When a character returns to a show after a season-long absence, it’s rarely just about nostalgia. It’s about timing, emotional stakes, and the unspoken questions that linger in the shadows of a story. Martin Clunes’ return to Best Medicine isn’t just a reunion with fans of Doc Martin—it’s a calculated move to confront a narrative thread that’s been quietly gnawing at the edges of this dramedy since Season 1. And honestly? I think this is where the show finally earns its right to be taken seriously. For too long, Best Medicine has balanced on the tightrope between sitcom gags and heartfelt moments, but now, with Clunes’ Robert Best back in Port Wenn, it’s time to stop tiptoeing around the elephant in the room: Rosemary’s death.
Let’s be real—Martin Clunes is a national treasure. But what makes his return here so fascinating isn’t just his presence; it’s the way the writers are using him as a catalyst for emotional reckoning. Robert Best’s refusal to talk about his late daughter, Rosemary, has been a simmering tension since Season 1. Now, they’re forcing him into a situation where he can’t avoid her memory anymore. And if you think that’s just a plot device to create drama, you’re missing the point. This isn’t just about a father and son reconnecting—it’s about how grief festers when we refuse to face it. Personally, I think this is a masterstroke. By making Robert ‘trapped in an uncomfortable evening with a bunch of crazy townspeople,’ the writers are creating a scenario where forced proximity becomes the only way to confront buried pain. It’s a clever way to blend comedy and tragedy, but more importantly, it’s a reminder that unresolved grief doesn’t just haunt individuals—it poisons relationships.
What makes this particularly fascinating is how the show is using humor as a shield. Liz Tuccillo’s comment about ‘hilarity with Martin Clunes’ feels like a carefully chosen euphemism. Because let’s face it: when you’re dealing with the death of a sibling, the last thing you want is a laugh track. But Best Medicine has always been a show that walks this line between absurdity and sincerity. And I think that’s exactly why it works. By wrapping the emotional core in sitcom tropes, the show avoids the pitfalls of melodrama while still giving the audience a reason to care. It’s like a psychological experiment—how much heartbreak can you pack into a scene where someone accidentally knocks over a soup bowl? The answer, apparently, is a lot.
And then there’s the father-son dynamic. Josh Charles’ Dr. Martin Best has always been the emotional anchor of the series, but now he’s being forced to reckon with a father who’s been emotionally absent for years. What many people don’t realize is how rare it is for TV to explore intergenerational grief without falling into clichés. Most shows would have Robert Best as a gruff, distant figure, but here, we’re getting something subtler: a man who’s actively chosen to avoid his own pain. That’s not just a character trait—it’s a narrative choice that speaks volumes about how trauma shapes family dynamics. If you take a step back and think about it, this is a rare opportunity to show how unresolved grief can create a chasm between generations. And I think that’s what makes this season so compelling. It’s not just about Rosemary—it’s about the ways we let our pain dictate our relationships.
But let’s not forget the comedic elements. Francisco Roman’s photos of the Port Wenn chaos are a reminder that this show isn’t going to turn into a sobriety clinic. The writers are clearly aware of the risk of overdoing the emotional stakes, which is why they’re balancing it with the absurdity of small-town life. And honestly, that’s where the brilliance lies. When Robert Best is forced to interact with ‘crazy townspeople,’ it’s not just a plot device—it’s a metaphor. Because what is life if not a series of awkward, chaotic interactions with people who don’t understand you? The humor here isn’t just for laughs; it’s a way to humanize the characters without softening the emotional blow. A detail that I find especially interesting is how they’re using Sarah (Annie Potts) as a counterbalance. If Robert is the reluctant emotional anchor, Sarah is the one holding the torch for Rosemary’s memory. That dynamic alone could create some of the most powerful scenes of the season.
This raises a deeper question: why now? Why is this the season to confront Rosemary’s death? It’s not just about narrative progression—it’s about the cultural moment. In an era where mental health is finally being discussed openly, Best Medicine is positioning itself as a show that doesn’t shy away from the messy, uncomfortable truths of grief. And if you think that’s just a coincidence, you’re not paying attention. The show’s willingness to tackle this head-on is a reflection of a broader trend in storytelling: audiences want authenticity, even if it comes with a side of cringe. What this really suggests is that the best stories aren’t the ones that wrap up neatly—they’re the ones that leave you questioning your own relationships, your own unresolved pain.
So here’s my prediction: Season 2 of Best Medicine will be the one that sticks with you long after the credits roll. Not because of the jokes, but because of the quiet, unflinching way it deals with the weight of loss. And if you’re looking for a reason to watch, I’ll tell you this: it’s not just about Martin Clunes. It’s about the courage to face the past, even when it’s uncomfortable. And personally, I think that’s a story worth telling.
