Broadcast on 15 September 2012, A Town Called Mercy saw Doctor Who saddle up for a western — a genre the series had only flirted with before. Written by Toby Whithouse and directed by Saul Metzstein, it’s a visually distinctive and morally complex story that uses its period setting not just for style, but for substance. Rewatching in 2025, it feels like one of the most quietly confident entries in Series 7 — thoughtful, measured, and rich in character.
The story opens with a classic cinematic flourish: a mysterious gunslinger stalking the desert, a dusty frontier town living in fear, and the Doctor riding into town with Amy and Rory. It’s Doctor Who channelling High Noon and Unforgiven through its own eccentric lens. Yet beneath the genre homage lies a story about morality, guilt, and how far the Doctor has drifted from the man he believes himself to be.
The episode’s central conflict revolves around Kahler-Jex, a stranded alien doctor whose advanced technology has saved the lives of the townspeople. His dark secret — that he experimented on his own people to create cyborg soldiers during a war — gives the story its moral weight. When the Gunslinger, one of those experiments, arrives seeking revenge, the town of Mercy becomes a crucible for questions of justice and forgiveness. It’s Doctor Who at its most reflective, exploring what happens when compassion and retribution collide.
Here, Matt Smith's Doctor is not the wide-eyed traveller of The Lodger or the exuberant hero of Dinosaurs on a Spaceship; he’s wearier, sharper-edged, and visibly struggling with his own moral compass. The moment he draws a gun on Jex — rage breaking through his usual restraint — remains one of the most striking scenes of his tenure. Amy’s quiet intervention, reminding him of what he’s becoming, reaffirms her role not as sidekick but as conscience. Smith and Gillan play the exchange with a quiet realism that grounds the episode’s larger themes. “We can’t be like him,” Amy says, and it lands as both plea and warning.
Karen Gillan continues to bring maturity and steadiness to Amy’s role. Her dynamic with the Doctor has shifted; she’s no longer in awe of him but increasingly aware of his flaws. This evolution, subtle but deliberate, makes their conversations about mercy and vengeance feel earned rather than rhetorical. Arthur Darvill’s Rory is given less to do here, but his pragmatism — and his quiet moral clarity — complements the others perfectly. When the Doctor admits, “Today I honour the victims first,” it’s clear that Rory’s presence has helped him remember what that means.
Ben Browder makes a memorable impression as Isaac, the town’s marshal. Best known for his work on Farscape and Stargate SG-1, Browder brings an understated authority and decency to the role. Isaac’s sense of duty and fairness anchor the town, and his rapport with the Doctor provides a quiet moral counterpoint to the story’s larger questions. When he’s killed protecting Kahler-Jex, it’s a genuinely affecting moment, both because it’s sudden and because it robs Mercy of its moral centre. Browder’s brief screen time leaves a strong impact, embodying the quiet integrity that defines the episode’s best human moments.
Adrian Scarborough gives a layered performance as Kahler-Jex, imbuing the character with dignity and remorse. He’s neither villain nor victim, but something in between — a man who justifies terrible acts in the name of survival. His exchanges with the Doctor form the heart of the story, two men defined by guilt recognising themselves in one another. Jex’s ultimate choice — taking his own life to end the cycle of violence — is tragic but fitting, a quiet act of moral clarity that spares both the town and the Doctor further compromise.
The Gunslinger, played by Andrew Brooke, is equally compelling. A creature born of pain, now seeking peace, he represents the other side of the same coin. His design — a scarred face beneath a wide-brimmed hat, his circuitry glowing in the sunlight — is simple but memorable. Brooke’s restrained performance keeps the character from becoming a caricature. By the episode’s end, when the Gunslinger chooses to stay in Mercy as its protector, there’s a sense of poetic resolution. The man who was made to kill becomes a guardian.
Visually, A Town Called Mercy is a triumph. Metzstein and cinematographer Stephan Pehrsson use the Spanish desert locations to full effect, bathing the episode in ochre light and wide compositions reminiscent of Sergio Leone’s work. The production design — from the clapboard buildings to the dust-swept streets — gives the episode a tactile authenticity rare in Doctor Who’s modern era. Murray Gold’s score, featuring subtle guitar motifs and mournful brass, perfectly complements the tone: western without parody, dramatic without excess.
Thematically, Whithouse’s script builds on the moral introspection that began in The God Complex and A Good Man Goes to War. The Doctor’s struggle with vengeance versus mercy mirrors the show’s larger exploration of power and consequence. There’s also a quiet thread of commentary on war and responsibility. Jex’s justification — that his atrocities ended the conflict — echoes real-world debates about moral compromise in times of crisis. The Doctor’s reaction isn’t self-righteous anger but recognition: he’s made similar decisions himself. The difference, perhaps, is that Jex admits he’s not proud of them.
Rewatching in 2025, the episode’s pacing and clarity stand out. It’s unhurried but never dull, allowing moments of silence and stillness to carry weight. The script resists easy answers; mercy, it suggests, is never simple or clean. The Doctor’s final words to the Gunslinger — “You’re both good men. You just forget it sometimes” — encapsulate the episode’s tone: compassionate, reflective, and quietly sad.
If Dinosaurs on a Spaceship was about joy, A Town Called Mercy is about conscience. It strips away spectacle to reveal the fragility beneath heroism. The Doctor isn’t omnipotent here; he’s a man learning, again, how to be kind. The ending — a town saved, but only just — feels earned in its modesty. There’s no grand speech, no soaring finale, just the acknowledgement that doing the right thing is often painful.
In the long view, A Town Called Mercy may not shout the loudest, but it lingers. It’s an episode that trusts its themes, its cast, and its tone. A morality play in a dusty frontier, it shows that Doctor Who can still find depth in simplicity — that compassion, even when tested, remains its truest compass.
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