Some episodes sneak up on you. “Gridlock” starts as a shaggy comic premise — a traffic jam so bad that people are born, marry and die in their cars — and by the end it has turned into one of the most quietly moving hours the revived series has produced, and paid off a mystery that’s been hanging around since Series 2. It’s strange, sad, oddly spiritual, and it finally lets the Doctor be honest with Martha about who he is. I loved it.
The Motorway
The Doctor brings Martha to New Earth — the same world we visited back in New Earth, with its apple grass and its gleaming towers — except this time he takes her to the underside. Beneath the shining city is the Motorway: a sealed network of tunnels stuffed bumper to bumper with hover-cars, permanently jammed, crawling forward at a rate of a few yards a year. And it has been like this for twenty-four years.
The world-building here is superb and very funny before it becomes horrifying. People live in these cars. They have kitchens and bunks and pets. Brannigan — a cat-faced man married to a human woman, Valerie, with a litter of kittens in the back — is a delight, and utterly matter-of-fact about the fact that his journey to the next junction has taken twelve years. There’s a radio station broadcasting to the whole motorway. There are elderly couples like the Cassinis who have spent their entire marriage in a car. Nobody questions it. The jam is simply the condition of life, and everyone has made a life inside it anyway.
Martha, of course, gets carjacked almost immediately, bundled into a vehicle by a young couple who need a third passenger to qualify for the fast lane. It’s a neat way to split the leads and give Martha her own thread — and her own quiet realisation that being the Doctor’s friend means regularly being in genuine danger with no guarantee he’ll reach you in time. It’s a useful corrective after a couple of weeks of breezy adventuring. In Smith and Jones she saved his life with her own two hands; here she spends most of the hour entirely alone in a stolen car, with no sonic screwdriver and nobody to reassure her, quietly working out that she’ll have to be her own rescue until he turns up. She turns out to be very good at it.
Hymns in the Dark
And then the episode does something I did not see coming. The traffic stops, as it does every day, and over the radio a voice calls the whole motorway to prayer — and thousands of trapped strangers, in thousands of separate cars, sing a hymn together in the dark.
It’s a startling, beautiful scene. Davies plays it completely straight: no irony, no undercutting gag, just a community of people who have been stuck in the pitch black for decades holding onto hope by singing to each other. For a show that usually solves problems by running at them, sitting still and letting faith be genuinely moving rather than naive is a real swing, and it lands. When the hymn comes back at the end of the episode, it earns every note.
The dark underneath it is properly nasty, too. Down in the fast lane, in the choking fumes at the very bottom of the system, something is eating the cars that descend: the Macra, vast crustacean horrors dragging vehicles down into the murk. The lovely touch is what they used to be — an intelligent species, once, now degenerated into mindless appetite, scavenging in the poison at the bottom of the world. It’s a grim little idea sitting under all that singing. There’s a nice piece of series history buried in it, too, for anyone who cares to dig: the Macra are dredged up out of the black-and-white era, brought back not as a nostalgic victory lap but as something that has rotted in the intervening centuries into a mindless mouth.
The City Above Is Dead
The reveal is the episode’s masterstroke, and it recontextualises everything. There is no fast lane out. There is no traffic authority. Nobody is coming.
New New York died twenty-four years ago. A mood patch called Bliss mutated into an airborne virus and killed the entire overcity in seven minutes — everyone, in the time it takes to boil a kettle. The Motorway wasn’t a jam at all; it was a tomb that someone sealed to save the people inside it. And the someone is the Face of Boe, who shut the tunnels, and has spent every day since keeping the whole system’s air and power running off his own dying life force. Tended by Novice Hame — the cat-nun from New Earth, working off her penance for what her order did in that hospital — he has been slowly burning himself out to keep a few thousand strangers breathing.
That’s a gorgeous piece of writing. The comic traffic jam turns out to be an act of enormous, unglamorous mercy, sustained in silence for a quarter of a century. When the Doctor throws the roof open and lets the cars rise into daylight for the first time in decades, it’s a genuine cheer moment.
“You Are Not Alone”
And then Boe dies, and keeps his promise. Back in New Earth he had a message for the Doctor and refused to give it — the great secret he would speak with his final breath, saved for their last meeting. Here it is, and it is four words long: You are not alone.
That’s it. No context, no explanation, nothing to do with anything we’ve just watched. The Doctor is left standing there completely thrown, and so was I. He’s spent every episode since The Parting of the Ways defining himself as the last of the Time Lords, the only survivor of a war he ended, and an ancient creature has just spent its dying breath telling him that isn’t true. I have no idea what it means. It might mean nothing. It has been rattling around my head ever since.
What follows is the best scene in the episode, and the reason Martha’s season really starts here. Sitting in a bar afterwards, she refuses to let him fob her off any longer, and the Doctor finally tells her the truth about Gallifrey — the burnt orange sky, the silver leaves, the mountains of Solace and Solitude, all of it gone. He’s spent two episodes deflecting her with charm and talking around another woman. Here he treats her as someone who deserves the truth, and their partnership properly begins.
What Gridlock Leaves Us With
A comic premise that turns into a hymn about hope. Here’s what it plants:
- The Face of Boe’s message. Four words with no explanation attached, aimed squarely at the thing the Doctor believes most firmly about himself. Whatever it means, it’s now the biggest question in the series.
- Mercy nobody sees. Boe’s twenty-four-year sacrifice is the moral heart of the episode — an enormous kindness performed quietly, with no audience and no reward.
- Faith, played straight. The hymn sequence is the boldest tonal choice the show has made in ages, and it’s genuinely stirring rather than saccharine.
- The Doctor levels with Martha. He stops treating her as a passenger and tells her about his dead world. It’s the moment she stops being a substitute and becomes a companion.
- A world with a rotten floor. The Macra lurking in the fumes give a warm episode a properly horrible underside, and turning a classic monster into degenerate scavengers is a lovely touch.
Rating: 4.5/5 — Odd, ambitious and unexpectedly profound, with a reveal that reframes the whole hour and a final message that detonates quietly in the background. One of Davies’ very best scripts.
A traffic jam, a hymn, a dying god in a tank, and four words the Doctor can’t stop turning over. “You are not alone.” What on earth is that supposed to mean?