The first red flag went up as I watched the season one finale of Fox's sci-fi, horror, procedural drama Fringe. After 19 episodes of searching for the illusive William Bell, revolutionary researcher, corporate mastermind and former partner to mad scientist turned FBI consultant, Walter Bishop, the determined Olivia Dunham discovers (after several, 'He can no longer be found on this world'-type winks from various minor characters): what do you know, Bellie (as Walter seems to call him occasionally, or maybe Billy which would make more sense) is camped out in a parallel universe! "There's more than one of everything" the episode title tells us while bashing us over the head with significance-laden one-liners.
Hmm. A science-fiction show in which an exclusive branch of the government quivers with fear that part-human, part-machine beings have started opening gates (rifts anyone?) between worlds and are now planning to trek over for a day of universal destruction. Sound familiar? "Yes!" holler the Whovians, waving their Doomsday dvds. [During the two episode plot of 'Army of Ghosts' and 'Doomsday' part-human, part-machine beings march through a rift in time an space from a parallel universe, and make attempts at world domination--- resulting in much consternation and bereavement. "MUCH bereavement," sob the Whovians, again waving their Doomsday dvds, crying and listening to their Doctor&Rose playlists.] Russel T. Davies and friends should be getting out their intellectual property law because J.J. Abrams and co. are not done scavenging for plot points.
This week the show revisits the Observer--- no, not the newspaper, but a mysterious and hairless man who wears dated clothes and with a fondness for hot sauce. Or I should say, the Observers, as Olivia and Peter find out there are more than one of them. Guess what they do? They manipulate the laws of time and space, show up randomly in times of crisis, goof around with strange and wondrous tech, resist the wear and tear of age, and photoshop themselves into famous images from history from the Boston Massacre to the demise of Franz Ferdinand--- see that's one of them right there, right next to the Doctor.
"Who are these guys?" Peter questions dramatically, scowling with his typical frowny face.
"Timelords!" shouts out Walter.
Astrid hits him, "They cut that line dummy!? Remember?"
Walter eats some jelly babies to console himself.
Unfortunately for this new breed of timelord, I mean, for these Observers, one of them goes rogue, radically stopping a girl from getting on a plane that is going to crash into the ocean. Ok, the Doctor would not be too pleased with this type of meddling either, what with the laws of time and space collapsing on themselves and destroying the world, but at least he would draw the line at sending an assassin to kill the poor tied-and-gagged-for-her-own-safety girl. Luckily in the end rogue Observer sacrifices himself and this appears to rebalance everything.
"I think, it is what they call feelings," whispers rogue Observer as he croaks. "I think it is what they call love."
"What good are your skills if you cannot save the woman you love?" cackles back a co-Observer.
Whoops! No that was the dalek in Season 1 epsiode 6 of Doctor Who. Either way, rogue Observer bites the dust. And credits.
We, Whovians, should continue to keep a close eye on Fringe and its infringements, but we can take consolation in the fact that the Doctor is still much cooler than these sudo-timelords. They have none of his charisma, charm, wit, in-jokes, penchant for running up and down corridors, or any TARDIS-worthy equivalent, and they certainly could not pull off the converse sneakers/tuxedo look. And, they definitely have none of the dashing good looks topped with the dynamic explosion of awesomely mussed hair that makes all the girls go weak in the knees.
The Doctor still lords the universe, though we wouldn't mind him taking one pointer from these wannabes. Maybe the next time he is forced to 'genetic transfer' Martha Jones, he could eat some chili pepper first. Just a suggestion.
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