sovay | No one move a muscle when the dead come home

The ironic aftereffect of viewing The Night of the Doctor (2013) last thing before bed is that I woke up wanting a time machine. The Doctor who sold his soul, sacrificed his name, gave away everything he stood for and became a monster to fight monsters? Of course I want him played by John Hurt. And then I want a series of that nameless Warrior seen for just one stinger moment in that fire-polished ripple of metal: Doctor no more . . . I have always thought John Hurt was beautiful, especially in his dark, watchful younger years. He always looked a little bruised around the eyes, even when the rest of him was boyish; he's a good face for someone I suspect of deploying the Gallifreyan equivalent of the Deplorable Word to end the Time War. I imagine we'll find out the full story in "The Day of the Doctor," but it will still be just a flicker, like this glimpse of Paul McGann. Thirty-year-old John Hurt is not happening without serious technology. (Neither is more onscreen McGann, I am afraid, although at least in his case there's years of radio drama to catch up on.) It's still probably most I've enjoyed a script by Steven Moffat since "Blink." And I can write wistfully about the rest.

No one move a muscle when the dead come home

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