There was a thing in the middle of the trailer at the end of the Let's Kill Hitler screening last night. I was going to tell you what they were. Because it's obviously going to come out, after a roomful of journalists who have seen it, that they're back. But I can't bring myself to type the words because one of you beautiful, deranged spoilerphobes will have my eyes for it. But yes, apparently they're back. Even though Steven Moffat told us they weren't. When questioned about why he lied, at the following Q&A session, the gleeful Scot admitted: "I lie repeatedly and continually. It's by far the best way of communicating."
One of the lovely things about this series of Doctor Who is how giddily the press have played along. At every such event this year, Moffat has begged us not to reveal the many and various secrets. It's made reporting on this series of Doctor Who feel like a bizarre game of chicken. And it's not going to be the Guardian who breaks first.
And here's the problem. I can't tell you anything about Let's Kill Hitler. I can't tell you about the nature of Hitler's role in it. I can't tell you about who gets left in the cupboard. I can't tell you who thinks who is gay. I can't tell you about the miniaturisation ray. I can't tell you about the best friend we'd never heard mention of before. I can't tell you about the things with the tentacles. I can't tell you about the crop circles. And I definitely can't tell you about what Doctor Song (as I am refusing to stop calling her) does next. Saying anything at all gives it all away. It's the way with Moffat's intricately plotted scripts.
All I can tell you is that it's really rather good. And after my underwhelmed reaction to A Good Man Goes To War and all its kitchen sinks, it makes for a strong, standalone, character-based episode that manages to carry the weight of the entire series, while making perfect poetic sense. The series is heading in a bravely "hard sci-fi" direction for sure – the inevitable chat will be what the fabled "casual viewer" will make of it all. Yet as Moffat also pointed out: "Assuming an intelligent audience is a good idea and judging by our ratings, it's been a successful idea." (He also said he never goes online to read about the show, something else we know to be a lie.)
In the absence of anything concrete to reveal, I may as well tell you about our night at the BFI bar, which isn't as ridiculous as it sounds. Because after almost a decade working as a music journalist, the thrice-a-year Doctor Who events are fast becoming the most rock'n'roll nights in my calendar. It's partly because of the cast being there. In Karen Gillan (gorgeous in a flesh-coloured cocktail dress), Arthur Darvill (bearded and swaggering and newly-confident now he has a pivotal role in Who- lore) and Matt Smith (absent because of prior filming commitments) we have something of a sci-fi Brat Pack, which is new. It's partly because nobody in the crew seems averse to a spot of ill-advised Monday night drinking. It's partly because the sense of occasion that everything we've discussed above compels. But I think it's mainly because the privilege of being there – and the jealousy of hipster colleagues who four years ago wouldn't even admit to watching – is simply too exciting not to turn the whole thing into a party.
And yes, the episode itself is really, really good.
