The Claws of Axos
1971

or The Giant Eyes of Axos

or The Vagina Doors of Axos

When asked to cut more than 100 pages from his novel LA Confidential, James Ellroy opted to hack non-essential words from every sentence, creating a staccato, truncated style which is infamously befuddling.

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We thank Mr Ellroy for his editing work on The Claws of Axos.

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Of the 89 classic Doctor Who serials we’ve watched up to this point, it’s by far the most hectic, like someone’s crammed Memento into a Coke can and shaken it up.

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We’d presumed that entire scenes explaining this fever dream of a story had been wiped by over-zealous BBC tape recyclers, hence five minutes after the end credits rolled, our Google search history read:

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• What is the plot of Claws of Axos?

• Why doesn’t Claws of Axos make any sense?

• Were important scenes cut from Claws of Axos?

• Why can’t the dude at the beginning ride a bike in a straight line?

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This serial makes zero sense, is edited by masochists and synths crash over every scene louder than the NUTON POWER COMPLEX sign we’re frequently treated to. It’s a schizophrenic, psychedelic head-screw of an experience.

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And yet. It is damnably entertaining - utterly baffling but ridiculous fun.

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As such, we’re bemused why this story is so named when the titular claws are nothing more than set adornments which have no bearing on the plot. It would be like The Mind Robber being called Forest of Letters or The Ultimate Foe becoming Sand Hands (actually, that would be an improvement). Or Remembrance of the Daleks renamed as Racist B&B Sign.

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At the core of our enjoyability of The Claws of Axos is that it’s a sheer visual treat. To give the producers their due, they’ve gone all in. A door to door salesman has flogged them a bargain bin of screen flare effects, coloured projections, kaleidoscope backdrops and flash bombs, and they’ve used the whole lot in one go.

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There are primary colour filters smothering even the most mundane of scenes. The majority of doorways on the ship resemble vaginas. And the Axons themselves are, of course, gleamingly resplendent in their gold God-like finery.

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It’s so far beyond being OTT there isn’t even an abbreviation to describe it – but miraculously it comes together, if you’ll just let yourself go with the flow. Simply watch it without engaging your brain and you’ll have a great time. But be warned: if you try to question the logic or unpick the plot, you’ll go insane and cycle into a freezing pond for no discernible reason.

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As such, it’s one of our favourite Pertwee stories so far, despite being hamstrung by the usual Doc 3 dose of British bureaucracy (arise, Mr Chinn), 2D soldiers and the Wooden Brigadier, though to be fair he’s got more life in him than usual (yet still spends a strangely large amount of time on phones).

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This is not to mention the Doctor himself. It’s a shame that Pertwee takes himself so seriously, resolutely refusing to join in with the fun all around him and generally being such a grouch that he makes William Hartnell look like Ralph from the Simpsons.

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Grumpy Jon would be almost unwatchable here, were it not for the enormous brightening factor that is Jo, who lights up every scene she’s in. She may not have a great deal to do (we’re not counting fighting off frostbite in the miniskirt snow scenes or shrugging off outrageously sexist comments - “you must have imagined it,” our progressive hero declares when she hears voices) but Katy Manning is never anything less than great.

Even when pretending to wrestle with a giant rubber claw, she brings a zippy energy and genuinely seems to be having a good time.

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By contrast, the only time Jon seems at ease is in the company of the Master. Their bromance here is especially gorgeous, and their meet-cute inside the TARDIS makes the world an infinitely better place.

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It also helps that the Master is not yet Anthony Ainley/insufferable (delete as applicable). Delgado plays him as a debonair and intellectual foil to the Doctor. We’ll enjoy it before the character is dragged into panto territory.

His quip about using sticky tape on the windows as a nuclear blast precaution makes us purr. Dare we suggest the Master is far more interesting and better company than the Doctor in this story?

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But the leading man’s foibles are an insignificant detail when you’ve got a story jam-packed with such visual absurdity that your eyeballs are laughing along with the joke.

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Here, we’re served expanding frogs, Lister’s vindaloo monster with electric tendrils (which are remarkably efficient killers until faced with a character the audience recognises, at which point the zapping power mysteriously stops) and Yates giving Benton a generous three seconds’ notice before exploding a grenade in his Jeep.

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You’ve also got the delight of the Axons’ whole-body tights they bulk-bought on Temu, while the Master debates with a giant eyeball. Oh, and we demand to know what font UNIT uses on its Top Secret dossiers. We want to use it on our next tattoo.

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Amid this LSD trip, shout-outs are needed for two displays of random brilliance:

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• A stunt guy’s needlessly excellent backflip off a gantry when electrocuted.

• The fight between Bill Filer and his Terminator copy is great. We sympathise: the first thing we always do when our bullets don’t even make our enemy blink is to abandon the gun and instead try our luck with our bare hands. Never fails.

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And then the show opts to return to its educational roots to save our heroes. When the spaceship is attacked with the Doctor and Jo trapped aboard, they escape certain death thanks to the well-worn narrative trick of...doing a Maths test on the go. Arithmetic will save your lives, kids.

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After four episodes of non-stop frenetic visuals and very occasional claws, the entire 70s sensory overload reaches a crescendo with Pertwee despairing: “It seems I’m some sort of a galactic yo-yo.”

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We know the feeling Jon, believe us (we say as we lie down in a darkened room and beg Mr Ellroy to reinstate his 100 pages).

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