the Doctor was frozen stiff at the barrow and was then revived by a freak heatwave, Benton was beaten up by invisible forces and the local white witch claims she’s seen the devil?” Allowing the earnest Brigadier to hang a hat on the absurdity of the whole business only makes it more beliveable.

In addition to the helicopter chase and the maypole scenes, The Daemons’ other great set piece is – well – the whole of Episode One. It’s among the very best opening instalments you’ll ever find, and builds a sense of the uncanny while at the same time being full of genuinely laugh-out-loud dialogue. It’s sublime from scene one; where, late one night, Old Jim and his collie battle home through a storm of nostalgic BBC sound effects. The collie runs away. Old Jim sees something terrifying out of shot, cries out…  and dies from a heart attack, or so the local GP assures us after the cut. “Slight protrusion of the eyeballs, rictus drawing back of the lips over the teeth. Common enough in heart failure,” he says. (Oh, it needn’t be that serious, doc. I display those symptoms myself when watching Arc of Infinity.) Miss Hawthorne, however, is certain the man died of fright, and that diabolic forces are abroad in Devil’s End. It’s a bewitching brew of cliché and melodrama, with the theme of the whole story laid out in this brief exchange. (Sadly, we never do find out what Jim saw that night. It could be the gargoyle Bok, but as he seems to animate for the first time at the end of Episode One, it’s unlikely. And while we’re on the subject, the fate of the dog also remains infuriatingly uncertain.)

Lavishly filmed and well characterised, the first half hour of The Daemons quivers with small pleasures. The quirks of the BBC team visiting Devil’s End for the opening of the barrow are written and played to perfection. A neat directorial gag sees the episode switch from film to videotape for the first time at the moment of presenter Alistair Fergus’s piece direct to camera, turning a familiar and often painful Doctor Who discontinuity into a strength. Actor David Simeon finds every nuance of Fergus’s pastiche dialogue – chewing on his narration like David Frost (“There is. Something strange. About Devil’s End”), or doing an Alan Whicker as he affects to reach for the right word (“Standing here, in this… unquiet… place”). Archaeologist Professor Horner has no time for him, and their mutual dislike is played to great comic effect. Acting as go-between is another endearing character: Harry, the camp BBC assistant. When snapped at by Fergus for asking if he’s okay, Harry huffs: “Well! I only asked. There’s no need to make a production number out of it.” He’s a familiar stereotype of course, but one wonders if the writers found specific inspiration close to home. The Daemons’ production assistant is Peter Grimwade. Taking a similar role on the previous story, Colony in Space, was one Jonathan Turner. A decade later, with the former a director of Doctor Who and the latter the producer (his name, by then, gunning double barrelled), their bitchy snits and spats would become the gossip of the Doctor Who world.

Sadly, the BBC crew heads for the hills after the barrow is cracked and Azal awakes. Following his invocation, the pace of rest of the story is entirely set by the bizarre habits of our Daemon. The Doctor tells us that Azal will manifest three times before we finally learn what he’s about – though quite why, or how the Doctor knows his schedule, is a total mystery. Azal can also change size at will. He first struts across the countryside as a towering Mr Tumnus, stamping on policemen, but then gets all shy and shrinks to a speck in the Master’s cellar for a long while. What’s he doing down there on the floor all that time? Smiting ants? Put together, these affectations mean that Azal can keep us waiting for a couple more hours, but still go ‘ta-dah!’ every so often. It’s almost as if he knows he’s in a multi-episode, cliffhanger-based melodrama.

For his final encore, Azal plays the proper bossy boots, booming judgments through ill-fitting teeth. “THIS PLANET SMELLS TO ME OF FAILURE!” he bellows, though that may be an unfortunate side effect of the fright he gave the Master at the end of Episode Three. Azal considers destroying the Earth, but then decides to give it over to the Master and kill the Doctor. Jo shouts: “Kill me, not him!”, and her noble self-sacrifice causes Azal to blow up – which must be really frustrating for him after all those centuries waiting for his big moment.

It’s far from a fresh observation to say that the climax of The Daemons is disappointing, and Azal’s reaction difficult to swallow. Even the script editor, Terrance Dicks, doesn’t believe in it. So how might it have been handled better? What’s the simplest fix? Well, how about if Azal instead ruled in favour of the Doctor and tried to kill the Master – but Jo still intervened. She would do it because she knows it’s what the Doctor would do, and because no one should die. Minutes before, the Master was poised to cut Jo’s throat, so this would be a properly bewildering act of self-sacrifice. As our representative of humanity, Jo would be proof of how far we have come as a race. Bamboozled Azal goes poof. Church goes bang. A bewildered and broken Master is dragged away by UNIT.

The final scene we leave untouched, of course. The Doctor and Jo Grant, the Brigadier, Yates and Benton, all smiling in the spring sunshine. Around the maypole, the Doctor dances. The Brig would rather have a pint. As we slowly pull back high and away, we leave them together, forever, in an moment of undeniable Doctor Who perfection; in a timeless and perfect bubble of joy.

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DVD Extras

A reel of Super-8 film, shot on location during production, flickers with the rainbow palette of 70s nostalgia. Jon Pertwee and Katy Manning waltz by. Roger Delgado and Nicholas Courtney grin from behind groovy shades. Bok the gargoyle slips off his wellies and into papier maché feet.  Young children roll on the grass of the village green. They’ll be parents themselves now. Grandparents.

Suitably advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic, they say. It’s technology that gives the Doctor Who Restoration Team its ineffable powers, but I see only magic. A clip from Tomorrow’s World in 1993 demonstrates the Team’s early sorcery, while the episodes on this DVD show how much further their wizardry has come.

The documentary Remembering Barry Letts pays just tribute to the polymath producer of the Pertwee years, and features interviews with Letts himself, admiring colleagues, and his sons, Dominic and Crispin. The programme rightly puts its subject’s Doctor Who work into the context of a long and high-achieving career, and while one wishes the budget had been available to provide more footage of Letts as an actor – and clips from other TV series on which he worked as producer – it proves an excellent and quietly moving tribute.

The Daemons was a famously jolly job for its cast and crew, and that mood is captured by both the commentary and production documentary here. If you think there’s nothing new to be learned about the making of this serial, then prepare to be surprised; not least by the story of the floor manager’s hat. However, the most rewarding extra here is the ‘Info Text’ commentary, provided by the master of the art, Martin Wiggins. Intelligent, witty and insanely meticulous, it brings the making of these episodes vividly to life. By day, Dr Wiggins is one of the world’s leading Shakespearean scholars. By night, he’s researching and compiling these facts for us; including a list of all the newspapers used to make Bert the Landlord’s coat for the morris dance sequence – and I mean down to the specific days’ editions. Frankly, we should count ourselves lucky that Wiggins is on our side. Because if all this focus and brain power were instead used for evil, there’d be no stopping him. We would all be as dust beneath his feet. As is his will, so mote it be.

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