There was a time, about nine (!) years ago, when I'd grown tired of the BBC's line of Eighth Doctor Adventures.The succession of parallel worlds and the interminable saga of the Victorian meddler Sabbath and his ape navy filled me with very little enthusiasm. Nowadays, I'm equally tardy in reading the hardback Eleventh Doctor books. I tell myself that's because I'm saving them for the three-hour journey to Glasgow. But that's not the whole reason; often it's just that I expect them to be disappointing.
The All-Ages nature of the range means that the-ahem- Mature Reader has the feeling they've seen it all before, elsewhere and better. I was pleasantly surprised, however, by Una McCormack's previous book, the medieval space fantasy The King's Dragon, which I read when I came up to Elgin to live last summer. It felt very fresh and a departure from the dry, plodding work of Justin Richards or the giddy, self-indulgence of Gary Russell. McCormack's second Who novel, The Way Through the Woods didn't quite win me over.
Tired as I am of Moffat's Dark Fairy Tale agenda, Woods has the quality of dream-like folk tale as a number of young women become lost in the eponymous woods and lost in time. It also explores a number of romantic encounters. The Doctor is quite a passive figure throughout- never a great idea- although he does get to deliver a line that made the whole piece worthwhile: " Congratulations... It's a beautiful baby ship." Rory is the protagonist in the story, as in Brian Finch's cheesily retro 80s sci-fi adventure Hunter's Moon. I hope this is because authors find Amy as charmless as I do. The aliens bear a resemblance to Fantastic Mr. Fox- rather pallid compared to, say, the Krynoids or the Zygons.
Jonathan Morris writes timey-wimey (arrgh! I said it!!) Dr. Who stories and has done for a long time: experimental stuff like Flip-Flop and funny stuff like Festival of Death and Interstellar Overdrive. Sadly, he isn't wearing his fetching Douglas Adams hat for the winsomely-titled Touched By An Angel. A biting satire on television's saccharine and self-satisfied sentimentality would be very welcome. Between the attractive Dairy Milk-purple covers, however, is a sickly slab of Mills and Boon Romantic Fiction. If the long, long story of geeky Mark's pursuit of flighty, unobtainable Rebecca isn't thinly disguised biography, I'll eat Dr. Song's Blue Book of Spoilers.
The Weeping Angels provided a genuinely creepy moment of theatre in Dr. Who Live but I could do without seeing Moffat's most successful creation for a few years. This is because they can do anything; except in Touched where they frustratingly negelect their gimmick of speaking through a dead proxy. And mute villains are pretty stultifying in a book.
I persisted on the bus journey up the bloody A9 through chapter after chapter of foreign holiday reminiscence and maudlin encounters with family and friends. As time-travelling tragedy, it fails because Mark, Rebecca, their family and friends are so bloodless. There's a difference between ordinary and dull. Crucially, any romance in Nu Who must be judged against that of the Ponds and the story of Mark and Rebecca doesn't charm or engage to any degree.
There's a strong feeling of deja vu in the final part of the Big Finish Thomas Brewster trilogy, Industrial Evolution. Subsitute the botanical craziness of Mark of the Rani with Steampunk life-forms and you're more than halfway there. On the plus side, the team of Sixie and Evelyn have a likeable parental relationship with shifty Brewster. On the downside, there's a very smug space criminal at the heart of the story, played by Rory Kinnear (whom, we're told very implausibly in the sleeve notes, knows virtually nothing about Who. Pah!)
Since I remember Dr. Smythe referring to "that poor boy Brewster" in A Death in the Family, I was expecting a Final End for the superannuated Artful Dodger, after perhaps one last series of adventures in the Tardis. Instead he goes into business with Space Crook, echoing both the Headhunter and Meddling Monk story arcs in the Eighth Doctor discs. Time for a new BF supremo, perhaps, now that the ranges are beginning to repeat themselves? I like this Tardis crew but Evolution is a bit of a dud from the usually-inventive Eddie Robson.
The Doctor Who Project Series Bible is a weighty ring-bound guide to a long-running collection of Canadian fan-fiction . The conceit was that the Eight Doctor Television Movie never happened (shame- they have no Fitz or Charley or Lucie Bleedin' Miler, poor dears). Instead, a series of imaginary actors replaced Sylvester, starting with bearded Jeremy Banks-Walker. The writers devote a surprising amount of space to their anodyne Romana knock-off, Grae; but there's invention in their brusque, abrasive Tenth Doctor, their mature Rathbone-ish Ninth Doctor and the Wiccan companion Silver. The stories are sometimes repetitive and the writing sometimes dry and unrewarding but it's an intriguing, alternative take on the show.
The most significant Who publication this month is DWM's tribute to the Brig. There's also an hilarious column by Russell T. which is just genius and Gary Gillatt's lethally funny review of Frontios (although it'll be the turn of A Christmas Carol in thirty years time). I must say, however, the self-appointed moderators of the DWM Facebook page should be delighted, having their names in print virtually every month. Does no one else have anything to say?
Next: Hey, kids! Bendis!
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