Eleven Years of the Eleventh Doctor: The Big Bang

doctor who the big bang matt smith karen gillan caitlin blackwood pandorica moffat haynes review

You know this is all just a story, don’t you? You know there’s no such thing as stars.

It’s more of a piece with The Pandorica Opens than it seems, of course. The Big Bang seems small by comparison to its predecessor, almost, but it’s full of that same inventiveness and confidence: the National Museum makes for a nice parallel to Stonehenge, the epic reduced to an archaeological curiosity in the face of the apocalypse. (Toby Haynes is still evoking the same Indiana Jones aesthetic as last week, but it’s more the epilogue to Raiders of the Lost Ark than the opening this time.) There’s something quite haunting about the Dalek, last week representing an unprecedented danger, reduced to nothing more than a shadow of a fossil in the face of a much grander existential threat.

Again, much like last week, this is a very polished affair: it’s as much a showcase for Toby Haynes as The Pandorica Opens was, and it’s easy to see why he was invited back first for A Christmas Carol and then again for the Series 6 opener. His direction is rarely ostentatious, but always evocative: the contrast between the green/blue light of the Pandorica and the orange/red lighting of the sunrise towards the end looks really, really good. (Haynes does a lot of nice, understated work with the lighting throughout, getting a lot out of the condensed daytime conceit – it’s subtle but atmospheric, giving the episode a sense of momentum and escalation without drawing attention to it explicitly.) There’s a real flourish and panache to this, making it an almost singularly impressive episode: it’s not necessarily the best of the Moffat era, but it’s surely one of the most satisfying to watch.

Which as much because of the writing as the direction, of course. It’s smart and funny (again, you can trace a lot of this back to Moffat’s sitcom work) and bold; even eleven years later, it still feels just as new and exciting as it did the first time around. You get the sense that “Something old, something new. Something borrowed, something blue” is an idea Moffat had been holding onto for years, maybe even building the entire series around it – surely the only reason it can’t be traced back to an old usenet post like A Good Man Goes to War’s origin of the word “Doctor” is because he was holding onto it so closely? Rightly so, in any case: it’s one of the most sweeping, triumphant moments of the series.

What The Big Bang is ultimately about, in the end, is healing – the universe isn’t just reset, it’s restored, and so are the characters. It’s what Amy does for the Doctor, remembering him back to life, and it’s what the Doctor does for Amy too.

Not, crucially, by bringing back her parents – she does that on her own, more or less. No, it’s returning to her wedding, in full view of everyone, representing years of doubts dismissed all at once: Amy’s imaginary friend always was exactly as real as she said. (There’s a callback again to the pain of The Eleventh Hour – “the psychiatrists we sent her to” – before that full circle moment, and it’s telling that we see young Amelia go through a version of that at the start of the episode.) That’s the real triumph and catharsis of that moment – not the Doctor surviving, because we always knew he would, but validating Amy once and for all.

They both share the same moral throughline, one that stretches back to The Beast Below and forward to Extremis, to declare without compromise the chance to tell a better story – because if it’s all a story in the end, why not make it a good one? It represents a breath-taking rejection of cynicism, in the end, an effortless dismissal of the sort of dour realism that would insist on misery and preclude something like this: insisting on stars. (In amongst all this there’s a nice resonance with The Doctor Falls, and what was almost the Twelfth Doctor’s final words: “Pity. I hoped there’d be stars.” It’s unlikely a conscious parallel – just the sort of echo you get when the same writer brings the same perspective to a show for seven years – but it’s nice little moment of poetry nonetheless.)

And so the episode ends with one last subversion of the Davies era format: “Goodbye” is less ostentatiously clever as “something borrowed, something blue” but it’s just as thrilling in its own way, Amy and Rory both embracing the Doctor – and Doctor Who – for one more year at least.

Related:

Eleven Years of the Eleventh Doctor

Doctor Who Review: Series 12 Overview

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Film Review | Brexit: The Uncivil War (2019)

brexit uncivil war benedict cumberbatch dominic cummings james graham toby haynes channel 4 hbo vote leave take back control film review

Everyone knows who won. But not everyone knows how.

Perhaps somewhat ironically, Brexit: The Uncivil War is a film caught between two contrary instincts, unable to quite work out what it wants to be or what it wants to do.

On one level, Brexit is trying to be a character study, an attempt to shine a light on Dominic Cummings – a man most of the film’s audience is unlikely to be aware of. At the same time, though, the film also wants to be a process story ahead of anything else, delving into the idiosyncrasies of a political campaign of near unprecedented significance. It wouldn’t be impossible to be both, of course, but ultimately Brexit is neither – there’s a certain tension borne of this, as the film struggles to find an identity, leaving a rapidly forming sense that none of the major figures involved were quite on the same page throughout.

Screenwriter James Graham, clearly, is most interested in Dominic Cummings – not a huge surprise, given Cummings is apparently the sort of brash genius that so often fascinates writers. Whether Cummings genuinely falls prey to every cliché-ridden convention of the brusque political operative, speaking only in self-consciously lofty references and aphorisms is another question: it’s difficult to tell whether this an accurate account of Cummings’ real-life eccentricities or an artifice on Graham’s part. If the latter, it’s worthy of quite the eye-roll; if the former, then it’s easier to understand why Graham was quite so fascinated by Cummings, but does rather leave the impression that Graham bought into Cummings’ own hype, which is… another problem, to say the least.

That said, though, Graham isn’t helped by Cumberbatch’s visible lack of interest in Cummings. If 2018 held the best performance of Cumberbatch’s career in Patrick Melrose, then Brexit: The Uncivil War is unfortunately a sure example of one of his weakest. In Patrick Melrose, Cumberbatch carved out a space within his established milieu of isolated eccentrics, injecting it with a bracing vulnerability that elevated the performance far above the rest of his filmography. In Brexit: The Uncivil War, Cumberbatch does almost entirely the opposite – he’s sleepwalking through the film, coasting on a reputation for playing irreverent geniuses earned on Sherlock. (There’s reasonable critique to make, on that grounds, that Cumberbatch brings too much baggage to the role – simply by putting him on screen in this role, there’s an implicit suggestion that Cummings is a Sherlock-esque figure.) Cummings, here, is a caricature of ‘a Benedict Cumberbatch role’ – so of course the character study fails. It doesn’t matter what Graham was trying to achieve if Cumberbatch doesn’t show up.

Absent its star, Brexit renders Cummings a cipher around which the Leave campaign as a whole can be – not ‘interrogated’, that suggests a far robust and uncompromising look at events than the film offered – viewed. In that sense, Brexit does reasonably well, finding flair in the mundanities of the campaign trail from focus groups to slogans. It isn’t quite as good as, say, the average episode of The West Wing, but it works – an extended look at the subtleties that set “take control” apart from “take back control” makes for one of the film’s better sequences, for example. Similarly effective is Brexit: The Uncivil War’s look at how the Leave campaign relied on developing social media targeting – which is to say, it works, but it’s nowhere near as good an articulation of the concept as when it formed the fourth act plot twist of an episode of The Good Fight.

brexit uncivil war benedict cumberbatch dominic cummings boris johnson richard goulding michael gove oliver maltman nhs bus 350 million take back control james graham toby haynes channel 4 hbo

Again, though, it doesn’t quite land – a result, most likely, of the fact that the process story was never meant to be the main focus of the script, merely inadvertently accentuated by the vagaries of Cumberbatch’s performance. In turn, it leaves Brexit: The Uncivil War as a drama divided, a film at war with itself – it’s no surprise that film doesn’t have the impact it could’ve. (Director Toby Haynes, who might have been able to stitch the two instincts together, instead offers a third – the equivalent of “well, let’s just be a bit like Norway”. Haynes tries to emphasise the absurdity of it all, presumably angling to satirise right-wing pomposity – but instead directs with a certain baroque pretension, another element that fails to cohere.)

In the end, this adaptation prompts much the same question as the real-life source material: why bother?

Not even three years on from the vote, accusations that Brexit: The Uncivil War has come too soon hold an obvious weight. 2019 is too early for Brexit to have been historicised; indeed, it’s still a palpable part of the present, if the events of this week are any indicator. In the time between Brexit’s Channel 4 debut and this review being written, Theresa May’s prospective deal suffered an unprecedented defeat in parliament; what will happen in the time between writing and publishing the review remains to be seen, let alone in the time between publishing the review and Brexit’s nominal 29th March scheduling.

That isn’t to say, though, that Brexit shouldn’t have bothered because they don’t know how it’ll end. Rather, while the broader ramifications of the event are still ongoing – and while the campaign at the heart of the film is still subject to ongoing criminal investigation – there’s argument to be made that a fictionalised narrative is irresponsible filmmaking. By virtue of being the first major attempt to tackle Brexit on film, Brexit: The Uncivil War is also going to be – for a time, at least – the definitive account of that campaign. What James Graham and company emphasise – and, more crucially, what they omit – is going to have a greater hand in shaping public understanding of the Brexit campaign than any news report or documentary. Looking beyond their depiction of Cummings, there’s little sense that there was any awareness of this responsibility behind the scenes. Arron Banks and Nigel Farage are blustering and foolish, not insidious and dangerous; Boris Johnson and Michael Gove are trepidant and cautious, not self-serving and morally negligent; the Leave campaign’s illegal overspending is little more than a footnote. Maybe waiting a few more years would’ve stopped them getting it wrong, maybe it wouldn’t, but the mistakes would likely have mattered a little bit less.

Ultimately, if Brexit: The Uncivil War was meant to hold a mirror up to society, it is instead a far better reflection of James Graham’s interest – and Benedict Cumberbatch’s apparent disinterest – in one man, rather than offering any meaningful commentary on the state of a nation.

5/10

Related:

Who is America? Who cares?

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