Reinterpreting the Doctor Who universe as an epic fable, a glorious mix of space opera and Hammer Horror, a myth that seems far older and wiser than our twentieth-century pop culture series should be, Death Comes to Time might just be one of the best-kept secrets this long-running franchise has ever produced. Glorious, melancholy, and deeply beautiful, it uses poetry dripping with irony and parables to tell its story, which is an astonishingly effective touch. It shakes up the show's dynamic just enough to be different but not too much to alienate its audience. Canon or not, there can be no doubt that there is something truly special here, even the severely limited animation doesn't detract from the outstanding performances of its incredible cast. It's incredibly classy stuff.
This is easily one of Sylvester McCoy's best performances as the Seventh Doctor, and that's saying a lot given the many powerhouse performances he's given over the years. The Doctor of this story is a tragic figure: a tired, universe-weary old man who is watching everything he has spent his life fighting for being brought to the edge of destruction. It's stuff McCoy handles brilliantly, but there are also moments where his comical side shines brightly without it being forced or intrusive, a real testament to his character and the exceptional writing. John Sessions brings a malicious relish to General Tannis; he's utterly chilling, in a way that Doctor Who villains so rarely are, manifesting in all kinds of understated butchery and free of the overacting mega campery that plagues so many one-off villains of old. However, the real show stealer is Stephen Fry as the Minister of Chance. Very poignantly, he's essentially the Doctor in all but name. Not the old and tired Doctor but the exuberant, romantic young adventurer, brimming with optimism, who wants to see everything. Yet he brings a subtle, abiding sadness and loneliness to the role that Fry just excels at.
Backed by a truly stunning musical score by Nik Romero, Death Comes to Time would have been Doctor Who's natural conclusion in a perfect world. It's everything the show should be and more, devoting everything to telling a terrific story and providing an utterly gratifying yet equally heart-wrenching conclusion to the majesty that is the Seventh Doctor. Whether you define it as a homage, a blasphemy or a post modernistic revalidation, you cannot argue with the passion that everyone has put in here; this was Dan Freedman's baby in every sense of the word and it's rather sad this is currently his only contribution to the wider universe of Doctor Who. I cannot rave about this story enough, I think I've just found a new favourite.
