It's always hard watching the decline of a dear, beloved old friend. And yet that's how I've spent the last few years. As I write this, he's nearing his end, so they tell me. We first met when I was very young but I didn't form any real, lasting attachment until later. After fleeting glimpses, we became properly acquainted in the school library. I was twelve. He was several hundred years old. His name was the Doctor, and I cannot love him anymore.
Right now I'm supposedly catching up with the episode I missed on Christmas Day, mainly because I'm going back to work tomorrow and someone's bound to want to talk to me about it, plus I'm expecting an e-mail from a ten year old who may expect me to make intelligent remarks about the storyline. And all I can do is whimper, "But it's drivel!"
Way back in, oh, when was it? 2002? 2003? I waited with some trepidation to see how the revamped Doctor Who would fare. To my surprised relief, it was a success. Christopher Eccleston was dynamic, Billie Piper didn't sing and it could only have been bettered if Charles Dickens had stayed on as a companion.
Slide forward a few years. Picture this: a small, ethnically and sexually diverse, group in a contained setting, in peril from something huge and powerful. One of their number may have psychic tendencies, one will be there for comic relief. There will be a woman, probably comely, almost definitely young and bosomy. The Doctor will arrive. Things will go awry. There will be explosions. At least two of the small, ethnically and sexually diverse, group will die horribly. There will be more explosions and some sort of extended chase sequence, possibly featuring hi tech motorised vehicles. The comely woman will kiss the Doctor, unless she is Lindsay Duncan and therefore too old to kiss anyone. If John Barrowman is in it, he will probably kiss the Doctor as well. The Doctor will realise with horror that simply waving his sonic screwdriver around is not enough and they are all doomed, so the comely woman will sacrifice herself nobly and David Tennant will do that stricken spaniel look he's had so many opportunities to perfect.
Which episode am I describing? Waters of Mars? The one that was on at Easter with the girl who used to be in Eastenders? The one with Kylie? The one with Georgia Moffett as the Doctor's daughter?
Having sat through the first part of David Tennant's swansong, my mental checklist has been marked off comprehensively. Gratuitous Christmas references? Check. Cheery mockney autopilot from Tennant to ease viewers into story before the Serious Expression sets in for the duration? Check. Portentous staring into the distance by Messers Tennant and Cribbins? Check. Shameless pantomime from John Simm? Check. Pointlessly long chase sequence? Check. Ludicrous special powers bestowed on the villain for no reason? Check. Unfunny comedy sequence featuring stars of yesteryear? Check. Crude forcing of TARDIS and/or Doctor into Christian imagery? Check. [For the record, I'm not a practising anything, more of an amateur theist, but I found this offensive in its arrogance.] Bangs, explosions and special effects at the expense of an intelligent script? Check. Over the top threat to humanity that is merely risible? Check. We're just missing cameos from Billie and Freema Agyeman to give me a full house.
When the Master complained of the drums in his head, can I have been the only one blaming Murray Gold's deafening soundtrack?
I'm not anti-Tennant. I spent three hours of Boxing Day almost glued to Hamlet. [Three hours at teatime is not ideal scheduling. At least there's an interval in live theatre. Thankfully, I was handed a toasted bagel during Polonius's slaying.] He's a good actor but not with recycled, effects-first-storyline-second scripting.
Doctor Who used to be a children's programme. I watched it as a child. I soaked up morality and science, adventure and history. Twenty-odd years on, when I finally got to call myself doctor (the indefinite article, I must note), it was a bit late to realise that it was the sense of narrative that was strongest in me and not the science. Still, those letters look pretty on the CV.
But this series now, this sound and fury, what does it signify? Is it going to inspire anything in today's children other than a desire for the toys and the DVDs and all the rest of the merchandising hoopla? While the children I know (of various ages from small to pensionable) enjoy the bangs and the spectacle, the child in me is huddled miserably in the corner, longing for the Target novelisation of The Ark In Space.
Doctor Who has regenerated into something I no longer recognise. All I can do is mourn.
