Some years ago a group of journalists began spreading a rumour that Umberto Eco did not write his books but constructed them be feeding random bits of information into a computer and allowing a randomised program do the rest[1]
This was obviously nonsense; Eco is nothing short of a genius. Yet I am reminded of the story simply because the accusation could be levelled at Moffat with considerable ease. Each story is constructed using the same plot devices and ends up repeating itself until the show is swallowed by its own anus. Even the latent sexism seems to be stuck in an endless loop of repetition (Churchill “what happened to time?” The Doctor “A woman” and “hell in high heels” etc)
This leaves one obvious problem, any attempt at rational criticism will have to repeat and repeat itself until it is as pointless and derivative as the show itself. In short there is nothing I can say that I have not already said before.
My suggestion, if anyone is reading this or actually cares, is to print out some of the below, cut them up into sentences (apologies, I know some of them are not great but dyslexia is an absolute arse at times) and then re-assemble them into a newly constructed article. I’m sure it will convey my general thoughts on the episode in question.
Perhaps the best thing I can do is quote the eleventh Doctor himself as a way to criticise the show.
“I sell toys. This is what I do now.”
Yes, rather sadly it really, quite literally, is.
[1] On a separate note... Almost as if the existence of cosmic karma is trying to prove its existence to me new novels by Christopher Priest, Haruki Murakami and Umberto Eco are being released within a few weeks of each other. This at least seems to balance out my heartbreak over the show and proves there are still writers out there who give a damn.
