Weekly diary of a TV addict

A fate worse than marriage

Spoilers for season 4 of Doctor Who

This is a guest post by the fabulous Carmen Maria Machado! It was previously paywalled, but now it’s free! Tomorrow, for subscribers: the divine Marissa Brostoff on HBO’s adaptation of Elena Ferrante’s My Brilliant Friend.

We are introduced to Donna Noble in the Doctor Who reboot’s season three Christmas special, when the Doctor accidentally abducts her while walking down the aisle on her wedding day. The first five minutes of the episode are among the most deeply satisfying in the entire show, as an outraged Donna screams at the Doctor’s mopey wide-eyed muppet-face to take her back, take her home. She is furious and yelling and demands to know where she is.

“It’s called the TARDIS,” the Doctor says, unhelpfully.

“That’s not even a proper word!” she shouts. “You’re just saying things.”

It’s funny because so rarely in this show are the tables turned this way; the Doctor’s cleverness—which the male showrunners manifest as an arrogant and garbled linguistic grab-bag, so nonsensical it seems improvised—flummoxed by the bluntness of fact-stating and righteous anger. It is one of the most honest and hilarious lines in the entire show. He is, in fact, just saying things.

Anyway. During this episode, it’s revealed that Donna’s husband-to-be, Lance, who she has been viewing as the antidote to her otherwise miserable life, does not love her at all but was with her as part of a plot being orchestrated by the Empress of the Racnoss, a monstrous alien race of spider-beings bent—naturally—on world domination. Worse than that, he views her with nothing but contempt. (“God, she's thick. Months I've had to put up with her. Months. A woman who can't even point to Germany on a map… And then I was stuck with a woman who thinks the height of excitement is a new flavor Pringle. Oh, I had to sit there and listen to all that yap yap yap. Oh, Brad and Angelina. Is Posh pregnant? X Factor, Atkins Diet, Feng Shui, split ends, text me, text me, text me. Dear God, the never-ending fountain of fat, stupid trivia. I deserve a medal.”)

Even after they save the world, Donna is still wounded by this realization. She declines the Doctor’s offer to travel and returns to her existence as a single temp from Cheswick who lives with her mother and has shitty friends.

A full season later, Tate returns to the show, when the Doctor discovers that a weight-loss supplement company he’s been investigating—as it turns out, run by aliens who turn human fat into tiny baby aliens—is also being investigated by Donna. She is still the woman who cannot make love work, or work work but she is trying. This time, she goes with him.

Catherine Tate plays Donna hard and fast along the boundary of hilarity and tenderness. Donna is first companion in the Doctor Who reboot who isn’t incredibly young and doesn’t fall madly in love with the him. And she isn’t, at first, particularly kind or good or curious or thoughtful or self-actualized. She’s rude and afraid. More than anything, she’s afraid.  

But—as her and the Doctor travel time and space together—it turns out Donna has been seeking the part of herself that connects to other people. Season four of Doctor Who is transcendent; a near-flawless arc of character development wherein Donna faces down her choices and realizes she has been looking for a reason to care. She follows the Doctor to Pompeii just before its fateful explosion and implores him to save someone, anyone. He takes her to a planet where the Ood—a telepathic, Cthulhu-faced society who carry their brains in their hands—have been enslaved and turned into sentient Apple products by the human race. The Doctor gives her the ability to hear their mournful song, and horrified and overwhelmed by her own sadness she begs him to take it away. She follows him to an interstellar library with carnivorous shadows, where she becomes trapped in a computer and lives out a perverse and surreal version of her once-fantasy life until she is rescued. She misses the events of an entire episode (“Midnight”) because she’s at an alien spa and doesn’t want to leave. She becomes less afraid. She learns that a good life is not about achieving random milestones; it’s about realizing that you are a center puzzle piece, that we are all center puzzle pieces. (It’s also about occasionally eschewing FOMO and sapphire waterfalls for alien massages, the greatest lesson of all.)

I began watching the reboot of Doctor Who at a time in my life when I didn’t know what I wanted to do with myself. I’d just graduate from college and moved to California. I was lonely, sad, struggling to find work. I stayed inside a lot. This was before the days of streaming platforms; I downloaded episodes of the show from weird international websites and gave my computer more than one virus. That version of myself—twenty-two, miserable—loved her. In her I saw myself: selfish, imperfect, uncertain. Suspecting, no-so-secretly, that I’d failed. Wondering if I’d ever locate my purpose. Trying to locate my mind.  


At the end of her season, after Donna has grown and shaped the very universe, there is a terrible accident. She is filled with the power of the TARDIS, and a prophecy that has been echoing throughout her episodes comes to pass: she becomes part Timelord, “The Doctor-Donna.” But, the Doctor tells her, such a thing cannot be. Her human mind will not be able to handle it. If he doesn’t wipe her memory of their time together—and the person she became in the process—she will die.

The final part of that episode is, to my mind, one of the most traumatic minutes of modern television. Donna pleads with the Doctor. Not for her life, but for her mind. “Don’t make me go back,” she gasps, “please. Please.” She is begging him: Don’t make me go back to the way I was before. But it is, narratively speaking, the only cure. The Doctor does what she’d demanded he do the first time they met, when she showed up on the TARDIS unbidden: He sends her back. He reaches out his hand and unmakes what she became in between. He unmakes her.

The first time I saw this episode, I screamed. I didn’t even realize I was doing it until I noticed that I was standing up out of my computer chair, howling through great big ugly sobs.

I didn’t know what I was experiencing. Now, I do. It was grief. I was grieving.


There is, among the many sexist tropes that infect science fiction and fantasy, a particularly pervasive one that seems practical for dramatic and logistical purposes but when tilted to the side reveals a great ugliness about how we think about female characters: their minds are expendable, interchangeable, as long as their bodies are present. It happens twice in Joss Whedon’s Angel (another show I watched during that terrible and weird era of my life): Cordelia’s transition to supernatural baby incubator and Fred’s consciousnesses being scooped out of her body and replaced with a goddess. The actress continues working even though the character is, for all intents and purposes, dead.

As a trope it unsettles me for so many reasons, but I think mostly because I know that if such technology or magic was possible, it’s exactly how our cultural loathing of women would manifest: not just narrative suppression and senseless bodily harm, but literal mind-colonization. We are saved from brain-scooping and memory-erasure only because we live in reality.

I have watched female characters I love be cut down in all manner of ways. I’ve watched them be shot, blown up, die in childbirth, marry men. But I have never seen anything as singularly monstrous and cruel as what was done to Donna. Never. It haunts me. I can’t talk about it without crying. I can’t write about it without crying. I’m crying now.

Jesse. It's time to cuck.

Spoilers for Breaking Bad, season 1

It is impossible to watch Breaking Bad today as anything but a national allegory foreshadowing the current administration’s politics of white male resentment. Walter White is a genius, but nobody cares. He lives in a liberally carpeted bungalow with kitschy wood-paneled walls; in the hallway hang hand-drawn portraits of Walt, his wife Skyler, and his son Walter Jr.—smiling, unpersuasive faces that only underscore the bankruptcy at the heart of white suburbia: Walt’s sexless marriage, his shit job, his other shit job, his unpaid bills, his wife’s unplanned pregnancy. The tumor comes to kick him while he’s already down, a biological punishment for his failures as a man, husband, father. Cancer is the ultimate illegal immigrant, squatting in the body, putting the locals out of work, reproducing at an alarming rate. It brings disease, and it brings crime.

Walter White is meek and hunched; he wears dad khakis and oversized Oxford shirts. The camera loves Walt’s skin, craggy and granite like the Albuquerque Basin; his head, once he shaves it, is a desert of its own, miles of scalp occasionally punctuated by a scab or a colorless mole. This is a man who deserves better. We know from the pilot that Walt is a brilliant chemist vastly overqualified for his public school teaching job. When Walt and Skyler attend the birthday party of Walt’s former lab partner Elliott—Walt dons a gold-buttoned double-breasted sports coat and a tie bursting with paisley whorls, like a sea captain who owns a furniture outlet—we learn that Walt’s lab partner Elliott Schwartz, a Nobel laureate who resembles a political cartoon of himself, used Walt’s research to build a two-billion-dollar pharmaceutical company Grey Matter Technologies and is now happily married to Walt’s beautiful ex-flame Gretchen. What this means is that Walt is literally a cuck, having lost his woman to the man who bought him out of his own company for lunch money.

I’ve seen every episode of Breaking Bad, but Sally had never watched it, so a few days ago we started from the very beginning. “This show is really about the revenge of the beta,” I remarked to her, as we watched Walt stagger about the desert in his underwear. Recently, for book research purposes, I’ve been poking around the so-called manosphere, which sounds like what Hank Schrader would call one of his balls, and I’ve been fascinated by the posture of aggrievement its users adopt. Posters to the subreddit r/TheRedPill—a reference to the pill which frees your mind from the Matrix in the films of the same name—frequently preface their angry rants and seduction tips with brief biographies: how they were bullied, ostracized, disrespected, degraded. In this way the ex-cuck remains forever attached to his erstwhile cuckness: he must constantly relive his feminization at the hands of other men in order to ground his present sense of mastery.

This is to say, in other words, that the red piller’s journey is one of gender transition: from beta to alpha, pushover to boss, milquetoast Walter White to unflappable Heisenberg. I don’t make that comparison lightly. The parallels between extremely online trans women discourse and MRA talk are striking: each group has a vested interest in demonstrating a recurrent failure to be men that culminates in a gender epiphany. It is hardly an accident that, in rallying behind the red pill, the far right has appropriated what in retrospect is an obvious metaphor for hormone replacement therapy: Matrix directors Lana and Lily Wachowski have both come out as trans women in recent years, and the most common form of prescription estrogen when the first Matrix movie opened was a smooth beet-red pill made from the urine of pregnant mares.

We could speculate then that the resentment the white male alt-righter projects onto immigrants, black people, George Soros, and the soy milk industry is, among other things, sadistically displaced gender dysphoria. The red piller radicalizes—becomes a Nazi troll, bashes gays, starts a drug empire—as an alternative to MTF transition, the way some closeted trans women join the military in a desperate attempt to get the girl beaten out of them.

Transition isn’t easy, after all, whether from male to female or beta to alpha. Walt will be kidnapped, beaten, shot at. His wife will ask him where he’s been. His body will change, and his medicine will have debilitating side effects. It’s only after he thinks he’s killed two men that he can get a hard-on.

But what is an alpha after all? At first glance, the dichotomy in Breaking Bad is simple: Walter White, the beta, high school chemistry teacher, a failed husband, and oppressed intellectual; Hank Schrader, the alpha, DEA agent, representative of the police state, with a nice house and a hot wife. The brothers-in-law mirror each other, chiral isomers like those described by Walt in a classroom lecture. But the truth is that Hank, too, is a beta: his cowardice, his tryhard laugh, the constant stream of inappropriate jokes. Over barbecue at the Whites, he gives Walt Jr. dating advice that could have been pulled straight from the pick-up artist forums. “You just gotta have . . .” He pauses, clamming his lips together like a man about to throw a left hook. “Confidence. Confidence, and persistence.” His voice is a hamburger commercial. “I chased your Aunt Marie here all over creation. Kept bugging her for a date, she kept saying no. What I asked you, like, fifty times?” His larynx is a griddle his lungs are working minimum wage to scrape grease off of. Marie nods, sighing as she speaks, “Yeah it was before they tightened the stalking laws.” Hank lets out three discrete chuckles, like the puffs of a depressed chew toy. He knows she’s not really kidding.

Hence an epistemological question that grounds the entire series: Are there any true alphas? Or are all alphas just betas pretending? Call this the Heisenberg uncertainty principle: if you know where your gender is, you don’t know where it’s going; if you know where your gender’s headed, you don’t know where it is.

Hi folks! I’m taking next week off for Thanksgiving, and then I have surgery on the 29th, so this is the last Paper View you’ll read of mine until late December. However! In the meantime, I’ve enlisted several very special guests to fill in for me, starting with award-winning writer Carmen Maria Machado on December 3.

This is a free end-of-the-month letter, so if you’re moved to share on social media, please do! And if you aren’t signed up weekly letters but you’d like to be ($5/month or $50/year), click the button below.

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