Our day out at Harry Potter Wizarding World did not go exactly according to plan...
Title of episode: “The Temple of Evil”
Title of Serial: The Aztecs
Chronology: 6th serial, 27th episode overall
Part: 1 of 4
Doctor: William Hartnell
Companion(s): Susan Foreman, Ian Chesterton, Barbara Wright
Written by: John Lucarotti
Original air date: May 23 1964
Angels and ministers of grace preserve us! Or something. It’s that Lucarotti head again, god damn it. Oh, you remember him: Marco fucking Polo? Yeah well this time it appears he’s sticking his nose in the business of another ancient civilisation, and it promises to be just as boring and dry as his other serial was. Damn it! Where are all the space monsters? What do you mean, not in the budget? Just stick some guys in rubber suits, slap on an extra arm or leg - or a head! Ye did it for
The Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy! Yeah, I know that was twenty years later. Still, Anyway, guys in rubber suits, planets hanging precariously by string from the roof of soundstage one, rockets made out of old washing-up liquid bottles, bit of dry ice… what’s all that going to cost? Less than filming in the Amazonian rain - oh. It’s
not the Amazonian rain forest, you say? Centre Parcs? Right. Not so sure Centre Parcs was even built at this time. Okay. Some park somewhere, made to look like… you know what? This is getting boring. Just, you know, knock up some dodgy robots or space alien girls or something next time huh? I love history, but this is making me hate it.
"You- you cads! You've turned Barbara into a flower!"
Anyway, on we resolutely and disconsolately plod into another no doubt “educational” serial. You can tell from the beginning that Lucarotti isn’t exactly going to be even-handed in his depiction of the Aztecs now is he? I mean, human sacrifice, sure, but for all we know, those people being sacrificed might have grown up to be the next Hitler. Yeah, all of them. Hey, it could happen. Anyway they’re probably bastards, so f**k them. And hungry, bloodthirsty gods gotta eat, you know? Think all this great weather and good harvests comes for nothing? What do they say: ain’t no such thing as a free lunch? Speaking of which, pass the salt - this guy’s a bit stringy. Can’t you guys get us some more - ah, substantial meals? What? No I can’t say fat. It’s - oh wait. It’s 1963, I can say what I want. Okay then: fat dudes and chicks please! Bit of meat on the bones. And no gingers. I fucking hate gingers. Give me gas.
Having done all I can to delay the inevitable, it becomes inevitable. So here we go. Buckle up!
It’s the first of these I’ve endur- eh, seen that hasn’t followed directly on from the last serial, like a bad cliffhanger you don’t care about. The TARDIS emerges in some sort of temple. Now, I’m not saying it is, but given the title, I’m going to guess it’s a temple of evil. Some dead guy is on the table, and Babs seems to be something of a coroner, able to tell exactly when he died: about 14:30, she says. Oh no wait: that’s the year. And she immediately goes about doing a spot of grave-robbing. Now, maybe it’s just me, but if I came across a dead Aztec priest (she tells Susan knowledgeably that it
is an Aztec) in a temple which may or may not turn out to be one of evil, the first thing I would NOT do is rob his jewellery. Not quite sure where the boys are; Babs and Screaming Susan have time to paw all over the dead guy before either of them make an appearance. Must be watching the footy. “Yeah be out in a mo love, just need to see if Arsenal get this penalty. Ah, ref! That was
clearly a dive!”
"Egyptians? Do me a favour mate! Any civilisation that can only build a straight pyramid with three equal sides does NOT deserve the term genius! WE make ours STACKED, see?"
When will Susan learn? Walls pushed upon almost always slide or turn inwards and reveal passages that are best, on the whole, left unrevealed. I mean, where can a secret tunnel in a temple which is looking increasingly to be one of evil really go that you want to follow it? But this time it’s Babs who goes through, while Susan has a rare attack of intelligence and goes to pry the lads away from the match. And oh what a surprise! Our Babs is taken prisoner by some very bored looking guards, and when the priest who’s their boss sees she’s wearing some of the dead guy’s bling, well, that doesn’t go down too well, does it? Theboys finally come to the rescue, the game having gone to extra time and penalties, and then of course they had to listen to the after-match analysis, but eventually they’ve been levered off the sofa (might have been the party political broadcast that followed the match that did it) and off they go to look for the troublesome woman, the Doctor blinking in the light like a mole who has just made his way to the surface.
“Must be pretty high,” comments Ian, and I echo his wish. Probably the only way to get through this. Of course, nobody thinks to stuff a wedge under the door and the pesky thing closes. Ian remarks “there’s nothing to get a grip on!” Well, I wish someone would get a grip. Seems Babs has been taken for the reincarnation of the dead guy on the table, having snaffled his wrist gear and all, and now they think she’s a goddess. Ah sure, happens all the time doesn’t it? How many dead Aztec priests have you taken jewellery from, and isn’t it always the same? They think you’re a bloody god! I tell you, it’s getting embarrassing. Anyway the guy talking to the high priest seems to think the reincarnated Babs - or Susan, or both - are just the ticket to make the rains fall. Their blood will do nicely, thank you very much. Why do ancient people always pluralise rain? We never say it’s a rainsy day, do we? Or, look at all that bloody rains out there, I just hung out the washing. Yet your average ancient civilization witter on about the rains coming, who will send the rains, or, if you’re John Fogerty, who’ll stop the rains?
"Right! That is IT! I am having a serious word with my agent about these costumes!"
Rain, rain, fucking rain. These guys want rain. Come to Ireland: we’ve more than we bloody need lads. Take all you want. “For many days,” says the high priest, “the rain god has looked away from us.” Probably an Arsenal fan, can’t believe that penalty wasn’t awarded. Sorry. Busy with other matters, can’t be pissing about. Sorry again. Didn’t mean to rain on your parade. All right, I’ll stop now. Hey, is nobody concerned that the high priest keeps waving some sort of bone knife around, and has the kind of grin normally only seen on the lips of the very worst serial killers? I mean, these are the Aztecs after all. They may have given us a twin-engined turboprop light aircraft, a sports team and a chocolate bar, but what are they most remembered for? Anyone? You there, asleep at the back! Yes you. Hmm. Lucky guess, but you’re right. Human sacrifice. And I don’t think the Doctor pointing out that neither he nor Susan are technically or even slightly human is going to wash with these guys. Hell, if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, let’s spill its blood and entreat our god to send rains. No,
rains! With an “s”! Whoever heard of one rain?
Ian is chosen to lead the army, but in this civilisation that’s not as simple as it sounds. He has a rival, and must fight him - for some reason, in almost slow motion - for the honour. Right. Meanwhile Babs is told there’s to be a human sacrifice today. “Oh no!” she gasps. “And I’ve nothing to wear!" Really: do these guys think of anything else? What shall we do today? Oh let’s have a human sacrifice. Ah we had one of those yesterday. Did we? Well, you can never have too many human sacrifices, now can you? Nobody seems to have twigged yet who the sacrifice is to be, which just really underlines either their naivete or basic stupidity. The Doctor even tells Babs she is not to interfere: the sacrifice must go ahead as planned. After all, he probably thinks, it’s not as it they’re going to sacrifice my grand-daugh oh f**k!”
Anyway, Babs has her own ideas. Not much point in being a god, is there, if you can’t throw your weight around and force people to do your bidding! So she decides ixnay on the acrificesay, there won’t be any more of that. Just not cricket, don’t you know? Never mind what cricket is, all you need to know is that this isn’t it, and I forbid it. Yes, I’m a woman and my role in life and in history is to tell you not to do the things you like to do, and to nag and harass and frown at you until you change and see things my way - hey! What are you doing? Put me down! False what? No way man! These are real! Oh. GOD! I see. False god. Well, just check my ID and you’ll see… um. Well, Must have left it in my other costume. Anyone seen my handbag?
Comments
All right, despite my caustic remarks above, this is much better. Well, it wouldn’t be hard to be better than Marco Polo, but this is a lot more interesting. Mind you, it’s very English Colonial (yes, yes, Spanish colonial, but you know what I mean) with the evil Aztecs the bad guys, the “unenlightened savages”, and I have a bad feeling Babs is going to try to English them up real good. Interestingly, I was wrong about the sacrifice, but hell, the guy topped himself anyway so the rain god shrugged and said, “Meh, close enough. I wish they wouldn’t keep sending me blood sacrifices anyway. I mean, where am I supposed to keep the stuff? I’ve already filled all me tins, bottles and casserole dishes, and now I’m down to using jam jars. And what can I do with it? What use is it? A hoarder, they call me, but hey, if these people want to send me gifts it would be rude not to keep them, wouldn’t it? No, no! I can quit any time, honestly!”
It’s also going to be high on the misogyny scale, isn’t it? Interfering woman, comes in here, pissing on our customs, rearranging our furniture, banning blood sacrifice. What’s next? We have to lose all our friends? And like the other Lucarotti “epic”, there are precisely three women (so far) in the story, including both Companions. The guy playing the high priest is certainly chewing the scenery, while the other guy looks like an extra from
Star Trek, and not at all happy to be there. Everyone else looks like they’re trying to set up urgent meetings with their Equity representative. The Doctor is in his element, lording it over everyone with his knowledge of the Aztecs - oh they practiced blood sacrifice, did they? Something any eight-year old could tell you. And the timeline must be preserved. Except of course when it isn’t convenient or would impact on him. What a tool. Susan as usual does nothing, though there’s as yet no hysterical scream. I’m sure there’s one on the way.
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