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Torchwood: A Day in the Death

This is without a doubt the hardest review of Torchwood that I've ever had to write. The problem stems from the fact that A Day in the Death isn't a bad episode by any stretch of the imagination, it just isn't a particularly good one, either. It just is. A bit like Owen, I suppose.

There are plenty of things to admire. Owen's growing dislocation and ennui was handled particularly well (the shot where Tosh fades into the background is one of the most powerful and visually interesting scenes in the entire series) and the black humour that permeates Joe Lidster's script was both deliciously perverse and occasionally profound. Burn Gorman gives another knock-out performance (it's the character, not the actor, that I can't get on with) and I really enjoyed how last week's trailer gave us completely the wrong impression of what this episode was really about. The non-linear structure was very effective too, and I even enjoyed some of Ianto's banter. So what went wrong?

I just found it hard to care.

Jack chooses to fire sick quips at his colleague as he lies on the ground like a drowned kitten...

Jack is a complete tosser. Again. The fact that he's been stalking poor Owen and watching his pathetic attempts at impossible suicide just make me despise him even more. If there's one person who could help Owen come to terms with his predicament, it's Jack. Instead he chooses to alienate his colleague by firing sick quips at him as he lies on the ground like a beaten and drowned kitten. He was upset and offended when the Doctor perceived him as being "wrong" in Utopia, and yet here he is doing exactly the same thing to a so-called mate. And his reason for suspending Owen from Torchwood was utterly preposterous. If he was really concerned that Owen might manifest into a conduit for a magical death-dealing monster then how come he let him stand behind Martha Jones twirling a ****ing scalpel??!! And putting him in charge of the coffee could have been a recipe for disaster as well. If Owen turned evil he could have wiped out the whole organisation with one round of cappuccinos.

Maybe Jack is just pissed off that he's not the only dead man running around Cardiff these days? Whatever the reason, it's a dynamic that needs to be addressed. Fast.

To give the programme some props, at least Owen's situation/curse isn't entirely the same as the Captain's. Whereas Jack is completely indestructible Owen is not. Poor Dr Harper is broken and hollow (subtext alert!) and if he got a bullet in the forehead he'd have to walk around in a bobble hat for the rest of eternity. I, for one, can't wait to see his fingers drop off next week; that has to make you feel sorry for him, surely? I can't really be bothered getting into the absurdities of his situation - how does he speak without breathing etc etc - as that path leads to madness, and as long as Owen ends up looking like Griffin Dunne in An American Werewolf in London then you can colour me impressed.

If Owen got a bullet in the forehead he'd have to wear a bobble hat for the rest of eternity...

The subplot involving Richard Briers was pretty neat, all things considered. The misdirection certainly surprised me: I was expecting a Bondian villain instead of an old fart stinking of piss and vinegar, but I just didn't get the fake threat at all. "It's gonna blow!" Er, it's blown. Um, nothing's happened... Or did I nod off at that point and miss something?

You might think that the title of this review is a cheap pop at Richard but it isn't; it's directed at the way Martha Jones has been handled over the last couple of weeks. After a barnstorming introduction in Reset here she just blends into the background and is given practically sod all to do. Even the coffee machine appears to be off-limits to her. Poor Freema really deserved a lot better. Martha is a great character who simply oozes potential and yet the franchise seems to be at a complete loss as to what to do with her. Maybe they could kill her off so she can enjoy her own six-part mini-arc?

I don't know. Maybe I'm being too harsh on this thoroughly competent and inoffensive slice of Torchwood. Maybe I'm so jaded these days that I just can't bring myself to cry over a dead man that I don't particularly like as he waxes lyrical about the subtle complexities of life and death with an alien lava lamp in his hand. Maybe, like Owen, I'm dead inside too.