An old sci-fi chestnut one can do without

I've now watched the seven first episodes of the latest "Doctor Who" series, and while it's still very good indeed, some of the magic was missing this time around. Especially the first two-parter was a let-down: there's tricksiness that makes the viewer feel clever, and then there's tricksiness that just makes the viewer feel bewildered. A few loose ends to tie up later in the series are fine, but by now we've got a whole forest of them. I can't shake the impression that Steven Moffat and his crew are hoping that the unanswered questions, like The Silence (an impressive new alien enemy, granted), will be wiped from our memory the moment we stop watching.

I wasn't thrilled about the other two-parter either, and it's about the kind of adventure it represents that I'm going to have a grumble. The Doctor and Co. land in a factory where they are pumping out acid and where humans employ clones made of a gloopy matter they call "The Flesh" to do the dangerous work. These clones have no consciousness of their own, the gutsy female foreman insists, and have to be directed by their real counterparts. Meanwhile a massive solar storm is coming nearer.

Are the gloopy matter and the clones made from it sentient after all? Yes they are. Are the clones, thanks to the solar storm, suddenly able to act of their own accord? Yes they are. Do they rebel against their human counterparts? Yes they do. Is the opportunity to reach an agreement between clones ("gangers") and humans ruined because of one trigger-happy human? Yes it is. And when one of the Doctor's companions is confronted with a heap of half-decomposed gangers in a corridor who have been scrapped but are still alive, does the girl who is with him say: "who are the monsters here?" Yes, she does.

To paraphrase "Spamalot", once (at least!) in every sci-fi film/TV series, there's a story that goes like this. Sci-fi tends to be very preoccupied with the human condition, which is good in a way, but it does mean that some themes are often repeated. The "what's the difference between a highly intelligent robot and a human?" theme. The "don't mess with artifical intelligence because sooner or later it's going to get bolshie" theme. (Fair enough, though it does mean I'm never going to get my Blade Runner-style "pleasure replicant" made in the mould of James Carker.) And then there's this one: the endlessly tiresome "who are the monsters here?" theme, where we oh-so-selfish humans tyrannise some other intelligent life form (aliens, androids, artificial life - take your pick) and get our come-uppance as a result. Variations of this old tale have been used in several Doctor Who episodes, and they are never among my favourites.

What bugs me is that the point of these sci-fi stories seems to be to upbraid us for being human. Why? Last time I looked, sci-fi adventures were written by humans, paid for by humans, directed by humans, acted out by humans, filmed by humans, watched by humans... They are, in fact, an all-human affair. You don't get many dolphins or foxes relaxing in front of the telly and going: "Yep, you're right, those arrogant human bastards deserve a good kicking." I feel the same kind of grumpiness when it comes to the patronising stance towards "muggles" shown in the Harry Potter films (as I've mentioned, I've not read the books). Back here in the real world, we're all "muggles". There's something disagreeable about slagging off your own kind, as if they were nothing to do with you.

The fact that the "who are the monsters?" story is often meant to be seen metaphorically, as a warning against what one could call "inter-species" prejudice, only makes it more irritating. After all, our shared humanity is the strongest argument there is against prejudice. Whenever we take a dislike to some luckless group of people, it is bound to consist of human individuals, not scary clones made of sentient gloop, or ghastly spaghetti-faced Ood, or robots, or apes, or Neanderthals, or anthropomorphized bears (the latter two examples are from Jasper Fforde, who is unfortunately rather big on the whole oppressing-other-species-as-metaphor-for-prejudice-thing). What these "moral" sci-fi (and in Fforde's case, fantasy) stories do is to throw out the concept of the common ground we share as humans: instead, they actually make what fancy theorists call "the Other" into something decidedly Other. How clever is that, really? I mean, doesn't it seem sensible to be a bit wary of, say, giant prawns from outer space?

As for the horribleness of humans: well, yes, when push comes to shove, we put our own species first. Much like any other creature on the planet, then. Obviously I'm not in favour of leaving half-melted, still-living clones on the floor or treating other life forms meanly just because we can. But all philosophical grandstanding aside, the day we lose our basic instinct to protect and further humanity, I'd say we're toast.