Tony takes
the stage. Plays the trumpet voluntary. Gets coat.
There’s
something to hold very clearly in your mind when you listen to
Bang-Bang-A-Boom. It’s written by Gareth Roberts and Clayton Hickman. I’m
putting that front and centre in this review because I only found it out once
I’d listened to it, at which point, you kind of get the feeling that perhaps,
every now and again, Big Finish just wakes up in the morning and says to itself
“Screw it, let’s go mental!”
Realising
that the script is by Roberts and Hickman makes a kind of sense out of this
sensation.
Let
me go further and put my cards firmly on the table – I love Gareth Roberts
scripts most of the time. I loved his reworking of Douglas Adams’ Shada, too.
And deep in the sniggering, chortling heart of myself, I love Bang-Bang-A-Boom.
It’s so staggeringly evident that the whole thing is just two big parodies in
explosive collision, and it’s paced in such a way it makes you want to hug it
to death.
Basically,
for those bothered about plotlines and themes and the like, imagine if you will
Star Trek: Deep Space Nine run by a gang of incompetents who speak in a
needlessly portentous way. That is Dark Space 8, a space station long past its
invasion-stopping best, its staff now envious of all the other, newer cooler
stations that still get the high priority missions while they get – The
Intergalactic Song Contest.
This
clear-as-rainbow-coloured crystal parody of the Eurovision Song Contest is –
Ah.
Wait. It’s just possible that you’re not from Europe, and so will never have
encountered the Eurovision Song Contest. How to describe the Eurovision Song
Contest…
OK,
in American terms, it’s like a combination of a pageant and America’s Got
Talent sprinkled with a thousand Pride festivals. Imagine that, but with every
state having to select their best own entry. And then imagine that each state
had a different actual language, and a different interpretation of what music is.
That’s the Eurovision Song Contest. Responsible for bringing you Abba, and for
breaking Celine Dion out to the wider world despite her being Canadian, rather
than actually Swiss, under whose flag she competed and won. That makes no
difference any more – plenty of non-European countries are in Eurovision.
Russia’s in Eurovision. So’s Iceland. So’s freakin’ Israel, come to that (and
Israel once used its entry to launch a song called Push The Button, essentially
advocating nuclear war against ‘fanatical regimes.’ I really wish I was making
this up. That said, Austria recently won it with a performance by transgender
singer Conchita Wurst, so it’s not just a national venting of
frustrations. Mostly, but not just. Britain, incidentally, has a habit of
tearing girls’ skirts off or flashing their panties at the judges. Ireland has
a habit of winning. Oh that reminds me: Riverdance, the thing that made Michael
Flatley an international celebrity? Started as the half-time show at
Eurovision. You’re welcome.
Even a group of German evangelist Christian Klingons have won Eurovision before now. Don’t believe me? Google ‘Lordi Hard Rock Hallelujah.’
Even a group of German evangelist Christian Klingons have won Eurovision before now. Don’t believe me? Google ‘Lordi Hard Rock Hallelujah.’
Gift
writers like Roberts and Hickman a tradition as diverse and frankly bonkers as
this, and the sometime po-facedness of the Federation’s finest in later instalments,
and you’re going to have yourself some proper Peladon-style fun. With two
enormous galactic powerhouses who’ve been at war for centuries competing – and
staying – next to each other, while across the quadrant their representatives
apparently meet to potentially put an end to hostilities, and you’ve got a
game. Add in a Justin Bieber clone as the Earth entrant, and a squeaky giant
hamster as the arbiter and you’ve got at least one Alpha Centauri to contend
with, possibly two. Then throw the early Seventh Doctor and Mel into the mix
annnnd start the murders. How can you possibly fail?
The
answer is with Roberts and Hickman at the wheel, you really can’t, but it can
be relentlessly, almost exhaustively satirical. To give them their due, they
pitch the Seventh Doctor very squarely at the start of his incarnation, with
plenty of rrrrrrrrrrrolling intonations, plenty of scrambled sayings (Mel even
tells him at one point ‘Can you stop that, please – it’s getting really
annoying’) and, inevitably when you have this Seventh Doctor and an empty
stage, the spoons. You also have the Seventh Doctor playing a very conscious
Poirot, pretending to be the station’s new commander so as untangle what’s
really going on before Goloss (separated chunk of a gestalt entity, looks like
cotton candy, crackles and so needs a human translator) and the Angvians (Think
Ride of the Valkyries, watch out for the amorous armpits) blow each other off
the face of the cosmos. Oh, and the Doctor nearly scores, and then has to
explain it to Mel (‘Well, after several hundred years of celibacy, that’s a hell
of a way to get back into it!’). Oh, and if this doesn’t keep you up at night,
Mel nearly scores too, but can’t go through with it in case her would-be
partner literally explodes.
As
a story, it does rather glory in its positively barking madness – including a
Drahvin girl group performing a song called Cloned Love, and a false ending and
record-scratch-interrupted end credits. There’s a guard at one point who comes
in, speaks two lines in the voice of Michael Caine, and then goes out again,
never to be heard again or remarked on. Yes, there are Ice Warriors, as are
required in any attempt to recreate the Peladonian vibe. There’s a
Columbo-style ‘Dum Dum Duuuuuuuuuum!’ music sting anyone dies or even nearly
dies. And practically everyone, again in the true Peladonian tradition, has at
least one secret to hide. And then there’s the cast, which combines
world-beating class and a tradition of surreal madness – Graeme Garden,
Patricia Quinn, Nickolas Grace. There’s even a cameo from someone going by the
name of Gareth Jenkins, which is either a staggering coincidence or a fantastic
gracenote (Google ‘A Fix With Sontarans,’ people).
Overall,
for those who found the later, darker, more broody gameplayer that the Seventh
Doctor became a bit intense and hard work, Bang-Bang-A-Boom is a joy. Utterly
mad from start to finish, satirizing the bejesus out of Star Trek, strangely
celebrating the Eurovision Song Contest but most of all, paying a surprisingly
complete homage to the Peladon stories, without a mining consortium or a
snaggle-toothed royal monster anywhere to be found. Get it in your player today
– it’s one of those stories that divides your life into ‘Before’ and ‘After’
portions, while giving you a lot of good laughs in the process.
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