THE RANTING BRUMMIE REVIEWS: "DOCTOR WHO - THE ROBOT REVOLUTION" (S2 Ep1)

In the grand, galloping tradition of Doctor Who, tonight’s episode, The Robot Revolution, arrives like a comet—bright, bold, and occasionally wobbling off its orbit. It’s a spectacle that demands your attention, not least because it introduces Varada Sethu as Belinda Chandra, a companion who strides into the TARDIS with the kind of verve that makes you sit up and wonder why the universe hasn’t hired her sooner. Watching it unfold, one feels the old thrill of Who—that peculiar mix of cosmic wonder and cheeky irreverence—yet there’s a nagging sense that the machinery creaks in places it needn’t. Like a sonic screwdriver wielded by a slightly tipsy Time Lord, the episode dazzles but doesn’t always hit the mark.

Let’s start with Sethu, who is nothing short of a revelation. As Belinda, an A&E nurse yanked from her London share-house into a galactic kerfuffle, she brings a grounded fire that’s both fresh and familiar. Her performance is a masterclass in controlled defiance—every arched eyebrow and sharp retort feels like a challenge to the Doctor’s boundless ego. When she snaps, “I am not one of your adventures,” you believe her; this is no wide-eyed ingénue but a woman with bills to pay and a life to live. Sethu’s chemistry with Ncuti Gatwa’s Doctor crackles like a live wire, promising a dynamic that’s less buddy-cop and more sparring partners. She’s the kind of companion who could make even a Dalek pause for a cuppa and a rethink. If Doctor Who is to thrive in its Disney-fied era, it needs actors like Sethu—vivid, versatile, and utterly unafraid to steal the spotlight.

Gatwa, for his part, remains a charismatic whirlwind. His Doctor is all flamboyant coats and fleeting tears, a Time Lord who wears his hearts on his sleeve and his quips on his tongue. There’s a lovely moment where he sheds a tear for a vaporized friend, reminding us that this incarnation feels deeply, perhaps too deeply for his own good. Yet the episode leans heavily on his charm to paper over its cracks, and that’s where we stumble into the intel plot point—a narrative cog that clunks rather than whirs.

The central conceit, involving robots kidnapping Belinda to crown her queen of a planet named after her (thanks to a teenage boyfriend’s starry-eyed gesture), is whimsical enough. But the intelligence-driven twist—where artificial intelligence fuels a war and a vaguely incel-flavoured uprising—feels like a lecture scribbled in haste. It’s not that Doctor Who shouldn’t tackle big ideas; the show has always been a Trojan horse for social commentary. But here, the AI thread is less a plot than a placard, waved with such didactic zeal that it drowns out subtlety. Characters declaim their motives like they’re reading from a Reddit thread, and the climax, involving a “ludicrous reveal” (as some critics have noted), lands with the grace of a Cyberman on roller skates. It’s a shame, because the bones of the story—a gift turned curse, a companion’s agency tested—are sturdy enough without the heavy-handed tech sermon.

Still, the episode is far from a misfire. Russell T Davies, back at the helm, knows how to spin a yarn that’s equal parts madcap and poignant. There’s a giddy joy in the visuals—red robots clomping through space, a planet called Missbelindachandra One, a cheeky nod to Kylie’s “Padam Padam.” The pacing, while frantic, keeps you hooked, and the fourth-wall breaks (hello, Anita Dobson’s enigmatic Mrs. Flood) add a layer of mischief that’s pure Who. It’s messy, yes, but gloriously so—like a cosmic jumble sale where you’re bound to find something delightful.

What lingers is Sethu’s Belinda, a character who feels like a gear shift for the series. She’s not here to gape at the Doctor’s brilliance but to question it, to ground his flights of fancy with a nurse’s pragmatism. If the episode’s intel plot is a misstep, it’s one that’s outshone by her presence and the promise of adventures to come. Doctor Who remains a show that dares to dream big, even when its circuits occasionally spark.

Ten Interesting Things from The Robot Revolution:

• Varada Sethu’s Star Turn: Belinda Chandra is introduced with such confidence that she feels like she’s been a companion for years. Her no-nonsense nurse vibe—complete with wry medical gags like “There’s always a doctor standing back while the nurses do all the hard work”—is a perfect foil for Gatwa’s flamboyance.

• Spiky Doctor-Companion Dynamic: Unlike past companions who swooned at the TARDIS, Belinda’s skepticism (“I just want to go home”) sets up a tension that’s rare and refreshing. It recalls classic Who companions like Tegan but with a modern edge.

• Mrs. Flood’s Fourth-Wall Nudge: Anita Dobson’s mysterious neighbour pops up with a cryptic “You ain’t seen me,” winking at the audience in a way that screams bigger secrets. Is she a Time Lord, a red herring, or just having a laugh?

• Robot Vacuum Cameo: A tiny cleaning bot zipping around shouting “Polish polish!” is the episode’s unsung hero. It’s adorable, absurd, and the kind of quirky detail Who does best.

• Incel Planet Jab: The script dubs the robot-ruled world “Planet of the Incels,” a pointed jab at toxic masculinity that’s funny but heavy-handed. It’s a classic Davies move—bold, but it could’ve simmered rather than shouted.

• Belinda’s Backstory Hook: The idea that a star named for Belinda at 17 spirals into intergalactic chaos is a clever twist on a romantic gesture. It’s a reminder that even small acts can ripple across the cosmos.

• Gatwa’s Emotional Doctor: The Doctor’s tear at losing Sasha 55 is a fleeting but potent moment. Gatwa’s ability to pivot from camp to heartbreak keeps this incarnation compelling.

• Diploma MacGuffin: A duplicate diploma tied to Belinda causes “space-time to schwup,” hinting at a season-long mystery. It’s a subtle thread amidst the episode’s louder beats.

• Kylie Minogue Nod: The Doctor’s hearts going “Padam Padam” is a deliciously camp Easter egg, tying this era to Davies’ earlier Who triumphs like “Voyage of the Damned.”

• TARDIS Time Glitch: The episode ends with the TARDIS unable to return Belinda to May 24, 2025, setting up a season arc that feels personal and urgent. It’s a cliff-hanger that promises more than just monsters.

THE GREAT BRITISH POLTICIAL CIRCUS

Ladies and gentlemen, gather round, for I, in the grand tradition of those who’ve stared too long into the abyss of British politics, must deliver a sermon from the mount of disillusionment. It’s April 2025, and the United Kingdom—once a proud bastion of tea, irony, and the occasional functioning government—has descended into a pantomime so absurd that even the most stoic of us must pause to laugh, lest we cry. I speak, of course, of the state of our political parties, those creaking institutions that promise salvation but deliver only the kind of chaos one might expect from a toddler let loose in a china shop. Let us, the nation that invented the queue, dissect this sorry spectacle.

First, to the Labour supporters, those naïve souls who, after years of clutching their red rosettes, are finally sensing that something is deeply, irrevocably wrong. I see you, comrades, peering out from behind the rubble of Keir Starmer’s 2024 victory, a triumph that promised a new dawn but delivered, instead, a damp squib of a government. You thought you’d elected a knight in shining armour, but what you got was a man who seems to govern with all the charisma of a tax return form. Your dawning realisation that the system might not be your friend is touching, really—like watching a child discover that Santa Claus is just their dad in a scratchy fake polythene beard. Welcome to the club, my dears. We’ve been expecting you.

Next, the Tories, those beleaguered foot soldiers of tradition who, after 14 years of histrionics, have either jumped ship or are clinging to the wreckage with the desperation of a shipwrecked sailor gripping a plank. Some of you have defected to Reform, that shiny new toy in the political toy box, while others remain, loyal to a party that has, in recent years, resembled less a governing force and more a particularly dysfunctional episode of Downton Abbey. Your allegiance to the Conservatives, even after the omnishambles of Theresa May, Boris Johnson, Liz Truss, and Rishi Sunak, is almost admirable—like a dog that keeps returning to its owner, even after being kicked. But let’s be honest: the Tory ship has sailed, and it’s heading straight for the iceberg of irrelevance. You might want to start swimming.

And then there are the Reform supporters, the self-styled patriots who saw through the chaos of the last few years—Brexit, COVID, the cost-of-living crisis—and decided that what this country really needs is a good dose of flag-waving and a return to some mythical golden age. You’re the ones who feel the need to express your disgust at what’s happening to our green and pleasant land, and I can’t entirely blame you. The sight of Britain in 2025—a nation where potholes outnumber functioning hospitals, and the NHS waiting list is longer than the queue for tickets for the last Oasis concert—would make anyone want to wave a Union Jack and scream into the void. But Reform, my friends, is not your saviour. It’s just another cog in the machine, a pressure valve for your discontent, designed to keep you distracted while the real game plays out elsewhere.

Because here’s the rub, dear readers: the answer isn’t a political party. Oh no. They’re all compromised, or they will be by the time they get anywhere near the levers of power. You see, anyone who makes it to Parliament must pledge allegiance to the Crown, that ancient institution that we’re all supposed to revere as the beating heart of our constitution. Now, I’m not here to debate the merits of King Charles III’s organic farming initiatives or his fondness for talking to plants—though one does wonder if the begonias have better policy ideas than our current crop of MPs. 

So, what’s the solution, you ask? Well, it’s not the Green Party or the Lib Dems, I’ll tell you that much. Those poor souls are so far gone, lost in a haze of eco-warrior dreams and proportional representation fantasies, that they’re beyond saving. Good luck to them, I say, as they pedal their solar-powered bicycles into the sunset, blissfully unaware that the world is burning faster than their compost heaps. No, the answer lies in something far more radical: unity. Yes, unity—against the common enemy, that shadowy force that lurks behind the curtain of our so-called democracy. I won’t bore you with the details—partly because I’d rather you read Dr. John Coleman’s The Conspirators’ Hierarchy: The Committee of 300 for yourselves (it’s on the CIA’s website, of all places, which is either a conspiracy theorist’s dream or a very elaborate prank). But suffice it to say that the real power in this country isn’t in Westminster, or even Buckingham Palace. It’s in the hands of those who thrive on our division, who fear nothing more than the sight of us, the great unwashed, coming together to demand something better.

The political system, you see, works against us. It’s a machine designed to keep us squabbling over scraps while the real decisions are made in boardrooms and backrooms, far from the prying eyes of the electorate. The strength of unity terrifies them—those faceless puppet masters who pull the strings while we argue over whether Labour or the Tories are the lesser evil. If we could only see past the tribalism, past the party lines, we might just stand a chance. But that would require us to stop being so delightfully, quintessentially British—stop queuing politely for our own demise, stop grumbling into our tea, and start making a proper fuss. And I’m not sure we’ve got it in us anymore.

So here we are, in the spring of 2025, watching the great British political circus roll on. The clowns are in charge, the ringmaster is on holiday, and the audience is too busy arguing over the price of popcorn to notice that the tent is on fire. Labour, Tories, Reform—they’re all part of the same tired act, performing for an audience that’s too exhausted to boo. The Crown sits atop the whole sorry spectacle, a glittering distraction from the real show. And the Green Party and Lib Dems? They’re off in the corner, juggling their biodegradable principles, hoping someone will notice.

As for me, I’ll be over here, sipping my tea (with a drop something much stronger in it ...), watching the chaos unfold with the weary amusement of a man who’s seen it all before. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from 44 years of observing this mad, mad world, it’s that sometimes the only way to survive is to laugh. And if you can’t laugh at the sight of Britain in 2025—a nation where the monarchy is more political than the politicians, and the politicians are less useful than a glass cricket bat—then I’m afraid you’re not paying attention.

THE RANTING BRUMMIE REVIEWS: "MICKEY 17" (2025)

"Mickey 17," the latest cinematic truffle to be snuffled up from the dirt of speculative fiction, begins with a kind of raffish glee that suggests director Bong Joon-ho has been sneaking peeks at his own back catalogue and decided to give us a greatest-hits remix. 

The premise—a disposable colonist dying repeatedly for the greater good—has a crisp, mordant edge, and Bong wields it like a scalpel, slicing through the pomposity of space-opera tropes with the glee of a chef filleting a particularly pompous fish. The first half is a sprightly affair, a sort of intergalactic vaudeville where Robert Pattinson, as the titular Mickey, proves once again that he can do more with a raised eyebrow than most actors can with a soliloquy. His performance is a masterclass in controlled lunacy—imagine a man who’s been told he’s expendable so many times he’s started to believe it’s a compliment. Pattinson skitters through the film’s early stretches like a caffeinated ferret, all twitchy charm and deadpan despair, and you can’t help but root for him as he’s cloned, killed, and cloned again in a loop of existential slapstick. It’s "Groundhog Day" with a body count, and for a while, it’s an absolute hoot.

The visuals are sharp, the pacing is brisk, and the whole thing hums along with the kind of dark, playful energy that makes you forgive the odd plot hole or two. You’re too busy chuckling at Pattinson’s latest demise—splatted by a malfunctioning pod, or perhaps incinerated in a way that suggests the special-effects team had a grudge against him—to care about the finer points of narrative coherence.

And then, alas, the second half arrives, like a guest who’s overstayed their welcome and started raiding the fridge. The film, having exhausted its initial burst of invention, decides it’s time to get serious, and in waddles Mark Ruffalo as a colonial administrator who’s less a character and more a megaphone for political satire so broad it could be seen from orbit. 

Ruffalo’s turn as a blatant Trump expy—complete with a comb-over that looks like it’s plotting its own escape and a penchant for barking nonsensical orders—is the kind of heavy-handed caricature that makes you wonder if Bong lost a bet. Where Pattinson’s Mickey is a study in subtlety, Ruffalo’s tyrant is a sledgehammer to the skull, all bluster and no nuance. It’s as if someone decided the film needed a villain so cartoonish that Wile E. Coyote would tell him to tone it down.

The plot, which had been gambolling along like a lamb in spring, promptly collapses under the weight of this new agenda. What was once a nimble satire about survival and identity morphs into a clunky parable about authoritarianism, complete with speeches that sound like they were cribbed from a protest placard. The energy drains away, the jokes dry up, and you’re left with a film that’s less "Parasite" and more "Punchline," staggering towards a conclusion that feels both inevitable and oddly unearned. 

Pattinson does his best to keep things afloat, but even he can’t save a script that’s decided it’s more interested in preaching than entertaining. The production is undeniably grand and expensive, evident in its visually striking yet occasionally excessive scenes. The film often gives off a sense of familiarity-as if we've seen these themes before. The idea for example that we are the real aliens and "monsters" is hardly new, and at times, the script leans too heavily on familiar concepts explored already by many movies.

In the end, "Mickey 17" is a film of two halves—one a sparkling little gem, the other a lump of coal masquerading as social commentary. Pattinson shines, Ruffalo flounders, and Bong, for all his talent, seems to have forgotten that a satire works best when it doesn’t feel like a lecture. It’s not a total wash—those first 45 minutes are worth the price of admission alone—but by the time the credits roll, you’re left with the nagging sense that this could have been a classic, if only it hadn’t tried so hard to be important.