Tony may not know much
about art,
but he knows what he likes.
This is a Paul Magrs
story. That sound you hear is your mind’s seatbelt warning. Buckle up, or this
one’s going to leave you flat against the windscreen, remembering when you had
a working nose.
For this main range story
with the Seventh Doctor, Ace and Hex, Magrs takes us back to 1920s Paris, where
art and artists were prized above almost all in the world. The odd thing is
that the Seventh Doctor feels like an initially clunky fit for this
freewheeling time and place. The Fourth Doctor of course would have fitted
right in. The Sixth, likewise – the 1920s Parisians would have loved that coat – while the Eighth and
Fifth too could have played well with the artistic crowd.
But the Seventh?
Captain Brooding-Silence
of all conceivable years – in 1920s Paris?
Shouldn’t work on almost
any level.
Works a treat here, thank
you very much, in the same way as putting him in a 1950s rock and roll holiday
camp worked in Delta and the Bannermen – it gives Sylvester McCoy the
opportunity to do something different
with his Doctor, which given how often he’s thought of and written for as the
Dark Doctor, the god-killer, the chess-player and the brooder-on-things, we
imagine must come as a great breath of fresh air. The point of course is that
while they may become known for one style, one range of emotions, any Doctor
can fit in anywhere, as long as the writing’s good enough.
Relax – the writing’s more
than good enough here.
Magrs brings another of
his creations to Paris too, and the artistic salon of Madame Iris Wildthyme is
the place to be if you’re a young up-and-comer with buggerall talent but a
winning way. What’s more, Iris’ semi-constant companion, Panda (Err…yes, for
the uninitiated, he’s a ‘toy’ panda, with more than enough to say for himself,
thank you very much) has settled to a life that you’d think would perfectly
suit him – as an art critic, penning tight little devastations that send some
of history’s finest scuttling back to civilian life to take up farming or
factory work.
And that’s where things
get really interesting, and rather more traditionally Seventh Doctor. Some of
the greatest artists in history are being discouraged, sent home, sent packing
before their genius has the chance to bloom as fully as the Doctor and his
friends know it should. What the Notre bloomin’ Dame is Iris Wildthyme up to?
Ace, Hex and the Doctor
each take different pathways into artistic Paris – Hex getting into life
modelling, Ace checking out an American couple, one of whom has suddenly come
over all artistic, and the Doctor making friends with a muse.
No, really, a muse.
Magrs invents with a
certain trademark freedom that brings 1920s Paris to life and sprinkles it with
a delicate techno-magic that will make you smile and lighten the steps you take
through your day, while at the same time giving us a cautionary tale about
talent, creativity, inspiration and the potentially negative impact of constant
unmitigated criticism which feels distinctly relevant in the social media age.
And it is of course a joy to welcome Katy Manning’s Iris Wildthyme back to the
world of Who, especially in a main range story alongside a Doctor who’s
extremely well practiced at Disapproving Of Things. It makes for a new, fun
dynamic, and one which seems to drive them strongly to opposite corners – at
one cliff-hanger moment, a war is declared between them, and the performances
bristle with ‘Bring It On!’ – Sylvester doing his precise snarling thing, and
Katy tightening out the wilder excesses of Iris’ usual ‘Oh, don’t mind me,
lovey’ ‘Aunty Iris’ delivery and coming down to brass tacks against this most
intransigent of Doctors. It’s thrilling stuff. As the story evolves, there’s a
tight control in place to stop it spiralling out beyond the arty set of Paris,
and it still delivers lots of sparkling moments – you’ll listen to Muse of Fire
not outright expecting a comic tone, and perhaps not outright getting one
either, but certainly getting enough lightness to lift a story about the power
of creativity and the attendant power of criticism to bully, to quash, to
pummel that creativity into the dust. You’ll only really appreciate the
underlying darkness once you’re out the other side. The journey itself is a
pure pleasure.
This is – and I apologise
in advance for the ghastliness of this – a Magrs on fire, delivering both a
hymn to creativity and the people who find it in themselves, and that warning
against the background noise floor of instant criticism and opinion that can
endanger creative works and people, all wrapped up in a twinkly, bold,
colourful, rich and headily-peopled story of Paris, Parisians, and all those
who wanted to be Parisians, drawn by
the art, the literature, the – not to wax too lyrical and parasitical – the bouquet of that time and place. The cast
too are firing on every cylinder they have, and the return of Hex at some
early-seeming point in his travels with the Doctor and Ace, where the
Ace-flirting has mellowed into the brotherly partnership, would be a joy at any
price. In Muse of Fire, you get all this, and a script that bristles with
power, with a lightness of touch and a high re-listen value. Muse of Fire is fun,
it’s beautiful, and it is of course, beyond all else, a work of art.
