He makes the screaming of the SPACEWHALE audible, and they all bitch and moan, because it's so hard for the working class to believe that blah, blah, Tory blah. The Queen announces out of nowhere that they will release the SPACEWHALE and nobody does anything. So the Doctor is pointlessly cryptic again: "Liz. Your mask. Look at it. It's old. At least 200 years old, I'd say... An antique made by craftsmen over 200 years ago and perfectly sculpted to your face. They slowed your body clock, all right, but you're not 50. Nearer 300. And it's been a long old reign."
Liz, who we barely know and certainly don't care about any more than the Doctor does, who might as well be setting glasses of water on her face for all the irritating nonsense he's shoveling, explains the thing that the Winders and Sminders have essentially been saying all episode, which is that Liz has Memento disease and has been acting like V for Vendetta in an endless ten-year cycle for three hundred years, always coming back around to her own version of the FORGET/PROTEST button, but in her case -- Lovingly created by whom? And pristinely preserved for her every ten years by whom? -- so she can choose between FORGET and ABDICATE. Get it? Because anarchy or some shit. But how ironic, because the ruling class makes the same decision time and again that the proletariat do, because ABDICATE apparently means the Starship crashes instantly and flies apart.
I get it, I do. And I love it. The hard decision of rule is deciding who lives and dies and who pays the price. Except it's even more symbolic and shite than "The Long Game," so it means nothing, because at least in that one nobody had any power. Now it's just the idea of several previous episodes, of this and every TV show ever made, presuming their power through reference instead of actually creating substance.
Any day of the week you can find Tolkien knockoffs on the internet, oh reddish-blonde half-elf with a beard like my Krull-lookin' Weis-Hickman Talisman/Cataan-playing LARPer-boyfriend fantasies come true; skinny elves that look like Liv Tyler saying Gîl síla na lû govaded. You can find entire novels about when and where Boba Fett masturbates, and onto which of his many wolf-shaped plushies, with the aid of any number of officious ambassadorbots or hardy Ewoks or seven-foot natives of Kashyyyk. Love that shit! No I am not immune and yes I'm still holding out for my personal Tanthalas Kanan of Qualinost to rescue me from all this. But to ape a story of elves, or Queens, or politics, or masturbating assassins, is not to tell a story of any of these things, or indeed a story at all. It's playing with somebody else's toys, in somebody else's sandbox. Or, like this episode and most Moffat episodes, bring your towel, because we're doing all of the toys and all of the sandboxes in all of the universes at once.