I find it really interesting that the historical men like Vincent Van Gogh, Winston Churchill and Richard Nixon portrayed in Moffat Who are always three dimensional and treated respectfully, while the historical women like Elizabeth the First and Nefertiti, are always love sick idiots drooling over the Doctor.
It almost seems like Moffat cannot take women seriously, even if they ruled nations.
sometimes I think back to the interviews Christopher Eccleston did while he was the Doctor and how he talked about how great it was that the series was moving away from the sexism of previous series and then I look at the show now and I just feel so sad
Wait. Not sad. What’s the other thing?
SO someone posted a comment Moffat made about the role of the companions. As this is Moffat, the comment was exceedingly stupid and awful.
Moffat also addressed the trend for the companions usually being young women. He said: “I think the function of a companion is pretty simple. I don’t think that’s very difficult. It’s just a question of who credibly is going to agree to go in the TARDIS? Who’s going to do it? Is it going to be a mother of 15 children? No. Is it going to be someone in their 60s? No. Is there going to be a particular age range? I mean… who’s going to have a crush on the Doctor? You know, come on! It’s more than a format. It’s evolved from good, dramatic reasons.”
This comment spawned a story about how a mother of 15 COULD be a companion.It got big, and continues to grow,so I’m going to make a post of it by itself. It’s a little disjointed, as each addition was prompted by a response, but I think it holds up well enough.
Why couldn’t it be a mother of 15 kids? Imagine, she’s a woman with 15 children in her care, trapped in a loveless relationship, whose dreams and ambitions had to take a back seat due to continual pregnancies. This was never what she wanted. She loves her kids, of course she does, but there’s a part of her that is just screaming to run. She wants out of the monotony, out of the endless piles of laundry, the lunches to pack, the beds to make, the meals to plan. She wants to make a difference somehow.
She has had big dreams of making a difference since she was a little girl. She wanted to shoot for the stars, and write her name on the moon. Instead, she got pregnant at sixteen. She was married at 18. Eventually, everything in her life just became a habit. She stayed married because she didn’t know where else to go. She had and raised her children because that’s what she was told she must do. She put on a smile because she refused to accept that this was all there was.
Then he shows up. He’s extravagant, lively, and full of tales that reminded her of her childhood stories, the ones she wrote while she lay beneath her glow in the dark stars.
He made a difference. He made things better for those around him. He could travel to the end of time and back, and for whatever reason, he held out his hand and asked her to come with him. He wanted to show her those stars she had once held in the palm of her hand. He wanted to take her to hundreds of moons so she could sign her name on each one.
Everything in her told her to stay. She had children, commitments, carpools and dinners. What would the neighbors say when they learned she had left?
All of those thoughts were drowned out by the twinkle in his eye, the extended hand, and the stick he held out towards her.
She didn’t understand it, not at first, but then he smiled, and he demonstrated. With long, flourishing strokes, he signed his name in the dirt. The Doctor. He placed the stick in her hand, and pointed towards the sky. There are plenty of other moons and planets out there, he tells her, all with plenty of space to sign on the invisible dotted line.
With one shaky breath, she took the stick, wrote a quick word beneath his signature, stepped into the TARDIS, and disappeared.
When her husband came outside to see what the noise was, he caught a faint hint of blue, and saw three large words written in the dirt.
The top line said “The Doctor”.
The bottom line, written in his wife’s handwriting, said one thing. “Goodbye”.
I like to think that every once in a while, when the moon is full and the kids are tucked in bed, the sound of the TARDIS echoes in the quiet house. With soft foot steps, she creeps past the master bedroom and up the stairs. She visits each bedroom, and carefully tucks the sleepy heads in their beds, smooths back their hair, and whispers that she loves them. Every once in a while, one will sleepily mumble back that they love her, too, and her heart will clench with maternal guilt. Each one of them had changed so much since she last saw them, and she was missing so much. But missing so much of their young lives allowed her to change things for the better for them. It was because of her absence that they could sleep peacefully in their little beds. They had not a care in the world, because she made sure of that.
David Tennant turns to his father-in-law and says, “I’m twice the Doctor you ever were.”
“Rose is open, honest, heartfelt, to the point of being selfish, wonderfully selfish. Martha is clever, calm, but rarely says what she’s really thinking. Donna is blunt, precise, unfiltered, but with a big heart beneath all the banter. But we come back to what I was saying ages ago about turning characters. If Rose can be selfish, then her finest moments will come when she’s selfless. If Martha keeps quiet, then her moments of revelation - like her goodbye to the Doctor in Last of the Time Lords, or stuck with Milo and Cheen in Gridlock - make her fly. Donna is magnificently self-centred - not selfish, but she pivots everything around herself, as we all do — so when she opens up and hears the Ood song, or begs for Caecilius’ family to be saved, then she’s wonderful.”
- Russell T. Davies on companions
doctor who plots often don’t make sense but that’s only okay so long as there’s more to the story than plot, like characterisation or genuine emotion or something like that
Theory: Time Lords’ bodies do not age as rapidly when they are actively traveling through time, because of exposure to the time vortex. Only when they remain in one time do they noticeably age. The First Doctor spent a good deal of his life on Gallifrey without his TARDIS. Eight and War Doctor were in a time-locked war, which explains his ageing between the TNoTD and TDoTD. Eleven did not age during the farewell tour, but did during his extended stay on Trenzalore. And I don’t know if this counts but The Curator aged quite a bit from the 4th Doctor’s face because he was retired and stayed on earth primarily.
moffat do not talk about the doctor not getting enough attention, the last episode I watched had five characters and he was three of them
The Doctor’s dilemma in [The Waters of Mars], as in so many of the best of Davies’ episodes, was a moral one. It wasn’t a problem that could be solved by being clever or using the sonic or the TARDIS to fix everything. There was no winning scenario—the Doctor had to choose the best of two bad outcomes and it hurt to watch him do it. It made us hurt for him, which made us love him all the more. The Doctor knows what fixed points in time are, so can he refuse to save Pompeii? Should he have prevented the Dalek race from ever being born? Was it wrong to destroy the Racnoss, or was it just wrong to take steely pleasure in it? Was it wrong to depose Harriet Jones? There’s a moral question like that underpinning all the best of Who.
There’s very little of this exploration in Moffat’s Who, which creates an Eleven who is that arrogant, dangerous Time Lord Victorious from the end of “Waters of Mars.” He doesn’t have moral dilemmas, he’s not bothered about the consequences of his actions, he doesn’t even pause long enough to worry about the people who might get trampled under his feet or feel bad when innocent bystanders end up as collateral damage. Consider the particularly nauseating example of the solution to the Silence infestation of Earth in “Day of the Moon”: humans being hypnotoaded into being weapons of niche destruction. Perhaps it’s a testament to the vividness of his storytelling, but think about what Moffat has created here: in that world, thanks to the Doctor, every time you or I turn around we might feel a compulsion to splatter open a skull. There’s very little to love about a character with so much power who wields it so carelessly.
Part of what’s so maddening is that Moffat often has the opportunity to explore the moral dilemmas right in front of him and refuses to do anything with it. If there’s a consequence to the Eleventh Doctor’s behavior, Moffat’s hiding it inside a strangely constructed Rubik’s Cube, and we’re no longer convinced he isn’t more interested in playing with the puzzle than finding what’s inside.❞
this metaphor is fucking MAJESTIC.