There are ideas that are captivating when we come across them. Doctor Who is one of them, featuring a lead character bouncing around time and space in a blue box. It’s why it’s endured for more than sixty years across different mediums, surviving hiatus and cancellation, public indifference and sometimes overly harsh criticism from its “fans,” to still have new stories being made from it. Because it’s a format that has birthed ideas that make us go “I’d like to watch/hear/read that!” Like, say, Patrick Torughton’s Doctor in 1940s Hollywood with Ben and Polly before they met Jamie. Surely that would make for a good story?
Well it ought to have been, if only things had been a bit better.
In part because, of all the Doctor’s, Troughton’s has proven the hardest to capture on the page. There’s a quicksilver and strongly visual quality to his performances, something that was driven home over a decade ago when The Enemy of the World was recovered. Along with what Barry Letts termed a “semi-improvisational” approach to dialogue, this is a Doctor that proved elusive to conveying in prose, something that I first realized when I read Heart of TARDIS nearly twenty years ago (though memory tells me there was little about that novel that worked). David A. McIntee in The Dark Path and Justin Richards with Dreams of Empire captured him convincingly, as more recently has Kate Orman with The Dead Star (though, being an audiobook, perhaps also benefits from having Michael Troughton bringing the Doctor to life). It’s something which made me wonder which end of the scale Jon de Burgh Miller would fall.
All over the place was the answer. There are times when Miller is up there with McIntee and Richards, especially in chapter fourteen where the Doctor reveals to Ben and Fletcher the nature of what they’re up against. The entire chapter, running six pages, is a masterclass in writing for this Doctor, capturing him wonderfully. For moments such as that and a handful of others scattered throughout the novel, for much of the it the Doctor is written in a bland “fill in the Doctor here” fashion. The flourishes when they’re present go a long way to selling that this is, in fact, a novel with Troughton’s Doctor but those moments aren’t sustained enough to make the characterization a complete success.
Nor do things get better beyond the Doctor. Ben and Polly’s characterizations likewise range from well drawn to “in name only,” with Polly especially getting the short end of things in the concluding chapters where she’s scarcely present. None of the supporting characters come across especially strong, either, including the LAPD’s William Fletcher who is the lead supporting character or the notional villain in the form of De Sande. There’s interesting ideas for characters and moments here and there, but nothing especially memorable or praise worthy.
The sliding scale of quality is present elsewhere. Miller clearly had strong ideas and lines of prose, including an opening line written in a hard-boiled noir style that offered strong hints of where the novel ought to be going. They offer an immediate sense of time and place, namely LA and Hollywood in the late 1940s in those early chapters. This is one of a number of Wilderness Era works that go for an American setting, perhaps because they could do so in a way that Classic Who could never hope to do (and even Big Finish in its early years struggled with as Minuet in Hell released a few months prior to the novel sadly attests). Which makes it a shame that it’s something that isn’t sustained after a couple of chapters and proves to be entirely absent by the time of the rather rushed and underwhelming finale. The ideas and themes are strong (and there’s arguably shades of them in the 2025 TV episode Lux, all things considered), but the novel doesn’t make anywhere near as much of them as it could have.
Something which can be said of Dying in the Sun as a whole. There’s much that Miller gets right, from flashes of characterization for Troughton’s Doctor to those early chapters, that ought to have made this one of the better novels for that Doctor. Instead, those are flash in the pans, catching the eye and promising much but never quite delivering.
Which is a crying shame.