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The Fifth Doctor, Peri, and Erimem land in 1917 Tibet—because obviously the Doctor’s idea of highbrow leisure is cricket and yak trekking amid imperial collapse. The setup’s twisted: “Let’s stroll into a land bleeding under colonial violence and cultural erasure” dressed in white flannels. Immediately, we’re greeted by General Bruce and Lord Davey—straight-up architects of massacre and erasure. And the Doctor? He knows they’re monsters. But his only pushback is when their atrocities interrupt his tea break or cricket fixture. Talk about privilege in full swing.
Then—and brace yourself—Erimem disappears into an extraterrestrial cloud. No dramatic sacrifice, no hero’s arc. She vanishes. Stuck, waiting, whispering, until someone retrieves her. All the “backstory depth” they piled on—her erased royal records, her connection to eldritch gods, Sutekh-vibes and all—amount to zero agency. She’s still the screaming, possessed adjutant waiting for rescue. Damsel in distress? More like damsel on loop.
What’s left is a yawner. Lord Davey reveals himself as some Lovecraftian Old One, but unlike creepy cosmic horror, he’s boring. The General wrings his hands about legacy and regret over genocidal career highlights. Erimem fights possession by mumbling Lewis Carroll, because of course this is the one time Big Finish leans on Alice in Wonderland tropes. And the Doctor “defeats” this anti-Nyarlathotep by monologuing at it—like a dodgy TED Talk delivered mid-wicket.
Why drag Erimem into 1910s Tibet for this? The colonial context should have been fertile ground for drama, guilt, confrontation—but instead it’s just window dressing for a paper-thin eldritch talkathon. You feel nothing. The script tries for cosmic resonance, but lands like stale scone.
A weird footnote: this was the one licensed Doctor Who story released while its writer was in prison. That might explain some of the tone-deaf disconnection. It’s the kind of story that stinks of a casual dismissal of real harm set in a world crumbling under empire. Not cool.
Sound design? Fine. Yaks, mountain winds, orchestral hint of dread—they do their job. But we’ve had better from Big Finish when stakes and substance align. Here? Atmosphere tries to paper over narrative emptiness.
Final Thoughts:
This isn’t bad in a laugh-track bad kind of way. It’s just… empty. Proudly medieval in its storytelling sensibilities, obstinately colonial in its worldview, still dragging Erimem through mud so she can squeak exposition. The spark? Gone.
Rating: 2 out of 5 hollow tea-towel gods.