After the genius of Blackadder, the crimes of Richard Curtis live on in infamy. The Vicar of Dibley. Mr. Bean. Love Actually. Culminating in the most woefully disappointing film of last year, The Boat That Rocked... it really seemed like there was no way back for him.
So I wasn't looking forward to last night's Doctor Who. Particularly as the Moffat/Smith Who resurrection has been so consistently strong till now, finally realising the potential this show had so often squandered under Russell T. Davies. The last thing I'd expected was the most emotional piece of mainstream telly I've seen in many a year.
Manipulatively sentimental? You could say that. If you were more of a cynic than me. (If you are more of a cynic than me, I pity you, I really do.) The last 15 minutes of last night's Doctor Who had me fighting back tears the whole way. I'm not entirely sure I can put into words just why... but that's never stopped me before. Firstly, the idea of an artist who spends his whole life feeling unappreciated finally, for one brief moment, getting to see how that will change after his death. Secondly, the loneliness of Van Gogh himself (brilliantly brought to life by Tony Curran). Loneliness as a theme that always gets to me. I keep coming back to that quote from Mother Teresa, "the most terrible poverty is loneliness, and the feeling of being unloved". And that was a woman who'd seen poverty in all its forms. Finally, the idea that the Doctor and Amy not only give Vincent a few fleeting moments of friendship, happiness, and accomplishment... but that by doing so, may even have hastened his eventual suicide. Who knows how a bipolar personality would respond to being shown what the Doctor showed Vincent? That's the real sting in this tale.
So, thank you Richard Curtis. And thank you Steven Moffat, for the rehabilitation of Richard Curtis. Perhaps that dreaded Neil Gaiman episode will turn out OK after all...
