Spider-Man 2

***Although this film is just shy of reaching its tenth birthday, I might as well point out that there are some spoilers ahoy. So if you haven't seen it, go and find a copy***

Before the days of Nolan's mega-hit Dark Knight Trilogy, Joss Whedon's superhero all-star extravaganza, and Snyder's outlandishly-earnest re-envisioning of Superman; came Spider-Man 2.

2002's Spider-Man largely existed to adapt Spidey so that he could function successfully on the silver screen. Its core job was to introduce all the key players of the comic franchise to an audience of cine-goers and generate excitement amongst them by throwing in a few flashy action sequences and snazzy character arcs. Its healthy box office results and increased popularity suggests that part une of this revitalised superhero flick succeeded in doing the job it set out to achieve from the start.

This time round, instead of working toward igniting the fuse of intrigue, director Sam Rami's job is to move the story forward in an appealing direction which will extend this adaptation's lifeline. The audience are in their seats, the characters have been introduced and expectations have risen. So how does Spider-Man 2 go about addressing these heightened anticipation? By telling a bloody good story, that's how.

Spider-Man 2 is, to date, the mother hen of all Spidey movies. Every sequel/reboot released within the perimeters of this franchise from here onward will forever be judged on the basis of this movie. It appears to be the consensus opinion that this is exactly what a Spider-Man movie done right looks like. Rami and co manage to hit the nail bang on the head in more or less every aspect; pulling off one of the more competent superhero movies of the 21st century. Sure, there have been superior contributions to this genre (remember, Nolan is less than a year away from releasing Batman Begins), but nonetheless, in the minds eye of many, this one sits comfortably near the top.

But what does part two do so well? First off, it manages to do something which a number of sequels have failed to in the past; which is to tell a solid stand-alone story with a consistent theme that holds up and doesn't slip off target from start to finish.

 

Whereas part one mainly centred its attention on putting all the pieces in place for Peter Parker to transition into Spider-Man, part two chooses instead to steer its attention toward the consequences that becoming the beloved web slinger has on our youthful protagonist. It presents itself as a coming-of-age story; emphasising the difficulties Parker experiences as he moves further into adulthood. On the one hand, our protagonist has now fully immersed himself into the world of the vigilante crime fighter. No longer is he hopping awkwardly from rooftop to rooftop, practising web shots during his spare time, cautiously crawling up alley walls or trying out new moves in a down-town wrestling cage. The origin story is over and Spidey is as fully formed as he's ever going to be in this interpretation of the franchise.

As a symbol, Spider-Man may be complete, but as a character, Peter Parker is most certainly not. He struggles to complete the tasks set out in his job, keep on top of his college work, pay his rent, assist his financially troubled Aunt May and maintain relationships with those he loves in his personal life. Spider-Man may be firing on all cylinders, but he's taking up too much room for Peter to function. The balance between the hero and the person is drastically uneven.

Which is where Mary Jane comes back into the picture. In the preceding movie, MJ is the girl that Peter can't have, but the one that Spidey can. By the end of part one, however, it transpires that MJ does indeed love Peter, but our spandex-wearing superhuman fears putting her in danger and therefore decides to keeps his distance. Peter's choice at the end of that film is picked up straight from the get-go of part two and is used to yank the issue of the Peter/Spidey imbalance right into the foreground. Peter wants to be with MJ, but if he is  to remain as the crime fighting superhero, he simply refuses to place the woman he loves in such a dangerous position ("Spider-Man always has enemies"). In his opinion, she cannot ever know about this side of his life, no matter what happens.

While we can look at this story as metaphor for growing up and learning to balance out the responsibilities which arrive as a human transgresses from childhood to adulthood, you can also look at this tale as a metaphor for coming out.

The core of the story largely surrounds the agonies of hiding your true self from those whom you love. By concealing his identity from MJ, Peter is making it impossible to have a relationship with the woman he loves. Instead of being honest and allowing her to make up her own mind, he refuses to even bother taking such a risky chance; keeping his mouth shut instead and restricting the likelihood of getting with the person he adores from probable to unlikely.

Trying to hide his alternate identity from colleagues, friends and loved ones is proven a difficult task; and the more Peter tries to keep both his everyday life and superhero antics separate, the more his world crumbles before him.

Which is when the story takes a new and altogether interesting twist. It gives Peter the chance to give one of these lives up; literally stripping him of his powers. Suddenly, he's no longer burdened with this secret identity. He can go about his day-to-day life as a 'normal' man. No more secrets, no more duel existence and no more lies.  

But it doesn't last, of course, because at the end of the day, this is a Spider-Man film. There are still bad guys to bring to justice and Doctor Otto Octavius remains at large. Sooner or later, Peter is going to have to stop running from his secret and return to the life he wishes to reject entirely. He may want to give that hidden part of him up in the name of making his life easier, but that's not how the world works. Spider-Man was never a separate entity from Peter, it was just an aspect to his identity which he refused to reveal to others; largely out of fear of the consequences that may stem from speaking such a life-changing truth. By keeping the red mask locked safely away inside the closet, there was no possibility of his loved ones getting hurt; yet at the same time, there was no possibility for him to be happy either.

By the time the story reaches its climax, Mary Jane discovers that Peter Parker is indeed Spider-Man. Instead of confirming his worse fears, such a revelation leads to them both finally getting together. The truth escapes, Mary Jane knows who he really is, and as a result, she decides to stick by him in the name of love and acceptance.

In fact, each time in this film that Spider-Man/Parker's identity is revealed, it is always depicted in a positive light. During the train sequence, after Spidey saves the passengers from hurting off the end of the tracks and to certain death, the civilians he saves get to see him for the first time without his mask on. Upon realising how young this disguised vigilante really is, they choose to side with him. Watch how their attitudes change before and after this scene. Prior to the revelation, while Spidey attempts to slow the train down, the passengers speak to him as if he exists solely to save their asses. As he attempts to slow the train down by wedging his own legs between the vehicle and the tracks, the conductor sarcastically asks him whether he has "any more bright ideas". The people around him act as though his soul purpose is to save them from mortal danger, only there to provide a service of safety. Yet as soon as the mask is off, the passenger’s attitudes change drastically. They help him to his feet, promise not to tell anyone who he really is and even stand between him and the callous Octavius. Before they knew who he was, he was seen as someone whose purpose was to protect; after the truth is out, suddenly he's "just a kid" who needs looking out for as much as anyone does from time to time.

The only time that the truth of Peter Parker been Spider-Man turns out to have negative consequences is when Harry is let in on the secret, yet such a scene also has some positive elements to it. For one thing, it allows the ambiguous and highly static nature of this sub-plot to finally move forth. For the entire time that Harry was unaware of Peter's secret, the whole "I will avenge my father" side-story has remained in a fixed stage; completely unable to move forward. Until the revelation, all that this story could do was show Harry get more miserable and more pissed off at Peter's reluctance to help him. The news of Peter's secret may have ruffled Harry's feathers somewhat, yet at least it allowed that story the freedom to move forward and foreshadow the events which will arrive in the following film.

Overall, Spider-Man 2 largely spends its time doing three things; it focuses on the hardships of trying to keep two identities secular, plays up  to one man's fears of admitting the truth to loved ones, and shows that honesty about who you are always leads to good things. Peter may try to solve his problems by denying and suppressing Spider-Man, but as the story shows, sooner or later such attempts will be made in vain. Yet it doesn't matter whether the suppression fails, because as the climax reveals, truth is the saviour to our core protagonist's problems.

Which is why I can't help but see Spider-Man 2 as a thematic metaphor for coming out. It celebrates the idea of revealing your concealed lives to those you love, explores the difficulties of trying to function in the adult world while clinging on to such a masquerade, and emphasises the fact that suppression is not a method for fixing the problems which such secrecy brings.

Yet it is not the nature of the theme which makes this film so good, but is more down to the consistency of it that promotes this sequel to an above average status. From the opening few minutes alone, director Rami and screenwriters manage to make clear the problems of Peter's private life and what sort of an impact being Spider-Man has on his job (the answer: he gets fired).  From then on - right through to the end of the film - the eye is never once taken off the ball. The creators behind this feature know what sort of story they want to tell, and they manage to do so without ever forgetting. 

This ultimately allows the film to stand on its own two feet; completely separate from the preceding feature and the franchise which it originates from. The thematic strength and audacity to tell its own story is what makes Spider-Man 2 such a strong contender in this now ever-expanding genre of superhero films.

Thematic consistency isn't the only endearing quality of this film of course (its use of providing lead characters with the liberty to develop far beyond what they were in the previous film, its pleasantly balanced action/plot ratio, its ability to actually get the swinging effects of Spidey right for one time only, and its marvellous decision to have the excellent Alfred Molina play the sinister-yet-pitied Doctor Octavius are all but to name a few), yet it is this dedication to telling a particular kind of story without going off the mark which helps to elevate the film from silver to gold status.

What should also be said here, is that this is the last time that a Spider-Man movie actually feels like...well...a Spider-Man movie. What Rami did with parts one and two was he essentially took a group of characters from a comic book universe and tried to convert them into silver-screen adaptations. Regardless of their similarities, the comic book medium is still somewhat different to that of cinema. Both rely heavily on visuals, however there are noticeable differences between how far each one is willing to depart from reality. Comics - much like cartoons and video games - are more likely to depart from reality in favour of fantasy, whereas films often attempt to keep at least one foot in the door of authenticity for the sake of clinging on to the viewer's suspension of disbelief. This is often done by either having metaphorical themes that relate to real life issues (e.g. the coming of age/coming out theme) or by emphasising the relationships and developments of core characters (e.g. MJ and Peter's relationship/Harry and Peter's fallout/Octavius's fall from good to evil). I'm not trying to imply that Spider-Man and Spider-Man 2 were in any way grounded in our world - they certainly weren't - but what I am saying is that Rami curbed the fantastical and often-out-of-this-world nature of the comic book medium by bending the characters to function and unfold in a manner that suited that of the cinematic medium more comfortably.

Over the next few years - starting with Spider-Man 3 and continuing with the Amazing Spider-Man reboots - these films will start break free from the confines of the cinematic medium. No longer will the film-makers focus huge quantities of time and dedication toward character-development and thematic qualities, but will instead start to embrace the origins and tropes of the comic book medium which the series initially stemmed from (the character arcs will still remain of course, though they will just be no where near as fine tuned as they are here). Multiple villains per story, more far-fetched set pieces and the re-creating of hugely iconic moments from the comics will become more prevalent; particularly by the time that we get to Marc Webb's The Amazing Spider-Man reboot (though I think I'm getting a little ahead of myself).

While future Spider-Man features will feel as though they are films dictated by the rules of the comic book medium, Spider-Man 2 is the last time that the franchise will truly feel like a comic book dictated by the rules of the film medium.

Having said all this, the film isn't perfect. There are still some flaws which could have been avoided. For one, there's the lack of use of Aunt May. During one scene, Peter finally admits to May that he was partly responsible for his Uncle Ben's death; largely due to the fact that the only reason he was gunned down in the first place, was because he was waiting for Peter to return from a wrestling area where he was secretly trying to make some money. Although the scene itself is wonderfully executed – plus Rosemary Harris delivers an utterly wonderful performance through and through – this is about as much as they really do with her character in the entire 127 minutes. In every other scene which she happens to be in, she's either uttering a few philosophical or rhetorical phrases about how everyone needs a hero, or mechanochemically referencing her late husband. There are a couple of scenes which briefly explore her recent money struggles, yet these are used largely to emphasis Peter's own problems, as it shines a light on yet another responsibility which he has failed to tackle during his time off from been Spider-Man. The film often basks in its freedom to play around with the characters which occupy this world – something it sometimes struggled to do in the first one, largely down to having to spend most of its time introducing them all to the audience – yet with May, she feels slightly more neglected than the rest. May Parker is just as important a character to Peter as Harry and MJ are in this interpretation of the franchise and deserved much more screen time in the one Spider-Man film that focused more intently on character expansion than any other.

Also, there's an issue with the pacing of the climax sequence, where Octavius's transformation from the villain to the anti-hero was a tad too hasty for my liking. Yes, his decision to save the city from the man he had become was certainly a wise move, however some more screen time really could have been dedicated to exploring how his character came to this decision; which would have made the moment where he changed his ways come across much more complete. Ok, so it happened right at the end, and the writers had a fair amount to wrap up before the credits finally rolled, but a little more emphasis on the workings behind Otto's mind would have made this moment feel much more absolute in the long run.

Then there's the biggest problem, a problem which happens to pop up in every single one of Rami's Spider-Man films; his habit of reverting Mary Jane to the role of the peril-monkey in the final acts. MJ does have moments where she grasps a hold of the narrative and dictates the outcome (her moment at the very end, where she tells Peter that she's capable of making her own decisions regarding whether or not she'll be safe dating Spider-Man, is a perfect example of this) however these damsel in distress moments really do insult her character immensely. Mary Jane is a character who deserves to be more than this. She's capable of much more than just been tied up by menacing monsters for the final 30 minutes. Rami lets her down greatly when he defaults to this worn out cliché and it is even more of a shame when he does it here, largely due to the fact that everything else in this story has been so utterly spot on.

Yet despite these quarrels, Spider-Man 2 is the strongest movie to come out of this franchise. It deals with the troubles of growing up, making choices and embracing who you are. It's utterly terrific. The only terrible fact about it is that such a strong sequel makes the shambolic execution of part three all the more disappointing, however that's a discussion for a future post.

Alien³

After the Gothic steel intestines of the Nostromo's inescapable corridors, to the tough-talking marines of LV426's outwitted heroes, Alien³ finally makes its contribution to the realms of Wayland Yutani.

From a personal perspective, great bouts of time passed between my viewing of Alien³ and its preceding features. I watched the first two as a six-year-old kid, awed and inspired by the hellish imagery of wonder which it imprinted into one's imagination. My parents – however liberal their generosity may have been for allowing me to watch the first two 18-rated features – were far from keen in granting me visual access to part three at such a delicate age. After many weeks of pleading for more Ellen Ripley, I was forced to admit defeat as my parents took the video recording of Alien³ and made it a new member of that week's bin collection.

By the time I finally did get a chance to watch part trois – after a fellow school friend thoughtfully brought a copy round for a Haribo fuelled sleepover – I was the ripe old age of 12. For me, over half a decade had passed since Aliens, and in that time, one had managed to conjure up a whole army of ideas and expectations. Furthermore, my parents' reluctance to let me watch this one made the desire to watch all the more enticing. What could have been so wrong with this film which led my parents to such a frustrating decision? How violent could it possibly be? Was it scarier than a cupboard full of spiders? Would it challenge my infantile mind far too rigorously? Why had my eyes been out-of-bounds from this story for so god damn long? The enigma of Alien³ was far too intense for me to wait until my 18^th Birthday, I had to see it now!

And then, to my great misfortune, I saw it...

Narratively, the whole thing is what could possibly be described as a gallon of spilt manure. To say the plot was all over the shop would be something of an outrageous understatement. The film trampolines from one sub-plot to another, randomly telling a particular type of story at one minute, only to saunter off the next and tell a totally different one all together.

The first chunk of the film largely centres its attention around Ripley as she comes to terms with the catastrophic events which transpired during the pre-credit titles, in her own unique manner (seriously, it's an utterly dismal opening; in the sense that it grabs the “happily-ever-after” ending of Aliens by the balls and takes a great big metaphorical dump all over its jolly face). The story's protagonist – Ellen Ripley – has crash landed on a colonised prison planet named Fiorina 'Fury' 161. During their trip home, the LV426 survivors find themselves in a situation in which their ship has been compromised by two alien eggs which have wound up on board (the poor exposition of the opening scene makes their on-board arrival a rather ambiguous affair, however common sense dictates that the Queen Alien stowaway from the previous film was responsible for laying these troublesome little tinkers prior to her fate in the Suloco's airlock). As the eggs hatch and the facehuggers get busy doing what they do (whilst the crew snooze in cryosleep), an electrical fire is triggered; forcing the ship to jettison its remaining members into the stars and (hopefully) to safety. The escape vessel crashes and Ripley awakens to discover that she's the only survivor. Moreover, she's also wound up on an all male prison planet. Good lord.

Gradually, the plot moves forward and Ripley spends much of the first act mourning over her dead acquaintances.

These early scenes, as a matter of fact, are where the plot of Alien³ works reasonably well. First and foremost, Ripley's reactions regarding the discovery of her dead crew are nicely executed. Instead of expressing denial toward the deaths of Newt and Hicks, Ripley turns instead to paranoia. She refuses to accept that a technical fault is the cause of her present predicament. She will not rest until she's able to rule out (or maybe prove?) the possibility of Xenomorph involvement. That paranoia remains locked inside Ripley's mind until she goes as far as instructing the prison doctor to open up the chest of Newt; her young-companion from Aliens. Finally, after much convincing, she chooses to accept the evidence before her eyes and cremates the bodies of her former friends.

The cremation scene may well have be one more way of Ripley making extra sure that no skulduggery is at bay, however the climax to act one works nicely as a symbolic juxtaposition between a paranoid action and letting go of loved ones. Ripley's insistence that an alien on bored reflects that of a person who's refusing to accept either the death of a loved one or a terminal illness of their own. The final moments of act one, where the bodies are finally sent to the ground (well..furnace) are the moments where Ripley finally lets go, accepting that the 'facts' which she has been told are the ones which rein true to reality (which, of course, they don't).

Whilst the cremation scene begins by providing closure to the paranoia/denial juxtaposition, it then decides to suddenly go and pull the rug from under our feet by providing a secondary juxtaposition, in which it reveals that Ripley's suspicions were in fact correct all along. As the corpses of Newt and Hicks descend into the jaws of the prison's furnace, the camera cuts to one of the inmate's dog, who thrashes around in agony whilst a monstrous beast forces itself from the canine's body.

The decision to build up and then de-escalate Ripley's paranoia – only to go on and inevitably confirm that her nightmares were a reality – during the first act, sets up a theme which reflects nicely upon one of the more memorable quotes from the previous feature. I am referring to the line in Aliens, in which Newt says to Ripley that “my mommy always said there were no monsters – no real ones – but there are.” This was a line which I always felt summed up the overall theme of the Alien franchise. Alien and Aliens were films which felt as though they crawled out from the back of one's mind. These were films which followed a woman who found herself trapped inside a nightmare. In this universe, everyone's fears and terrors physically existed along-side them. The opening scene of Alien³ once again establishes this; confirming that Ripley's suspicions are, in actuality, solid facts.

Yet after a reasonably solid first act, everything goes utterly pear-shaped thereon. The main problem with it is that it feels as though each scene in the film had a different screenwriter working on it without actually knowing what each other happened to be writing. One minute we have a sub-plot revolving around Ripley forming a sexual relationship with the prison doctor; then we have one where the planet's doctor turns out to be a prisoner who was sent down for the manslaughter of several former patients; then there's this bit with Dillon and his band of religious chums; then we have a tale about a prisoner being accused of committing the crimes which the devilish Xenomorph was responsible for; then comes along a rather unpleasant bit where some prisoners attempt to rape Ripley whilst Dillon chooses to protect her; and then we've got some stuff about the company coming to take the murderous alien away from those expendable residents which occupy the lands of Fury 161. Oh yeah, and there's some bit where Ripley finds out she's got an alien sleeping in her chest.

I'm not saying that these are necessarily poor sub-plots (the second from last one I mentioned fits in perfectly with another theme which also weaves throughout the first two films; the company as the antagonist), nor am I saying that they couldn't work within Alien³. The crux of the problem is that one of these sub-plots will start up, and without providing any kind of resolution or point to that particular sub-narrative, the whole thing just wonders off and starts conjuring up a brand new secondary-story to entice its audience with. The end result is a collection of short stories – set on Fury 161 – with no satisfactory pay offs to any of them. These sub-plots continue to build up in their numbers as the film moves closer to the end credits; when finally, the third act buckles and decides to go 'fuck it' by turning everything into one big cat and mouse chase.

And this is the biggest disappointment with Alien³. It starts off feeling ambitious, tickling the audiences curiosity with a set of enigmatic characters and unanswered side story. Furthermore, it's first act proves that the writers behind this production (though I am aware of the troubles they had with production, particularly in the screen writing department) understood the nature of the story they were continuing to tell – that nightmares are a reality in Ripley's universe. Sadly, as the minutes pass by, it insidiously disappoints by failing to pay off anything which it sets up. Its a narrative with ADHD; one which starts off with a whole assortment of ideas eager to explore, yet ends up resorting to 30 minutes of people running around corridors.

Yet despite the chaotic narrative, Alien³ does manage to get a fair amount right in terms of its aesthetic appeal. The yellow and brown tinting, intestine-like corridors and the Xenomorph-doppelgänger plumbing to Fury 161's prison complex manages to both respect and expand upon the hair-raising aesthetics surrounding the series. The Fury 161 compound is just what one would imagine a prison to be like within this fictional universe; reinforcing the message that this future is a million miles away from what one might imagine a glossy utopia to be.

The visual qualities surrounding Alien³ had more of an impact on me than the film itself, as a matter of fact. During the years in which I was forbidden to view the film, all I had to go on were quick clips from television channels which were advertising late night screenings of the film (I would have stayed up late to watch them, yet this was before the days of owning a TV in one's room). The mud brown cinematography from those brief spots were all I had to go on. With little information of the overall story, my imagination got to work; weaving all sorts of weird and wonderful fables out of these short nuggets of nightmarish glory.

To add to these TV spots, my local video store provided a copy of the film for rental purposes. The front cover's drooling Xenomorph jaws, hissing silently into a petrified Ripley's ear was yet another unsettling-yet-appealing puzzle for me to place into the jigsaw of my mind. One more image to contribute to my own envisioned edition of this yet unseen film.

Such a positive impression one had regarding the aesthetics - plus six years of imaginatively constructing my own tailor-made-version of Alien³ - certainly had an effect on my overall response to the actual outcome. I was expecting something truly incredible, yet with the wandering plot(s) and lack of direction, I ended up walking away feeling somewhat empty. Furthermore, the decision to kill off Ellen Ripley at the ass end of the climax split my heart in two. During those earlier years, Ripley became an iconic part of my childhood self. She was the unstoppable warrior who could survive the impossible. Whole platoons could be wiped out before her, yet she would forever walk out the other side (more or less) unharmed. Whilst everyone else around her cried and cowered during their final moments alive, our hero would ascend from the bowels of the alien underworld, saving whoever she could; be that feline or child. Monsters may very well be real in Ellen Ripey's world, yet Ellen Ripley was immortal within the confines of this realm.

Although I can understand why they chose to kill off Ripley as a means of bringing closure to this franchise (which it did...until 1997), such a decision was an assassination of the only hero whom I was convinced could never cease to exist (except for the Doctor of course, though he had not yet entered my life by this point).

While Alien and Aliens inspired the architecture which holds up ones imaginative foundations; Alien³ was a film which could fail to impress the very imagination which was shaped by its predecessors.

The Reading Room: Flowers for Algernon

Flowers for Algernon is a science fiction novel by author Daniel Keyes. The story follows a cognitively challenged adult named Charlie Gordon who undergoes surgery too boost his IQ from 68 to 185. During his journey through the valleys of knowledge, Charlie falls in love with his teacher - Alice Kinnian, revisits his estranged family and learns of the truth in regards to how his friends really perceive him.

The short-story-turned-novel by Daniel Keyes is far from what one may call contemporary. The short story was released in 1958, whilst the fleshed out novel was published in 1966. Since then, it has gone on to win the Nebula Award for Best Novel, has been adapted into a feature film named Charlie in 1968, has continued to inspire further remakes from then forth, and has been re-released during the ensuing decades since.

I had seen one of these remakes many years before I stumbled upon the book. Back during my less literature-passionate days. I was 14 and happened to catch the TV movie adaptation - initially released in the year 2000 - during a sunny Saturday afternoon at my grandparents' home. The TV movie has been slated critically by many since its release, however I remember battling to hold back the tears during that warm weekend back in early 2005.

The subsequent weeks largely consisted of me foraging around my local HMV and Virgin Megastore, attempting to find a copy so I could relive that surprisingly emotional story once again. Upon failure, I decided to give Amazon a shot; only to discover that the film had not yet received a UK release (I'd not yet learned that I could also purchase items off of Amazon US. Nor had I discovered that I was able to watch films from across the pond with a neat little region code breaker app on my computer. As a result, I gave up and decided to look again at a later date.

As is often the case with me, a few weeks later, I had forgotten about that sweet little story and moved on with my life. Until last week, that is, when my dearest mother treated me to a re-released S.F Masterworks copy on Christmas morning.

The story is told via the first-person perspective. Charlie Gordon is our dear Dreamweaver in the tale; taking his readers on an intimate journey as his IQ sores from 68, right up to  a staggering 185.

Those initial opening chapters (or progress reports, as they are known as in the novel) were something of a struggle to read. For authenticity's sake, Keyes has rightfully chosen to have Charlie write these opening reports as he would have written them with his original IQ. The spelling is diabolical, the ideas are half-baked, the pacing of each report is all over the shop and the grammer is next to non-existent. Which makes the opening pages of Flowers for Algernon something of a task to work through. It's much like trying to read the assignment of an illiterate child trying to write a report on their weekend away with the family.

Yet what these opening progress reports achieve is an insight into Charlie before any alterations are made to his mind. He's excited, naive about the procedure he's soon to experience, full of admiration of his friends and even somewhat anxious toward some of the tests which he's been pushed through by the researchers running the entire operation. As Charlie tells us about how the Beekman College Center (which he attends for his cognitive struggles) claim he's the best man for the experiment, how his friends often laugh whenever he's around, and how he will soon go under the knife in a way that no human before him has; the reader is led to believe that all is not what it seems. Charlie isn't the brightest light on the Christmas tree, but seems to be happily sailing through a world which he quite clearly fails to understand.

As the pages turn hastily forth, Keyes improves the overall intellectual quality of Charlies' journal entries. After the operation, he is requested to listen to a series of tapes which aim to help him learn. As the progress reports move forward, the quality of Charlies' spelling and understanding of the world around him begins to transform at a rapid rate. Soon enough, he's introduced to the world of gramma. After a few mistakes and annoyances, he's able to construct coherently executed sentences which allow him to express his thoughts and feelings more vividly.

The increase in Charlies' abilities of self-expression expand farther, as he learns to dive back into his past and see how his present feelings have been shaped by personal events that have occured during his preceding years.

Charlies' increasing level of intelligence helps to mold the overall shape of Keyes' novel. It takes on an up-down shaped structure; having Charlie rise higher than he's ever risen before (in an intellectual context) only to have him slowly slip back down toward the two figured IQ which had possessed at the start of the novel. By the time the reader reaches the center of this story, Charlie is nothing short of a genius. So much so, in fact, that he decides to contribute his newly obtained intelligence to help assist with the research that is been put into the very experiment which made it possible in the first place.

As initially mentioned,  however, Charlie slowly begins to loose his balance, and his IQ slowly slips back to what it was before he underwent the surgery. Such a fact becomes known the Charlie before the effects kick in; as informed by the experiments' original test pilot - a mouse named Algernon - who's abnormally high IQ (for a mouse) quickly subsides before his brain forces him into a premature grave.

What's most interesting about Flowers for Algernon, however, is the story's secondary plot shape. Whilst Charlie sores in the intellectual department, personally, his life slowly begins to crumble before his eyes. His new found genius allows him to fit the world together; much one would with a jigsaw puzzle. He notices that a colleague he worked with at his local bakery has been short changing his boss for years; his friends are not laughing with him, but at him; his mother sent him away because she was so ashamed at how different he was from all the other children; and how no matter what you do in this world, people will happily stab you in the back if it will benefit them in any way.

The story's secondary shape helps to flesh out one of the novel's most significant themes. Will obtaining great levels of intellect truly make a person happy? If they can understand and perceive the world with the eyes of a clear headed ingenuity, can they truly remain happy when they can see all the horrors of reality playing out before their very eyes? Intellect may grant you imagination and the ability to accomplish many great things, but is it worth it when you are able to see just how dirty our species can truly be?

Furthermore, Flowers for Algernon looks at how others treat those who are seen to have a higher mind than a majority of society. All his old 'friends' and colleagues begin to ostracize him. They hate him for making them feel inferior with his knowledge. Whilst Charlie once made them feel secure in their own intelligence by being the least intelligent individual in the group; he now serves a reminder of all their flaws and inadequacies. They push him out of his job, openly accuse him of going against the bible by 'eating from the tree of knowledge' and force him into a world of isolation.

Such hostility from the individuals whom were once at the center of Charlies' life turn the spot light on a problem has existed amongst society since the dawn of our species; and is a problem which still exists to this very day. People are afraid of difference; regardless of which end of the spectrum of difference they are placed at. When Charlie had an IQ of 68, his mother disowned him and his classmates ridiculed him. In their eyes, he was nothing more than a joke. He was unable to learn like everyone else and was therefore pushed out and ignored by everyone who surrounded him.

Much of the same happens when Charlie flips from being unintelligent to intelligent. Even those who helped deliver the gift of intelligence to him become hostile of his existence. In their eyes, he questions too much, he becomes angry at the actions of others all too frequently, and most importantly, he frightens them. When he was perceived as simple, people accused him of being wrong; when he 'ate from the tree of knowledge' he was still wrong.

Reading this novel in today's world forces me to liken the attitudes of Charlies peers to that of our current societies attitudes toward peoples' bodies. Media tabloids will dehumanize and belittle those who are dangerously overweight. They will poke fun at them, accuse them of draining tax payers money on their health problems and bully them into 'doing something about it'. Much the same now happens if an individual is seen to be underweight. People who weigh less than society deems to be appropriate are attacked an accused of being a bad influence on today's children (the same accusation is fired at overweight individuals),  are ridiculed for the appearance of their nude bodies (" " " ") and have a list of health problems continuously recited to them (" " " ").

Regardless of the story raising such a point, however, it never appears to critique those who dislike Charlie after his intellect ascends. In fact, it appears to be slowly more in favor of the idea that ignorance is bliss. Charlie is frequently accused of becoming a cold and angry individual after his operation; and despite him attacking such opinions, Keyes appears to let those against his smartness have the last word.

It would be somewhat unfair to attack the novel for doing this, however, as it is important to remember that we can only understand this book through Charlies' eyes. He is writing the log reports, so any shred of coldness or anger are often even watered down by his choice of words (until the final few log reports that is) or pass by without him ever mentioning such modes of behavior. We hear what goes on inside his head, but we never really get a good enough idea about how his emotions are being portrayed visually.

Which brings us on to Charlies' emotional development during Flowers for Algernon.

As mentioned previously, during the progression of the narrative, Charlie finds himself falling madly in love with his ex-teacher at the Beekman College; Alice Kinnian. It would appear that Charlies' intellectual level was not the only aspect of his existence which was suffering from a case of arrested development, but also his attitude toward members of the opposite gender and sex also. Alice is a young attractive woman, and as Charlie begins to see her for the individual that she he, he begins to fall head over heels for her.

Yet the crux of Charlies' problem is that the other Charlie - the Charlie with the IQ of 68 who still watches him from a short distance - is not prepared to accept the truth of what is happening to him emotionally. It is at this point in the story in which our remarkable protagonist begins to discover that his stunted growth in the relationship side of his life was more down to his own mother and not necessarily due to his arrested development. Rose Gordon scolded and shamed Charlie whenever he showed any signs of biological sexual development during his infancy. If he became aroused or hinted of any signs of lust toward members of the opposite gender, Rose would scold and belittle him for his thoughts; conditioning him to believe that he was wrong in having such thoughts.

It is also at this point in which we start to see how the "other Charlie" (or should I say the more authentic side to Charlies' personality) deals with his hostility toward Alice, by pushing himself into an intimate relationship with a woman named Fay Lillman.

Fay is something of a wild card of a character. She has little (or next to no) shame in exposing her body to complete strangers, loves to dance into the early hours of the morning and possesses little interest in intellectual stimulation. She almost feels like a mirror image of the Charlie who has grown and developed throughout the duration of this story. It's almost as if the more authentic Charlie from before the operation is trying to fight these newly discovered sexual lusts by forcing the post-op Charlie to immerse himself emotionally with a woman who does not exist within the same mind-set as he.

The love triangle can be at times slightly ambiguous; making it difficult for the reader to comprehend what Charlie is doing to himself during these moments. Why is per-opperation Charlie so hostile toward Alice, yet so welcoming to Fay? Despite Fay's lack of passion for Charlies' line of work, she's still light years apart from the Charlie we understand at the start of this story. But amongst all the questions as to why pre-Charlie is battling against post-Charlies' happiness, it is possible to perceive the actions that both versions of Charlie are taking as a simultaneous choice. Charlie has not had the chance to blossom and develop sexually like most humans do. At 32 years of age, he has not even been able to learn from experiences which many encounter during their adolescent years.

The love triangle which Charlie assembles throughout the duration of this narrative could quite easily be understood as the bi-product of a man who's trying to react to a series of emotions and events which are staggeringly alien to him. He's like a mouse trying to find its way through a maze.

Which brings us on to Algernon himself. Algernon is mostly used as a symbol throughout the book. His presence is mainly there to forshadow the events which will one day take over Charlies' life. Seeing as Algernon's lifespan if dramatically shorter than a humans, plus seeing as the mouse was subjected to the intelligence experiment far sooner than Charlie; all the situations occurring in this helpless rodent will inevitably happen to our protagonist.

Yet Algernon is more than just a foreshadowing of things to come for dear old Charlie. He's also a tool to help give the narrative of this story a center. Despite the changes which take place in Charlie, and despite where he goes, Algernon remains as the unchanging link throughout it all. Charlies' relationship with this pet mouse is the one relationship which remains the same from start to finish (minus one of the earlier report progress logs at the start; which has pre-op Charlie expressing great frustration due to the mouses' staggering intellect). Regardless of what Charlie discovers about his past, who he falls in love with, and whichever direction his IQ travels in, his caring nature toward Algernon never sways. Even after Algernon is dead and Charlies' intellect ceases to be, his last request is for flowers to be placed on Algernon's grave.

Algernon is the unchanging center of this narrative. As a matter of fact, he is a down-sized replica of the narrative itself, which drifts through the mother-narrative; foreshadowing events and granting Charlie one ability that reassures the readers that both post and pre surgery Charlie are of one of the same person; the ability to love and care for something that has no real knowledge as to what's going on around it.

Not many people on this planet will ever know what it feels like to have an IQ of 185. Yet despite this fact, Flowers for Algernon is a story which can connect with readers from all kinds of backgrounds.

We all start off in life a naive children who breeze on through our lives without a care in the world. We don't fully understand the true horrors and struggles that the universe likes to throw up, and most of us sail through our younger years in a blissful state of ignorance. Yet as we grow older, our intellect increases and the sheet of ignorance is lifted from our eyes sooner or later.

At one point or another, we have all felt the same feelings of anger and disappointment which Charlie feels throughout this book. We've all been there. We've all started to connect the dots and realized that everything we thought we knew was nothing more than a lie which concealed the true depths of this reality.

Flowers for Algernon is a story of a man who was allowed to keep his childhood for life; only to briefly have a taste of what it feels like on the other side of the intellectual spectrum. Which of the two mental is the superior one is debatable, yet one thing is for certain in this story; human behavior is complex, sticky and often taken for granted by many.

The character of Charlie Gordon was allowed to witness both the internal and external complexities of humanity from both sides of the pond. Whether this was a blessing or a curse remains a mystery. And as one of the messages which lies behind the story makes very much clear, no matter how dig you deep, you will never reach total understanding of any given subject, particularly the intricacies of human behavior.

Doctor Who New Series 1.13 – 'The Parting of the Ways'

Plot - In a bid to rescue Rose, the Doctor sends her back to her own timeline; choosing to deal with the invading Dalek fleet by sacrificing both his and the Earth's existence. Any remaining hope now rests behind the meaning of the 'Bad Wolf' enigma.

For the preceding twelve episodes, Russell T Davies and the rest of his production chums have set out to create something which can work in more than one way. First off, the 2005 revival of Doctor Who acts as a thirteen part pilot; testing whether the show is able to hold ground among 21^st century culture. Second of all, it acts as a taster series; giving its audience an idea of what Doctor Who could be like if only it was accepted within contemporary society.

Therefore, the show has been given a distinct shape to its overall structure. Even though the creative force behind this era of the show had no intention of wrapping things up after parting of the ways; there’s almost a feeling that the show could have quite easily called it a day here and everything would have still all worked as a thirteen part mini-series. Yes, we end the episode with David Tennant grinning like a mad puppy as he talks about Barcelona, but this still where the plug could have still been pulled if all went south.

How the show achieves this shape is by building up the scale and force of the series as it marches forth. When the series begun with Rose, it was a speedy romp which showed an average London girl falling out her world and into the madness of the Doctor’s reality.

As the episodes continued to air, Rose slowly fell further and further away from the rules of the reality which she initially spent 19-years living in. By episode five, she had returned to her world; only to discover that the Doctor’s realm of aliens and monsters had taken over what she thought she knew. No longer could she go back to her normal day to day life. Aliens had taken control of downing street, spaceships crashed into Big Ben and shop window dummies could bring cities to a standstill.

By episode six, Rose was a fulltime companion. She had official become a part of the Doctor’s universe; granting her the invitation to meet yet another icon from this strange and vast universe. After her encounter with the Dalek, Rose was accustomed to the rules and functions of Doctor Who. So much so, in fact ,that she even started to attempt to break such rules; resulting in her faux pas in Father’s Day.

Yet now, after the gradual build up from soap opera reality to the world of the science fiction, the series goes all out for its final episode. The series has gradually been building up to what it is meant to be for some time now. After twelve long weeks of genre clashing, rule bending and world falling; viewers suddenly find themselves watching what can be described as the 21st century's most Doctor Who episode to date. There’s no more genre clashing here; it’s the Daleks invading Doctor Who.

One of the most interesting aspects to this episode, is its tendency to show things which everyone had thought they’d seen the Daleks do, but had in actual fact hadn't. Take the Dalek inside the TARDIS for example. Never before had the show depicted an onscreen Dalek inside the console room. Furthermore, the series had never once managed to show an entire fleet of Dalek ships on the scale which this episode manages to achieve. Such a fact is more likely down to the fact that the previous show never had the liberty to throw CGI at the screen whenever it needed some visual assistance, but nonetheless, here is the program doing something which we were convinced we’d seen the show do on screen, but had actually only been a witness to in our own minds.

A potential answer to this might be down to Russell T Davies’ love of comic books. One thing which is clear about the Davies era of the show is it’s obsessive attitude toward the visual tone of each series. Every episode looks like its own mini-movie; possessing their own visual styles and cinematic qualities. Davies even use to hold tone meetings for each episode; where he’d bring all the separate departments together and push them into working toward meeting a set goal with each of the episodes which were set to be filmed.

Davies’ adoration of comic books, topped with his fondness to keep one eye on the visual qualities whilst writing his scripts, could very well explain why this episode possessed the aesthetic qualities which it has. The episode looks similar to one of the classic Doctor Who and the Dalek comics; in which huge armies of Dalek fleets were splashed across the various pages. Such comics also made heavy use of the Dalek emperor; who makes an onscreen return here for the first time in four decades.

And the episode does look like these comics. It’s audaciously colourful (well...bronze), atmospheric, drools over the emperor Dalek at every opportunity and embraces its liberty to finally put as many Daleks as it likes on our screens. The Doctor Who comics (and novels for that matter) were once the only way in which anyone could depict vast swarms of Daleks on screen. With the 21^st century’s uprising of computer aided technology, however, this is a liberation which the mother series can now also embrace.

Much as is the case with the current Moffat era (which we’ll get on to in due course) the Davies period of the show possesses a number of tropes which pop up throughout the duration of his time as head writer. Series one played out these tropes in a much more watered down manner than the following three series ended up doing, yet nonetheless, they are still very much in play here.

Firstly, there’s the idea of the Doctor being responsible for his own destruction. In this situation, the Doctor will be responsible for a history-altering event which will create a vacuum within the timelines. Sooner or later, some evil enemy will fill up that vacuum and inevitably be responsible for that said Doctor's regeneration. Tennent’s Doctor ends up sowing the seeds of his own regeneration in the very next episode, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

The Ninth Doctor is also responsible for creating a vacuum which will lead to his regeneration; creating this said vacuum all the way back in The Long Game. As I mentioned back when talking about that episode, the Doctor’s actions during that story resulted in the news networks of planet earth completely shutting down. Due to the malnourishment of information, mankind stopped overnight. This gave the Daleks a chance to step in and build up their army by luring in and converting a planet of information starved and helpless humans.

The Doctor was the catalyst which helped to spark the events of this story into existence; therefore being responsible for the series of events which lead up the Bad Wolf resolution, therefore inadvertently forcing him to regenerate into his tenth body.

The second trope which pops its head above the water during The Parting of the Ways is the idea that the Doctor needs a companion in order to stabilise the narrative of the show. Without such a character to stand by his side, the Doctor will either make huge errors or slowly loose grip of his morals.

Early on in the episode, the Doctor chooses to send Rose back to her own timeline; saving her from the monstrosities of the Dalek invasion of 200,100. As Rose tries to deal with the situation of accepting her permanent return to present day Britain, the narrative occasionally jumps back to the heart of the narrative which takes place on Satellite five. Without Rose, it’s apparent that the plans and actions of the Doctor are falling to pieces. People are mercilessly gunned down, Lynda is murdered, Jack falls victim to a Dalek ray gun and the Doctor decides to drop all of his morals and fry the entire earth population in order to bring down the Dalek fleet.

From the collapse of events, one thing is clear; the Doctor needs someone by his side. Without the likes of Rose Tyler; the Doctor is unable to be the hero figure that he's so commonly associated with. He becomes a victim of the surrounding story. People die, moral becomes lost within the chaos, and ultimately, the Doctor loses.

And lose he bloody well does. All becomes lost. Jack and Lynda are dead, the Doctor’s defenders have all been gunned down in cold blood, the Doctor is willing to fry the minds of billions of helpless humans to stop the Daleks surrounding him. And he gives up. He sticks his hands in the air and admits that he can’t do it. The Daleks have won. The Doctor can’t save the day this time.

Meanwhile, back in 2006, the narrative is making a third trope apparent. Not only is the Doctor useless without his companion, but his companion is unable to revert back to her previous life. Rose has spent nearly thirteen episodes now, spiralling down a rabbit hole of madness. She’s learned methods in order to cope with the chaos of the Doctor’s universe. She’s fallen out of time for twelve months, broken the [forever changing] rules of the narrative and learned to participate in obstacles which no man or women could ever dream of facing. She’s no longer a member of the soap-opera genre; she’s a Doctor Who character in many ways.

This is how the episode works. Everything is in a state of unbalance. The ex-soap opera character is lost in a world of normality, whilst the day-saving hero is unable to function without someone to prod him in the right direction. Separated across time, the story of Doctor Who caves in on itself.

But before the episode sees itself out, all is restored in the narrative. In fact, things are restored in quite a literal sense, because Rose not only manages to return to the future, but she also looks into the time vortex; essentially becoming a temporary demi-god who can disintegrate Daleks, resurrect Jack, willingly spread the words Bad Wolf through time and space (well that’s that mystery solved then) and put everything back to [almost] the way it all was.

This is an issue which will only get worse as each series finally comes to pass during the Davies era. Because you see, the thing is, Davies has some staggeringly strong points, but at the same time he has his weaknesses (but then who doesn’t?).

Firstly, Davies is one of the most television-savvy producers in the UK. Not only does he know the workings of many television shows which have been released during the past 20 years, but he’s also a master at efficiently bringing together different departments in order to execute the shows he works for. This is why Davies was able to act as the headwriter/executive producer of Doctor Who, micromanage a full series of Torchwood and commission and entire series of The Sarah Jane Adventures all at pretty much the same time; whilst current head writer Steven Moffat struggles to get more than eight episodes of Doctor Who on our goggle-boxes each year.

Secondly, Davies is incredible when it comes to characters. He’s able to take ordinary people and make them extraordinary. This is a technique which shines in Doctor Who; as Davies takes convention soap-opera characters and builds them up into science fiction heroes. It works, it’s wonderful and it adds an element to Doctor Who which the classic series seemed to lack considerably.

Davies creates characters who are so wonderful to watch that it helps to make the show engaging and emotionally stimulating. You genuinely care about the outcome of these people. If a character is in mortal danger, then it can at times be genuinely terrifying to experience.

His weakness, on the other hand, is his tendency to try and go as epic as possible with his stories (particularly series finals), only to go ahead and write himself into a corner. Like many of his later series finals, The Parting of the Ways builds and builds and builds until a point where the viewer simply doesn't know how on earth the Doctor is going to get out of the situation he’s trapped within.

The crux of the issue here is, that Davies doesn't seem to know either. Which is why he often ends up going for the dreaded reset button; having Rose sweep in and save the day with her newly obtained magical TARDIS powers.

Except it does sort of work here. Ok, it’s still a slight cop out when it comes to saving the Doctor from certain death, but it does still result in the Doctor's death. As he willingly absorbs the time vortex from Rose's mind; he is forced to save his existence via regeneration. The only problems which can stem from such a moment however, is if the rules for that set piece magically spring out of thin air . Usually, if you want an important plot point to come along and change the direction of the story, it is usually effective to feed it into the narrative prior to that particular significant moment.

This is why the whole super-Rose things sort of works here. Because it turns out that she’s the Bad Wolf. The phrase has been scattered through time in order to lead her back there. It’s a nice little paradox arc in which Rose shapes her own destiny with two words. Ok, so it’s not great, and it does flag up another problem about Davies, in which his story arcs are just random phrases uttered once every few episodes (he might as well have used the words ‘Fried Chicken’ and the arc would have still worked in more or less the same way. Only less enigmatic).

But the rules regarding the idea that the time vortex will burn Rose's brain if he doesn't take the bullet for her - so to speak - just feels a little out of the blue. We did indeed see the heart of the TARDIS during Boom Town – when Margaret Slitheen stared into it and requested that she be given a second chance at life – yet the fact that it turned up at the ass end of episode eleven gives off the skeptical impression that it was retrofitted in for the sake of the final minutes of episode thirteen.

The whole ‘looking into the heart of the TARDIS’ scene feels quite lazy. It’s there to help Davies wrap up all the conclusions which he needs to arrive at before the credits begin to role. He needs to explain the Bad Wolf; check. He needs to kill off all the Daleks; check. He needs to bring captain Jack back so that he can star in his own little spin off; check. He needs to force Christopher Eccleston to regenerate into David Tennent; check.

Yet like I say, this type of ending does sort of work here. But there’s a reason behind this. Firstly, at this stage of the story, it seriously doesn't matter about the mechanics of how this part of the episode plays out. Seriously, unless you’re dissecting The Parting of the Ways for academic purposes, or because you’re an overly enthusiastic fan, this part of the story is all about the emotion. Viewers don’t give a shit about the reset button. They know that they’re moments away from saying good by to Doctor no. nine and hello to no. ten. This is a huge moment in which a new generation are going to see how the series executes one of the show’s most iconic and important transitions. The Doctor is going to regenerate and that’s all the audience really cares about at this stage.

Which is just what happens. After a heartfelt farewell from the ninth Doctor, a beam of light blasts from his limbs and head; revealing a completely new man in his place. After thirteen episodes; the story of the ninth Doctor is over and ten is about to begin his [considerably longer] on screen journey.

Series one turned out to be nothing short of a cultural success. When the show begun back in March 2005, no one knew whether this revitalisation would really take off. This was simply a test to see whether or not this show could still work. It died in 1989 and managed to keep itself on life support with a series of novels, audio plays and a poorly thought out TV movie. The idea of it becoming a part of the mainstream conscious once again was difficult for some to comprehend.

Such nerves held by the creative team goes a long way in explaining the overall tone of this series. It’s clearly a well-designed and expensive show. The visuals were top notch for their time, the cast were carefully chosen and the quality of each story was impressively executed. Just by looking at an episode, one was able to see that this was a well-crafted piece of work, in which great levels of love and effort were put into the making of it. Yet it still felt a little insecure about itself.

The show did weird and peculiar things, but it still stepped lightly as it did. Furthermore, the choice of Eccleston assisted in providing the show with at least some level of gravitas. Eccleston was a well respected actor who’d starred in a number of Hollywood roles. When things go too weird, the knowledge that Eccleston was the figure at the centre of that weirdness grounded these situations considerably.

Likewise, the show did not feel comfortable in referencing the old series in any way shape or form. To avoid any confusion, Davies and co decided it best to continue the story of the Doctor by not looking back. It was officially announced as a direct continuation of the classic series; but never once did they feel it necessary to explicitly reference the stories or characters of previous eras.

In conclusion, Doctor Who in 2005 was big, bold yet still somewhat shy. It was a bit like one of the world's most beautiful drag queens on her first night out in public. The show didn't know what it could get away with just yet. Nor did it feel content enough to start looking back on its own mythology. It had two purposes to its existence. It wanted to show the world what Doctor Who could be like in the 21^st century and it aspired to get wanting it again.

Of course we all now know that the show succeeded in doing this on a phenomenal level. The program is now the center of British culture and has even managed to land on American soil. The show is colossal and it’s very much aware of its own success. As the years go on, Doctor Who will grow to become staggeringly more confident in what it can do; it will happily throw all kinds of references to its own history; and it will celebrate its own tendency to be weird and different from anything else that exists in popular culture.

From series two onward, Doctor Who will become a colourful and confident crown jewel for the BBC. Yet here, we have something slightly different. The potential is all there, the show just needs a bit more time before it can audaciously come forth and execute such audacity.

Overall, series one is bloody charming in its ambitions. It’s a brave run of episodes; desperate to be loved by the people whom its made for. The fact that it was loved makes this series all the more delightful to look back upon. 

Doctor Who New Series 1.12 – 'Bad Wolf'

Plot – It's the year 200,100. The Doctor, Rose and Jack awaken to find themselves trapped inside a series of deadly games which have been inspired by early 21^st century television shows. Something sinister is working behind the back drop of humanity, which all falls back upon one word; Bad Wolf.

Finally, we're here. After eleven 45 minute mini-movies and the reinvention of a British cultural icon, the final story in this new series airs its penultimate episode. Regardless of 2005 Doctor Who being the return of a show which lay within the shadows of mainstream culture for over a decade, the first series still managed to rack up a considerably large fan base during its run. A fan base who would, by their very nature, follow the show religiously and read into the text with fastidious eyes. Furthermore, the series was going out in an era where DVD box sets were all the rage. Russell T Davies even mentions in the introduction leaflet to the series one box set, that if the show failed to make a come back, then at least he would have the DVD to keep him company.

The obvious predictability of a fan base with attention to detail, topped with a DVD box set which would warrant repeat viewings of all the episodes, Davies and co decided to install an overrunning story arc into the first series. This was done with two words; Bad Wolf.

From my understanding, this was initially an experiment during the early planning stages. Davies would sneakily plonk the word into numerous episodes and see whether any of the production team noticed these cheeky little Easter eggs knocking about the place. Whatever the original reason, it was eventually decided that these two arbitrary words would take on a larger meaning within the overall narrative of the series. Naturally, viewers caught on to the words, and as soon as episode twelve's title was revealed to be 'Bad Wolf', well the fan boards starting filling up to the eyeballs with theories.

The words laced throughout the series built up an aroma of curiosity around this episode. Seeing as it was named after the biggest Easter egg which this series had to offer, people were expecting to get 45 minutes of answers and revelations which would shed a heck of a lot of light on its enigmatic presence.

Which is what makes the opening moments so interesting in my opinion. The series starts by giving us a recap of one of the most forgettable episodes of the series; The Long Game. Seeing as the story for this episode was quite weak, such a recap doesn't take long at all, and after a couple of 'previously' shots, even a Doctor Who virgin would have pretty much gotten the gist of that story.

The flashback to The Long Game already serves to throw the audience off guard; particularly dedicated fans to the series. Yes, ok, so the phrase Bad Wolf did pop up during this episode, but what in the name of Frank Sinatra has this got to do with the overall meaning of the arc? Was there something huge that everyone missed in that episode? What is the significance of that particular story? How's it going to tie in with the final Christopher Eccleston story? These were the sorts of questions which such an opening forced the viewer to muse over. It was unexpected, which made it a rather brilliant move.

Because that's when Doctor Who is always at its best: when it throws you off guard, showing you something which you don't expect. That's one of the many reasons as to why the show has always been such a staggering success. When it first begun, the concept of an elderly gentleman who traveled through time and space threw its audience off their balance. They didn't expect it. It was strange and alien and stuck within their minds. If we go in to Doctor Who and expect something, only to then discover that what we expected was right all along, then the show isn't doing its job properly. When we convince ourselves that an episode is going to go down one route, only to find that stumbling down a different one entirely, well that is when things get bloody well exciting.

And then the show goes and does it all over again; spiraling us down yet another rabbit hole of uncertainty. This is done when the 'previously' sequence cuts to a '100 years later' caption, followed by the Doctor waking up inside a version of the Big Brother house.

Initially, the use of Big Brother comes across as highly irregular, as well as slightly ridiculous. At times, it can be troublesome to pin point what exactly Doctor Who is. And to be fair, there's probably no such  thing as a stone cold definition to this show. It's a billion and one different things which has been forever changing and  reshaping itself for 50 years now. A parody of contemporary mainstream television, however, is about as far from an overall definition to Doctor Who as one could possibly get. 

As you allow for the weirdness in this choice of direction to take its course, however, it begins to reveal something rather interesting about the episode in question. The decision to throw Big Brother into the story succeeds in carrying out yet another characteristic which Doctor Who has always been rather brilliant at executing: the ability to mesh highly dissimilar ideas together.

In the past, the hybridization of elements has often been carried by colliding multiple genres into one another. During the Philip Hinchcliffe era of the series, this was done by blending multiple film plots into the narrative of Doctor Who. Here, however, the series has taken a string of icon mainstream programs – including itself – and slammed them into one another; creating an peculiar and arguably unique idea out of the resulting debris.

The strangeness and newness of the episode is pushed even further into the foreground, as the story decides to milk this program hybridizing by also throwing a futuristic version of The Weakest Link and What Not to Wear into the mix.

The What Not to Wear scenes are a bit pointless in all honesty. As was the case during the previous episode, Captain Jack Harkness is still pretty much left with little to do in this here. The back story to his character, which was flagged up briefly during the Steven Moffat two-parter is by now completely forgotten; whilst the enigmatic con-man persona is nothing more than a vague memory. The charm and charisma is still very much there, yet that's about all there is to him. Jack has gone from the mysterious secondary companion to the flirtatious-yet-empty TARDIS stowaway in less than two episodes.

Essentially, the What Not to Wear sequences - in which Jack tries on some different outfits, gets stripped down to his bare flesh, is threatened by an android who wants to chainsaw his face off and conceals a weapon in a rather revealing area – is pretty much written into this episode to provide as a space for Jack's character to play in whilst the Doctor and Rose get on with the larger story at hand. The Doctor's entrapment in the Big Brother house results in him pushing to find out what the heck's going on. Rose's failure to win the Weakest link results in the Doctor discovering the ultimate question behind the games. Jack's scenes, on the other hand, only serve to provide him with a weapon which doesn't get a chance to be fired until the following episode.

In regards to The Weakest Link, however. Davis uses the rules of this program's structure in order to create an intriguing new obstacle for Rose to overcome. Here, she's thrust into a deadly re-imagining of the show where she must win the game in order to survive. This is a rather fun and interesting idea. Instead of giving Rose a standard bog eyed monster to leg it from, she's instead imprisoned inside a culturally recognized show from her own timeline.

Not only is the collision of Doctor Who and The Weakest Link so marvelously bizarre, but the character of Rose is completely aware of the insanity contained within this idea. Soon after she realizes that she's trapped inside a futuristic version of the Anne Robinson television series (with an actual robot Anne Robinson), she begins to play along; playfully attempting to answer questions revolving around events which occurred long after her own time line and joyously shouting the answers to questions which loosely relate to adventures which she's previously had with the Doctor (there's also the first mention of the word Torchwood during these scenes; which will become Series 2's equivalent to the Bad Wolf phrase).

Rose's willingness to play along with the game reminds me of a theory which the eight Doctor's companion - Sam - comes up with during the Lawrence Miles Novel; Alien Bodies. Sam believes that travelling with the Doctor is a bit like trying to continue functioning whilst paralytic drunk. Suddenly the way the world works different to how it did prior to intoxication. In order to carry on functioning, you have to learn to adapt to the new rules and obstacles that this strange new reality provides you with. The willingness to co-operate with the mad world of extreme intoxication is much like travelling with the Doctor. Suddenly, the rules you understood yesterday no longer apply, so the only way to deal with the sheer oddness of his life is to just go along with the madness and make up a new set of laws to abide by.

This is essentially what Rose is doing here. By now she's been apart of the narrative of Doctor Who for long enough to recognize that when fresh and spontaneous events spring out from nowhere, she has no other choice but to just go along with the whole thing.

Naturally, when Rose discovers that her life will be terminated if she loses, the tone switches instantaneously. By this point, she's aware of the danger which her present situation presents. This isn't just another bonkers moment, but a monster waiting to incinerate her from existence if she's unable to apply herself to the game at hand.

And inevitably, she loses. Much like in World War Three, Davies teases the audience with the possibility of killing off one of the main characters. Only this time, he actually provides us with the on screen death of that said character.

Once again, as was the case in World War Three, logic makes us aware that Rose isn't going to die. It is pretty much clear by this point that the death of Rose Tyler is not the direction in which this show is headed in. The audience knows this by now. They've figured out the rules of this particular thirteen-episode run. Yes, the rules could change later on down the line, but as it currently stands, the companion isn't going to bite the dust. But with all the program collisions which have been taking place during this episode, the show's in a state of strangeness and uncertainty. The introduction of Big Brother and The Weakest Link have revealed just how easy it is for this show's narrative to unravel itself. It can reinvent itself and steal from different shows at will. Nothing stays the same and the rules have no fixed limits. Plus, they did kind of show Rose's disintegration on-screen, which further suggests the fragility to a companion's mortality.

What further enhances the idea of the present companion dying is the fact that the Doctor spends a large portion of this episode running around with a woman who possesses a number of tropes which qualifies her for the role of a potential future companion. Lynda Moss is young, reasonably bright and keen to spend time with the Doctor. Not only does she tick a number of the boxes for companion status, but the Doctor also fancies the idea of having her on board the TARDIS too.

Naturally, the setting up of Lynda as a future companion is just one big fat lie. Not only is she callously murdered in the following episode, but there's also a nugget of information – buried under the surface of Davies' script – which foreshadows her inevitable failure to become a future companion. “You're too nice” declares the Doctor, “From what I've seen of your world, do you think anyone's going to vote for nice?”

Of course, the Doctor is referring to the rules of Big Brother here. The general public don't vote for 'nice' people to win such shows. Yet despite this being a rule of reality Television, remember that Doctor Who is currently in a position where the reality television format has been blended into its own narrative. The rules of Big Brother's format could quite easily apply in this reality for a temporary period; lingering ever so slightly into the following episode in time for Lynda's departure.

So yes, Lynda dies and Rose is fine. Rose was not killed when she was zapped by the Anne Droid, but was  teleported over to a Dalek fleet which has been hiding on the fringes of Earth's solar system for a considerable amount of time.

That's right, it turns out the Daleks are behind the whole thing. There's certainly some comparison here to the John Pertwee story The Frontiers in Space. For those who may not know, The Frontiers in Space was a third Doctor story in which the Master was allegedly hypnotizing two advanced civilizations (the Humans and the Draconians) into waging a war with one another. The major twist of this story occurs when it transpires that the Daleks were indeed the real menaces behind such a manipulative scheme.

Such a plot twist could have worked pretty well here. The idea that a mysterious force is making the human race participate in brutal reenactments of 21st century game shows, only to have that force turn out to be a Dalek fleet is an idea which could have played out in two distinct ways. It could have been a surprising plot twist for viewers who were unfamiliar with the initial Pertwee story, whilst simultaneously being a pleasant hat tipping (or rip off) for old school fans.

It could have worked like this, except they decided to go and spoil the plot twist during the very end of the previous episode. The 'next time' trailer - which played before the end credits of Boom Town - revealed the Daleks in its final shot; pretty much giving away the game before Bad Wolf even had a chance to air.

Which really is a pain in the neck, because this episode goes out of its way, at times, to gradually build up the climactic plot twist. It hints casually that the Daleks may be involved (one example being a camera reflection loosely resembling the outline of a Dalek shell) as well as throwing in all kinds of red herrings along the way.

Yet the whole build up was ruined a week earlier by that stupid next time trailer. This is not the first time that the next time trailer has diminished the impact of a future episode. Aliens of London also had the same problem. After that episode's cliffhanger placed the audience in a state of concern for the well being of the show's characters, the next time trailer scuttled along and pretty much assured us all that the Doctor and co were going to be just fine and dandy in the following story.

The only time they managed to get the next time trailer right during this series was at the end of The Empty Child, where they chose to wait until the end credits had finished playing before showing the following episode's clip.

But to be fair, this isn't actually a fault of the text in and of itself. The episode holds out well on its own. I like Bad Wolf, I really do. The problem here is the fault of external texts spoiling the core text. Both the next time trailer and Davies' decision to whore out the Daleks as a way of promoting the series final were the reason behind this blunder. If you came to the episode without being a witness to these two facts, however, then I'm sure the twist would have worked rather nicely for you.

Regardless of my overall satisfaction with this episode, however, there's still one element of disappointment to the whole experience. I'm specifically making reference to the promise of the Bad Wolf story arc. Because there really are no answers in this episode. Ok, so I'm unnecessarily throwing my toys out of the pram here - as they do indeed answer this question in the following episode - yet there's still an issue with the fact that they chose to name the episode after this arc without bothering to actually address it properly.

The words Bad Wolf pop up once in this episode, the Doctor gets a bit suspicious about it's persistence, only to then brush it off his shoulder and getting on with the main story behind this episode. The fact that they named the entire episode Bad Wolf, only to go and mention it so briefly, is a bit of a pain in the backside. It almost feels cheeky; as if they just named it Bad Wolf as a shameless ploy to get bums in their seats.

Or maybe I'm just nitpicking. Who cares. The episode was good. Furthermore, the next time trailer at the back end of this one is so thrilling it pretty much makes up for last time's blunder. 

Philip Sandifer

When it came to sitting down and watching the classic era of Doctor Who, I experienced great difficulty in doing so. There were a number of reasons for this. Firstly, there was the fact that a majority of the stories were hugely dated. I don't mean this in the sense that I thought the special effects looked a bit pants. All special effects date with time and I had long grown accustomed to visuals which didn't match today's state-of-the-art standards. No, what I mean by this is the overall narratives and story execution felt considerably different to what I had become use to. The stories of the classic era were a lot slower in their pace than the post-2005 revival and often spanned between 4-7 episodes to play out (during the first six seasons of the show, some stories streched even further than this number). No matter how hard I tried, my attention span just wasn't fit enough to keep up with such narrative lengths.

The second problem I suffered when trying to catch up with the prior four decades of the show which I had learned to love was just how staggeringly different the whole experience was. In 2005, Doctor Who wasn't yet the confident extravaganza that it would soon become, but it certainly felt as though it knew what it was doing. By the time David Tennant came along, it was so sure of itself that I found it difficult to find another program which was this confident and in control of its own destiny. When you look back on the episodes which aired in 1963, the show is nothing like the brash spectacle that it would one day become.  It was almost impossible to look at the TARDIS control room and honestly believe that the frail elderly gentlemen at the console was the same leather jacketed alien who ran off in time and space with that young blond girl who once had a hit single called "Honey to the B". Then when the Daleks popped up, were we really suppose to believe that the bullet melting beast in Van Statton's basement was really a member of those wobbly pepper pots who couldn't even move from their own base in the original Terry Nation story? None of it made any sense to my none-cultured mind.

I made eight attempts at watching classic Doctor Who before giving up. It just didn't stimulate my mind in the way that the new series was able to. I never became excited or engaged in what was going on in any of it. But then Philip Sandifer fell into my life, and suddenly, I started to get it.

So, for those who don't know, Philip Sandifer is an writer who graduated with a PHD in English. Like many in today's economic climate, Sandifer struggled to find work with his admirable qualifications. He now makes a living by producing a series of Essays on his blog; originally titled TARDIS Eruditorum (his blog also contains a series of essays titled The Last War in Albion which is an intriguing and exceptionally detailed exploration of the British Comic Industry; focusing particularly on the "magical war between Alan Moore and Grant Morrison").

TARDIS Eruditorum is a continuing critical history of Doctor Who from the 1963 series, all the way up to present day (though it will be ending with Matt Smith's departure on the 25th December 2013). Not only does Sandifer explore the historical and cultural phenomenon of every Doctor Who story in their own self contained essays, but he also focuses on a colossal number of the spin off novels, television series and audio plays which have been released alongside and in between the mother show.

TARDIS Eruditorum furthermore makes heavy reference to the practice of psychochronography; the study of physical spaces and their impact on personal, social and cultural spaces. The concept of psychochronography is based - if my understanding is correct - on the idea that individuals and societies possess an internal landscape which is known as ideaspace. This ideaspace is built up, both personally and communally, based on the memories of fictional narratives which we've consumed over the years. With the assistance of psychochronography, we can meander through this internal ideaspace, exploring the memories of both our personal lives and those which have occurred publicly within the time periods in which they were released in.

I've talked about the idea of memories and film/television experiences intertwining and impacting the memories of one another on this blog before (though I've yet to comment on how they've impacted the larger aspects of the public sphere) and I'm almost certain that all these ideas have stemmed from Sandifer's writings. Which is one of the reasons why I felt the need to write up a brief post on him here. Because I have noticed that an awful lot of the ideas which crop up in the content that I've produced thus far have indirectly been shaped by Mr Sandifer's own work.


But the fact that I've accidentally pinched a few concepts from Sandifer' blog is not the only reason why I have written about him. I'm also writing this as I am keen to inform others who may not yet have come across this person's work. Because it is the very reason why I managed to finally get into the classic era of Doctor Who; a fact that I am hugely grateful for.

As mentioned, I had experienced many failed attempts to finally jump on board and appreciate what the 1963-1989 series was doing, and it was thanks to TARDIS Eruditorum that I was finally able to overcome this hurdle. The subjects and ideas which Sandifer raises in each essay assists in opening up a doorway in my mind which allows me to see and understand the classic era in a way which I would never have been able to do with my own thought process. Like all great studies of film and television, he is able to make you see content in new and exciting ways. His writings up on the new series also helps me to view the show that I learned to love in a unique and fresh way; warranting each and every episode a further viewing.

I'm still learning about the classic and wilderness era of Doctor Who. The size and complexity of the series is so vast in scale that I doubt I'm even half way toward knowing all that I will be content in knowing with regard to this show. Much like the hugely ambitious About Time series by Lawrence Miles and Tat Wood, this blog is one of the most stimulating and entertaining ways of brushing up on the history of this series.

When I finally start putting more effort into my film/television blog, I am planning on focusing more on detailed episode-by-episode explorations of different television series which I have learned to love over my lifetime. I will start up by attempting discuss all the episodes of the post-2005 series and then hope to move on to look at the series from 1963, right on through into the wilderness years. If I do stick to my promise, then I will have TARDIS Eruditorum to thank for all of this (though I do plan on trying to come up with new ideas; as opposed to just shamelessly ripping off what another blogger has already had to say on the show).

TARDIS Eruditorum is a riveting read which I cannot give enough praise toward. Furthermore, if you like the blog, then I highly recommend popping over to Amazon to purchase the TARDIS Euriditorum ebooks. Hopefully you'll find them as beautiful as I did.

Fear and Inspiration: the Peculiar Blend of a Childhood Film Experience

E.T. The Extra Terrestrial is a film which had a truly fascinating affect on my psychology as a young child. It kindled two very opposing emotions within my mind which seldom stem from a single experience. On the one hand, E.T. traumatized me. That’s not even an exaggeration. I could have been no older than five years old when I first saw the 1982 Steven Spielberg classic and the whole experience had some seriously horrendous effects on the proceeding years. The opening shot, where the camera pans down on a set of evergreen trees, only to instantaneously jump to a shot of a dark alien ship surrounded small aliens was a horrible sight for my infant eyes. Even the gloomy score by John Williams which accompanies the shot of the aliens who stalk the forest was too much for my young mind to take. I couldn’t stand it. Seriously, it was one of those moments where I realised that I was unable to un-see that which I had just seen. Those haunting images were berried within my mind forever and there was nothing I could do about them.

Then there was E.T. himself. Even to this very day, if I unexpectedly see a photograph of that tubby little fella, I jump straight out of my skin. This is quite odd, as I no longer have a fear of this particular fictional creation. In fact, I think he’s quite a cute little chappy. But whenever a shot of him pops up in front of me, my emotions will sometimes whisk me back to a time where that face caused great night terrors for me. 

People laugh these days when I admit of my fear toward Spielberg’s science fiction classic. They can’t understand why I was so frightened of this little splodge of an alien, but when I say the film had traumatising effects on my day-to-day life, I really do mean it. I clearly remember that every time I saw an evergreen tree at night, I would begin to tremble uncontrollably; I simply refused to go upstairs on my own; I hated one of my cat’s meows because it loosely resembled E.T’s scream and one time, when I was on holiday in Greece, I ran from my parents because I saw a dustbin that look a little bit like his head. 

There are even behaviour patterns that still exist today. Two examples which I can think of off the top of my head is the fact that I have to sleep with a light on and that I cannot keep the curtains open as soon as it grows dark. These habits occurred straight after I first saw this film. I was convinced that if I turned my light off when I went to bed, then E.T. would light up the room with that glowing red heart of his. As for the window, well I fooled myself into believing that if I left the curtains open after dark then it would allow E.T. to scare the living shit out of me by pressing his squidgy head against my window and screaming uncontrollably at me. 

Fear and trauma are not the only effects that this film had one me as a child however, as the film also helped to inject a sense of wonder into my mind. It’s very bizarre to think that the very same film caused me both horrific nightmares and wonderful dreams at the very same time, but it honestly did. The film was a magical story about a young boy who managed to find friendship in the most unlikely of places. 

Even at the age of five, I was a pretty darn lonely child. I didn’t have many friends at school and I was in desperate need of someone to spend my time with. Isolation played a big part in the earlier parts of my life. I had loving parents, but they weren’t enough. I wanted friendship, but simply couldn't find it. I was an odd kid, and the other children in the playground were not taken by such a character trait. 

Before watching E.T. I use to fantasize about meeting a robot who I would run off into the country side with. It was a bit of a weird fantasy, but it was there, nonetheless. I didn’t like anyone at school, so the idea of an android friend seemed oddly appealing to me (also, I remember seeing an advert on television about a little girl who ran off with a robot. I think she ventured off into the sea with it or something. Anyway, if anyone knows about that advert then please help me find it. Seriously, I’m convinced that I made it up in my head, but I wont be happy with until I know for sure!).

Eventually I watched E.T. and amongst all the horrors and scares of that long necked creature, I managed to relate to the film’s protagonist. Elliot, like me, was alone and in need of a friend. He was a kid who was locked off from his family. He didn’t get on with his siblings, his mother failed to understand him and his father had ran off to Mexico. None of this happened to me, but I still felt locked off from the world as a young infant, so I forced myself into emphasizing with Elliot.

As always, Spielberg hams up the fantasy angle of this film very much so, making the whole story appear as though it is something of a dream. Everything is beautiful, romantic and down right lovely. Spielberg’s fantastical aesthetics, intertwined with my overly nostalgic remembrance of this story creates a fond memory of a time where I found friendship through a work of pure fiction. 

It was a lovely, fantastical tale of friendship which warmed my heart and then broke it by having Elliot and E.T depart from one another. It was wonderful, but at the same time, as I have already mentioned, it was downright horrifying. 

Now lets just stop to think about this for one moment. This was a film which gave me night terrors for almost all of my childhood, but was also a film which helped me feel less alone during a majority of that very same childhood. That’s about as nonsensical as a man finding happiness by marrying the person who persistently makes him feel like shit. It just doesn’t make sense, that a film managed to warm my heart and make it jump out of its skin all at the same time. It’s a weird mixture of lovely and nasty; blending into something hugely unique. And unique it bloody well was. 

The hybrid sensation of fear and wonder clashing head on gave the film an enigmatic quality which no other experience has ever brought on in me. E.T. was a right old puzzle of a feature for me back in the mid 1990s, but I’m honestly grateful for having experienced it. It just goes to show how wonderful and complex the human mind really can be. To think that something managed to both scar and support my childhood is an irony which I enjoy having had. It’s a complex irony which brought on a selection of incredibly unique and interesting feelings in me. 

E.T. The Extra Terrestrial is one of those films that will stay with me for a very long time. The impact that the film had on my emotional perception of the world is one which is far too exclusive and infrequent to merely forget about. 

So how do I perceive the film with my now ‘adult’ mind? Well, the experience is pretty much the same as it was for me as a child, minus the whole trauma bit of course. E.T. is no longer my interpretation of the devil. In fact, he’s quite a cuddly little darling as a matter of fact. When I watch those opening scenes, I no longer see a group of savage aliens, but a heard of alien explorers; intrigued by the flora and fauna of our world. When Elliot pulls open a sheet of tall grass to reveal a screaming alien, I don’t see a monster trying to scare me to death, but a frightened little child who's light years from his home. When I see that tiny creature hobbling toward Elliot’s bed in the middle of the night, I don’t see the most terrifying life form in the universe, but a friendly little animal coming to say hello.

As for the wonders of a young boy making friends with a young alien? Well, all those themes are still very much there. They never left me and that’s wonderful. But without the added terror on top of them, it has made the climactic departure of these two creatures even more heart-breaking than I ever remember it being. I can’t help but watch those final moments with my mind of today without a tear coming to one's eye. It really is one of those beautifully tragic moments of cinema. Two friends, who were born stars apart, managed to find one another and enrich both of their lives. It’s beautiful and to see them depart from one another is outrageously sad. 

These days, I often wonder what Elliot and E.T. are up to now (not in real life of course, but in their own fictional reality). Did Elliot manage to find friendship with other humans, or did he become a social recluse after his encounter with an extra terrestrial? Did E.T. ever get to return to earth, or was his family forever traveling from star to star, refusing to return to past worlds? Did Elliot and his siblings ever reconnect with his estranged father, or did he end up loving Mexico far more than his children?

Who knows, but then Spielberg went and made an interesting comment in one of his documentaries for his 2005 film War of the Worlds. This was were Spielberg mentioned that he liked to think that the killer aliens from his version of the film were from a planet that belonged within the same galaxy as E.T’s home world (so not mars then) which pretty much suggests that from his point of view, the events of E.T. happened in the same reality as the events of this version of H.G. Well’s science fiction classic. If that’s the case, then Elliot’s fate probably consisted of him being turned into a ball of heat ray induced ash, along with his mother, his brother, his sister, his estranged father (along with all his Mexican buddies) and all of those other kids who ignored him back at school. As for E.T? Well I take it that his family were on the run from the very same aliens who more than likely tried to fuck their world over too; meaning that they either died out for trying to exist amongst the vacuum of space for prolonged periods of time or were caught up and killed by the same murderous aliens who attempted to wipe out mankind.

Well if that’s the fate of Spielberg’s 1982 classic, then he’s pretty much fucked my childhood over in the way that he managed to fuck up the childhood’s of countless Indian Jones fans back in 2008. The man just doesn’t know when to stop, does he?