Reverse the polarity

There are many disappointments in contemporary culture, as anyone who’s visited a cinema in the last few years or turned on the radio will know, but few are quite as dispiriting as the lamentable decline of that venerable but much loved British institution, Doctor Who.

Despite its wobbly sets and questionable special effects, the “classic” series of Doctor Who which ran from 1963 to 1989 was a high-water mark of science fiction television. It was a show that dared to treat its target audience of “intelligent 12 year olds” as intelligent beings capable of grappling with complex ideas and moral dilemmas in both historical and fantastical settings, whether they watched on the sofa or behind it.

By contrast, the new series, which began in 2005 and had the cheek to label itself “Series 1”, appears to aim at hyperactive teens who’ve consumed their own weight in sugar. Stories which once ran to 4 or 6 25 minute episodes are now condensed into a breathless single episode full of thumping music, the Doctor is the fount of confusion rather than calm, and every cast member ticks at least 2 ‘identity’ boxes. In terms of pacing it’s the difference between test cricket and T20, and in an effort to boost its revenue, both the show and the game have lost their soul.

The classic series understood something that seems to have been forgotten in this age of weightless CGI and constant lens flares: that the true horror lies not in what is shown, but in what is suggested. The Daleks of old were terrifying not because of their admittedly limited physical capabilities, but because they represented the ultimate end point of fascism – the complete surrender of individuality and emotion in the pursuit of racial purity. The Cybermen, Sea Devils, Autons and a host of others entered the public consciousness.  The new show has produced the Weeping Angels and… that’s about it.

But perhaps the most egregious sin of the new series is its treatment of the Doctor himself. In the classic series, the Doctor was a mysterious figure, an eternal outsider whose alienness was always palpable. He was not a superhero, but a wanderer, a cosmic hobo in a rickety time machine he could more or less understand but seldom entirely control.  His victories were as often the result of quick thinking and moral courage as they were of any special powers or abilities. Hartnell, Troughton, Pertwee, Baker, Davison and McCoy were all distinctive personalities, but the authoritative essence of the character remained the same. The more relatable the Doctor appears in the moment, the less interesting he becomes over time.

The new series has transformed him into a sort of intergalactic superhero, complete with angsty backstory and a sonic screwdriver that functions as a magical cure-all for any plot inconvenience. Gone is the sense of genuine otherworldliness, indeed, the Doctor’s increasingly lurid romantic entanglements and bouts of self-doubt position him as an increasingly minor character in the frantic soap opera of his own show. All too often he’s shown as the source of the problem, rather than the solution, less a cosmic Sherlock Holmes than a bumbling Inspector Lestrade who must be saved by his own companions.

And what of the companions? In the classic series, they were our surrogates, ordinary people thrust into extraordinary circumstances. They were not chosen for any special qualities, but simply happened to stumble into the TARDIS. Their growth and development over the course of their travels with the Doctor was a joy to behold and characters like Sarah Jane Smith and K9 carved such a strong identity they could lead their own spin-off shows.

The new series, by contrast, seems determined to make every companion “special” in some contrived way. They are no longer everyday people rising to extraordinary challenges, but painfully obvious and idealised exemplars of ‘marginalised’ groups who are constantly told how special they are and can magically solve any problem without effort, insight or training.  This curious inversion manages to be both less relatable and less interesting than the original relationship.

Even the famous TARDIS itself has not escaped unscathed. Once a majestic, inscrutable vessel that defied easy comprehension, it has been reduced to a sort of cosmic playpen, its iconic console room expanded and redesigned with all the subtlety of a Las Vegas casino.  Everyone knew what the console room used to look like, now no-one has any idea.

But perhaps the most damning indictment of the new series is its contemptuous treatment of the show’s rich history. Characters in the classic show spent a lot of time running up and down the same corridors but also build a complex and intriguing universe over the course of its 26 years. The new series – 2 decades old itself now – is so intent on putting its own ‘modernised’ stamp on the mythology that it has crushed it without creating something better in its place.  The endless spate of clumsy ret-cons and “everything you knew was wrong” revelations merely diminish the richness of the established lore while leeching its ideas and energy.

While the reincarnation of the Doctor was a woman was arguably overdue – what a Doctor Joanna Lumley would have made – Jodie Whittaker’s woeful tenure ended with the nadir of The Timeless Child, which attempted to rewrite the very origins of the Time Lords. It’s as if someone decided that what the Greek myths really needed was a prequel explaining where Zeus’s lightning bolts came from. Only Russell T. Davis’ return as showrunner – itself an unwelcome Americanisation – saved it from cancellation after that debacle but Ncuti Gatwa’s current portrayal of the Doctor would seem more at home in a reboot of Queer as Folk than a children’s science fiction show.

Now, I am not so curmudgeonly as to suggest that there is nothing of value in the new series. Blink, Dalek, the Girl in the Fireplace and Eleventh Hour were all episodes of genuine quality and emotional resonance. But these moments shine all the brighter for their rarity, like diamonds in a sea of cubic zirconia. Most of the rest are as turgid and disposable as the ever present, never changing orchestral score, as persistent and annoying as an endless migraine, which replaced the subtle, spooky noodlings of Delia Derbyshire and the Radiophonic Workshop.

The tragedy of the new Doctor Who is not that it’s consistently terrible, but that its desperation to appeal to the Tik-Tok generation has seen it resort to Tik-Tok levels of plotting and character arcs.  It relies on frantic pace, CGI spectacle and a good sprinkling of convenient nostalgia to paper over the cracks in its storytelling. The stiff upper lips of the original show now quiver with tears at the slightest excuse, sexual innuendo substitutes for real chemistry and strident social justice posturing is pushed in place of explorations of elemental and enduring themes applicable to all.

One cannot blame the initial raft of fine new actors in the role – Christopher Eccleston, David Tennant, Matt Smith and lifelong Who fan Peter Capaldi are all talented men who gave it their all but were poorly served by slapdash scriptwriting. However Whittaker and now Gatwa clearly had no feel for, and little interest in, the character they inherited but never inhabited.  They played themselves, and are no more interesting than that.

In the end, the difference between classic and new Doctor Who is the contrast  between a fine single malt and an Aldi alcopop. One is complex, challenging, and rewards quiet contemplation. The other is brightly colored, goes down easy, and leaves you with a headache almost straight away.

For those of us who remember the classic series in all its low-budget, high-concept glory, watching the new series is an exercise in frustration tinged with bittersweet nostalgia. It’s like visiting your childhood home only to find it’s been turned into a gaudy theme park. The bones of what you loved are still there, buried beneath layers of garish paint and flashing lights, but the soul is gone. Yes, it’s aimed at a new generation of teens, but they deserve so much better.

And yet, hope springs eternal. Perhaps one day, the powers that be will remember what made Doctor Who great in the first place. Until then, we have our memories, our DVD box sets, and the bitter consolation that at least Tom Baker’s scarf has yet to be reimagined as a sentient alien lifeform. Sutekh, the imprisoned Egyptian God who dominated one of Baker’s greatest stories in the Pyramids of Mars was recently rebooted in Gatwa’s first series finale, but I know which version will still be watched and remembered in another fifty years time.