Behind the Sofa - The Collaborative Doctor Who Blog

Never-mind the Warlocks

Like a cross between Charmed and The Good Life with a whiff of strong bronchial cough syrup your grannie would produce from behind a thick layer of cobwebs here comes the bastard still-born child of the mother-ship programme. All this mysticism is a little miss placed. Who in their right minds would prance naked, or clothed in spooky masks, or even anointed in bats urine, just to give praise and sacrifice to a dark lord called Heggerty? Just imagine if Jesus had been called Wayne instead. And the three wise men brought gifs of gold, Frankfurters and Burberry. It doesn't really work, does it? You'd just feel a prick worshiping the holy bling of a weekend. And yet here they are. These backward country folk a-mincing and a-prancing. They even, for some inexplicable reason, have a picture of Max from Hart to Hart in a badly fitting wig. This is going to be murder...

It's quite refreshing to see cigarettes in a kids show, as Aunt Lavinia takes a drag on a fag and we get a little back story. She's expecting Brendan, her ward, to arrive shortly. His Robin to her Batman. Then there's some tedium about market gardens and a Mini Metro that sounds like its exhaust has gone. Par for the course really.

Black Magic

Things take a surreal turn as we find out that all this action is taking place inside A-ha front warbler and gap-toothed Scandinavian sex pot, Morton Harket. Colin Jeavons puts in an appearance accompanied by some pure evil music. He must be a bad'un. He appears to be from the same family as the Thunderbird Tracey brothers if his acting is anything to go by. Him and his dopey son aren't the sharpest scythes in the corn field.

It transpires that Brendan is some prick from a down-at-heel version of Hogwarts, and he's coming home for Christmas. That is if the editing of the location footage doesn't prevent him from even getting to Sarah's car as they appear static at the start of the sequence where he and Sarah meet up. More local colour is splashed haphazardly across the canvas in the shape of Bill Pollock and swinging neighbour, Mrs Juno Baker. And what's in the box? Why, it's K-9. Cooped up for years in a create with no air holes and not even a pot to piss in. Perhaps there's some body like the RSPCA that deals with ill treatment to robotic animals? Princess Michael of Kent could be the patron. It could have that higher profile.

All Gold

And K-9 Mk III is unveiled to the viewing public. Looking identical to the previous two versions, with one exception - the power to induce honking in Brendan. Who then goes on to demonstrate an unusually high knowledge of the innards of the metal dog. Leaving Brendan to tough it out with his intellectual equal Sarah goes off looking for some swinging action at the Bakers place, and I think I've spotted acclaimed Playwright Dennis Potter, in over-sized comedy specs, in the background enjoying a spam Vol au Vent and sexual promiscuity. It all slides down hill from there on in and becomes more like the Alan Partridge scene where he's accusing country folk of everything from not liking outsiders,  through to ritual child abuse and quacking plums. I think I've even spotted poor old Dave Blunkett on the sofa at one point, trying to get off with a standard lamp he mistakenly thought was a rake thin super model.

Actually, what appears to happen next is the story starts unravelling in front of us. The special Tracey son attempts a break-in and gets tied up in Brendan's house tie, whilst Pa Tracey attempts a daring get away from K-9. And lets face it, all you'd need to escape K-9 was a really slow milk float. The story, such as it is, is a little pedestrian. Certainly nothing out of the ordinary. I wonder what plans were in place if the series was picked up? Would every single story centre around this pathetic little village, turning into a spooky version of Midsomer Murders? K-9 is actually sidelined for vast chunks of this story, bit like Taggart after McManus died. I'm having a problem with the pacing of the whole piece as things seem to come to a head fairly quickly, and get resolved even quicker. And it all ends in terrible manner with a singing dog. And not even the sort that would lighten up any edition of That's Life either!

Milk Tray

So, instead I'll turn my attention to Levine's partner in musical crime, a chap called Fiachra Trench which sounds like a made up name, but isn't. Turns out that he and Levine actually scored a massive European hit with High Energy. Take a look at his iMDB profile. There's not many people can boast a career that spans K9 & Company and Die Hard!

I'll drink to that. In fact, following that, I'll drink to anything.

The Bumper Book of Made-Up Doctor Who Facts has this to say about K9 & Company: following a brief spell in the limelight, K-9's career hit the skids when it was revealed that he was addicted to catnip and was often found snorting it in late night drinking spots in London. In between bouts of suicidal depression he finds the occasional work as Dave Blunkett's stand-in guide dog.

Shaggy Dog Story

One of the joys of being involved in these Stripped Down sessions is the sheer passion for all things Who that screams off the page. Whether it be delighting in a ‘Talons’ or decrying a ‘Dalek Invasion’, one thing remains the same: we’re all here because we love Doctor Who with a passion bordering on the need for a restraining order. And no matter how bad a story may be when seen without the aid of rose-tinted nostalgia spectacles, there’s still the odd nugget to exhume; the tiniest moment to be revered, one that marks out the fans from the causal come-latelies.

It’s a point that bears reminding as we come to arguably one of the most notorious bete-noires of the Who family. Cast your mind back to the Christmas of 1981: with the almost unthinkable departure of Baker T still just nine months before - and with the ‘wet vet’ yet to make his eagerly anticipated bow - the BBC seemed to have suddenly gone Doctor Who mad. Not only had we had five weeks of repeats, showcasing each of the previous four Doctors, but finally after years of false-starts for the UNIT boys, the Daleks and even Jago and Litefoot, Doctor Who finally had a bona-fide spin-off show to accompany its big brother. That it featured not only the most popular companion ever, but the talking robot dog that had even usurped Tom Baker in the popularity stakes at times, then its success seemed foolproof. But given the current - seemingly critical mass - appeal of Doctor Who in 2005 (with a Christmas special and a spin-off provoking a sense of deja-vu), it’s hard to remember that we have been down this road before; to a time when the show provoked a seemingly insatiable appetite in its audience.

So, begs the question, what went wrong?

Well, we couldn’t possibly start any review of ‘K9 & Company’ without mentioning that breathlessly bad title sequence and theme tune. I mean, this isn’t just bad; it’s awful raised to the level of high art. The highlight? Well, obviously Lis Sladen’s almost balletic jog up the country road is a contender, as is her wonderfully staged (so wonderful, in fact, that they show it twice) reveal from behind a newspaper (just in case you weren’t sure what it is a journalist writes for, by the way). But for me the icing on this particular cake is the corporate video music that accompanies all these visual car-crashes - I mean, if Garth Merenghi’s creators hadn’t taken even the slightest glance at this then I’m a sea-devil. And why, it must be asked, does Sarah type her ‘exclusives’ while sat outside on what is clearly a cold and wet winter’s day?

It’s inevitable that whatever follows this textbook example of how not to introduce a television drama will be a let-down. But to be fair, there’s a certain amount of intrigue to ‘K9 and co’s opening moments. We’re in pretty safe Who environs, after all, with dodgy ceremonies invoking Hecate (though it sounds more like they’re saying one of K9’s own catchphrases ‘Negative’, to be honest) and villagers acting either too smarmily or too sinisterly to be anything but the villains. And we even get to meet Sarah’s once-mentioned Aunt Lavinia, who’s apparently planning a US tour to publicise her latest book while her niece does some house/ward sitting. The location work’s quite nice too - even managing to avoid being as jarring as much of its big brother’s output - and Lavinia’s ‘disappearance’ does at least give Sarah a hook to use her much vaunted journalistic know-how.

But what becomes apparent is that Lis Sladen just doesn’t seem to remember what made Sarah-Jane such a popular character. She’s neither likable nor adorable here (while only five years earlier she’d been effortlessly both) and the shift from audience identification figure to ’Doctor-like’ inquisitor doesn’t seem to rest happily on her shoulders. Nor does the fact that - for most of the episode - she’s playing second fiddle to a robot dog.

Aaah, K-9! Bless him, for a generation of school-children he was Britain’s own answer to R2-D2: clever, cute and with an armoury of cool gizmos. Us ‘mature’ fans may sneer now at how he came to dominate the show to an extent where the lead character suffered and the resultant storylines became more juvenile as a result, but back then he was (if you’ll pardon the pun) the Dog’s balls! And to be fair, the Mark III edition seen here does have a neat line in sardonic wit; even making a decent double act with straight guy stooge - and Aunt Lavinia’s ward - Brendan Richards (who’s not even close to being as bad as you remember him, despite that honking laugh being the worst, most forced guffaw until Sylvester McCoy’s own risible attempts in ‘The Happiness Patrol’).

So as Sarah acquaints herself with her new metal chum and the locals of Morton Harwood (including a thinly-veiled lesbian/swinging couple in the form of Lavinia-pals the Bakers), the ‘thick plottens’ into a rather slow-paced pilot for what was clearly designed to be a series with the remit ‘Sarah Jane Investigates’. With red herrings galore (both the ‘disappearance’ of Lavinia and the Bakers’ sinister and vaguely sexual shenanigans turn out to be nothing of the sort) we sort of just plod along for half an hour, wading through some risible dialogue and ‘spot the celeb’ style casting (with Bill Fraser having been tempted back by the prospect of getting to kick K-9 again, apparently…shame he’s been demoted from ‘General’ Grugger to only a Commander here). Even the health inspector from classic Fawlty Towers episode ‘Basil the Rat’ turns up as one of the many ne’er-do-well invokers of Hecate. But performance-wise, it’s left to the notoriously reliable Colin Jeavons to instil any menace into a largely paint-by-numbers cast.

And with the episode’s nods towards the debate over science vs. the supernatural, Sarah and Brendan could have even become the Mulder and Scully of their day had this gone to series (with, no doubt, a computer-hacking episode for Brendan to cut his rather irritating teeth on). Apart from that - and a rather obvious nod to the parent series’ own ‘The Stones of Blood’, not to mention cult film The Wicker Man - that’s about your lot. Everything ends very conveniently - with Sarah and K-9 managing to scour ten or more potentially-satanic churches and chapels just in time for midnight - and it’s all back to the previously suspect Bakers for Christmas lunch (though Fag-Hag-Jane’s suggestion to Sarah to ‘have her tucked up before midnight’ is perhaps a double-entendre too far).

Is it a shame it never went to series? Course not, as already this pilot suggests that any subsequent episodes would have been endless variations on ‘Sarah unearths strange goings-on in rural England’ (with even a suggestion that a coven-centred sequel would be in the offing). But at least a full series would surely have dispensed with those awful, Sarah-looking-pained-in-any-woolly-garment-you-can-imagine opening titles.

What has remained a curio in the Who pantheon has taken on something more of a significance these pat few months; with both a ‘Sarah & K-9’ episode of series two and a whole new Captain-Jack based spin-off to soon hit our screens. Who’d have though it that - despite the 8 million plus who first watched this trash first-time round - either of these two prospects would ever be on the horizon again.

Let’s just hope that both ‘School Reunion’ and Torchwood are a country mile better than this, shall we…

(‘The Bumper Book of Made-Up Doctor Who facts’ has this to say about ‘K-9 and Company’: filming on a first series was only days away when mail-order company Grattan pulled out of a funding deal, scuppering the show’s entire wardrobe budget in one fell swoop)

Lights. Camera. Traction.

Warning: this review contains language that would make Sweary Mary, the bluest nun ever, blush.

K9 & Company: A Girl's Best Friend

I can't let this momentous opportunity pass without splitting this up into two tranches. No, I'm not creating a fan-wankified imaginary cliffhanger at the end of 25 minutes because Moses came tobogganing down some mountain side of a large stone tablet that read that God has decreed that all episodes of Who-related shenanigans shall be 25 minutes and no more (or 18 minutes if you're Lovett Bickford). I'm doing this because I'd like to linger for a moment, if I may be so bold, on...

THE FUCKING OPENING CREDITS

Even the 10 year old me, who witnessed this at the time, was sorely embarrassed by the title sequence. And I was probably watching this by myself, fearful of the absolute lashing I'd get when I returned to school in the new year from my class mates. What started out  as fairly promising, with blueprint-style drawings of K-9, then degenerated in to the worst transatlantic schlock imaginable as they try to imitate flashy and stylistic opening credits of many an American production. Unfortunately, somewhere near Cirencester doesn't really overly exuded the sorts of glamorous locations afforded to the likes of Hart to Hart or Hawaii-5-O.

Now I'm well aware of the fact that this is the 80s, but putting out something that looks like a very, very bad Human League pop promo is absolutely no excuse. Peeking over an edition of The Guardian (that looks like it's from the end of the 19th century, not the end of the 20th) that Sarah-Jane is, for some inexplicable reason, reading in the English countryside, we're reminded throughout the entire title sequence that Sarah is, in fact, a journalist... In fact, there's an awful lot of the rural English countryside here. It's a wonder they didn't create Smellyvision and pipe in the smell of silage and cider into the living rooms of the viewing public just to reinforce this.

Where was I? Oh yes, she's a journo...

...which is why she's sitting outside a country pub, sipping a sophisticated glass of wine, sitting at a table with a typewriter bashing out her next Pulitzer-losing piece on country life. She's got a typewriter. She's sipping wine from a dainty glass. She must be a journalist. Why she isn't downing pint after pint of bitter, sporting a beer belly that would put a World Darts Champion to shame and snorting lines on nose candy like the rest of the Fourth Estate I'll never know.

Throughout the credits we're treated to SJS in a variety of outfits, just like Barbie. We have Newspaper Reading Sarah, Wine Drinking Sarah and, perhaps most ludicrous of all (despite the fact that anyone sitting outside an English country pub sipping wine whilst pretentiously bashing out a po-faced piece on foot and mouth would be egged to death within 5 minutes), we have Girl from the Kids of FAME Sarah. Jogging along with her very 80s leg-warmers and jumper slung casually around her neck and tied in a knot... Was there some sub-text here? Where they trying to line up a range of SJS posable action figures?

And then there's the bastard dog. How on Earth did the little bugger get up onto that wall in the first place. This just beggars belief. Did he fly up there? Has he been left there as punishment because he pissed oil all over SJS's new car? Has be been dropping ball bearings all over the place? Either way, if someone doesn't get him down he'll rust. Perhaps that's what the next 50 minutes should have contained, K-9's body slowly oxidizing in the inclement English weather.

And in the final look from the new SJS Posable Doll range, we have Flasher Mac Sarah, posing with her car. A convertible Mini Metro. The only car to be complete unfashionable before is was made. How badly dated does that car look? Makes K-9's angular looks seem stylish by comparison. Now, before anyone starts, I used to have a Mini Metro. And it was an absolute heap of crap. The only thing holding it together was the rust. But it got me between the North-East and Swansea on many an occasion. So I can't complain too much. But will. Frequently.

Final shot sees SJS looking back over her shoulder, just in time to see her career being pissed up a wall.

And the music. Sweet chocolate christ the music.

Lemme quote from The Guardian Guide of Oct 22, 2005. Stuart McGurk wrote a piece about the lengths that some fan campaigns will go to save their favourite show. Mentioned in the piece is something dear to our hearts:

"Yet it's not just the fans who've protested. Sometimes, it's the crew. Former Take That producer Ian Levine was asked by Dr Who insiders to create a protest record after internal wrangles left it on the verge of cancellation back in 1985. The result - Who Cares?, featuring the then lead actors Colin Baker and Nicola Bryant and several Bucks Fizz members - was not, however, an overwhelming success. Or, as Levine puts it: "It was an absolute balls-up fiasco. It was pathetic and bad and stupid. It tried to tell the Dr Who history in an awful high-energy song. It almost ruined me."

I wonder how he'd describe this screeching melody, which would be more at home as the sig tune to Ritual Torture Today over on UK Nazis +1. I can just imagine them using that in Abu Ghraib as American marines piss all over poor Iraqi POWs to the tune of this hi-nrg ditty. Perhaps, like other episodes of childhood abuse - and this one particularly abused the fond memories we all had for SJS and K9 - he's repressed it. Still, much better than all of Take That's output.

I even had to invent a new drink to get me through this, all 60-odd seconds of it. I've christened it a Kaiser's Helmet. One part Jack Daniels to 3 parts cloudy lemonade. It's a pity I didn't have this on hand when I first saw this. Actual review to follow when the sedation's worn off...