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Let’s call it what it is: The One Doctor is a gloriously unhinged sugar high of a story, dipped in glitter, wrapped in a whoopee cushion, and launched screaming into the vortex in a space-toilet. And that’s not even a metaphor.
This is Doctor Who if you jammed a Douglas Adams novella into a novelty Christmas cracker and exploded it over Colin Baker’s head. It’s pantomime, it’s parody, it’s pastiche—and, against all odds, it’s also just really good.
Colin’s here in full pomp and swirl, with Bonnie Langford’s Mel in tow—who, by the way, is on absolute form. No screaming sidekick here, thank you very much—this is Mel as space-Moneypenny with a cheat code for chaos. She’s smart, unfazed, and delivers quips with laser-precision. Evelyn who?
The plot is delightfully insubstantial, in the way soufflé is technically food: the Doctor and Mel arrive on Generios, only to discover that someone else has beaten them to the “heroic galactic rescuer” gig—namely, Banto Zame (Christopher Biggins at his most Biggins-y), a conman impersonating the Doctor for clout, credits, and possibly discount hover-meals. His companion? A bottle-blonde space grifter named Sally-Anne who is simultaneously 110% done with him and also three steps ahead.
Cue a reality-TV quest to retrieve three legendary artefacts: IKEA-meets-Mordor flatpack furniture, a smug AI who has never lost a quiz, and a hermit made of jelly with social anxiety and an Amazon Prime addiction. It’s all so perfectly bonkers it could have been scripted by a caffeinated Magrathean.
And somehow? It works. The pacing’s tighter than a Dalek’s ethics subroutine. The jokes land like sonic booms—some clever, some cheap, some groan-worthy in that beautiful British tradition of wordplay and surrealism. And when they don’t land? That’s the joke. Even the soundtrack is in on the gag.
But here’s the real shocker: beneath all the ridiculousness, there’s actual heart. Colin’s Doctor still burns with righteous indignation under the clown makeup. Mel still gives a damn about people. And even Banto, charlatan that he is, gets a tiny sliver of redemption beneath the bravado and sequins.
It’s rare that comedy Doctor Who doesn’t completely fall down its own trousers. But this one struts. If you’re the sort who prefers your sci-fi with blood, thunder, and tortured Time War metaphors, back away slowly. But if you want to hear the Sixth Doctor try to out-quiz a smug sentient computer while his doppelgänger argues over a folding shelf? Oh yes. This is your moment.
Final Verdict:
This isn’t “serious Who.” This is “smoke-bomb exit from a collapsing con” Who—and it’s fabulous.
4.5 out of 5 interstellar grift-fueled farces