I have seen the last episode of the third season of Doctor Who and I am close to vomiting. I didn’t know how much I cared about the series until now and I sincerely hope that the rumors are true — that Davies has decided to leave Doctor Who and will never return again. I’ve had enough. For all that any long-time Who fan complained about John Nathan-Turner, the cheesy crap under Nathan-Turner was fucking Masterpiece Theatre compared to this flamboyant tripe. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, see this clip, in which Doctor Who has been cheapened beyond any rudimentary level of dramatic redemption. It’s a pity, because John Simm is a promising Master. Russell T. Davies appears to have sabotaged a science fiction staple. This is, in many ways, worse than the Six Feet Under episode, “That’s My Dog,” in which another great series was hijacked. To dwell on the subject further is to unleash a mad torrent of violence upon an inanimate object that I will only call “Russell,” only to injure my hand and pay an expensive hospital bill.
Russell T. Davies, you fucking wanker. How could you do this? How could you destroy a sizable chunk of the human population in the present day? How could you write scenes in which characters effortlessly infiltrate major executive scenarios? How could you write something so adverse to the show’s quirkiness, wit, intelligence, and charm?
Christ, it’s only a television show, I know. I have only late-night Dirty Harry impulses to go on. But this two-part finale is the work of a talentless megalomaniac and I wish that justice of some sort could be effected. But it can’t.
Guess it’s time to read James Joyce instead.