Doctor Who

Once upon a time, there was a TV program about an old man who had a time machine.  As this was the 1960s and Britain, the program was black and white and a bit rubbish and featured cardboard aliens and many trips to the past to reuse props made for other, historical dramas made by the BBC.  But the writers were inventive, and the series offered a bit of (metaphorical) colour and adventure on a Saturday tea-time.  It didn't take itself too seriously: it was just...fun.  

Then the man playing the central character got a bit too old and tired and the people making the program had a brilliant idea. By the time I caught up with Doctor Who, Jon Pertwee had taken over.  He had a ring (he also had a tattoo, which the Doctor never seems to mention any more) and so I took to wearing the rubber tyre from a Lego wheel as a ring.  He was fond of calling people "old chap" and so I adopted the same mannerism - either an endearing or an irritating thing for an eight year old to do. I think I secretly craved a frilly shirt and a velvet smoking jacket back then - I know that I do now. 

Despite all that, Pertwee was never what we are now supposed to call "my" Doctor - "my" Doctor was Tom Baker.
I fell in love with Doctor Who because of Baker: all wild eyes and wild hair, eccentric and unpredictable, funny and brilliant. It was fun: he was fun. The stories, at least at the start, were fantastic and my nan's friend knitted me a twenty-foot long scarf, just like the Doctor's.  Sadly, she'd never seen the program and so used pastel colours which must've looked ridiculous but didn't stop me wearing it everywhere.

As I grew up, I began to lose touch with the series: Peter Davidson was okay; Colin Baker never really stood a chance. I had a brief flirtation with the series when Sylvester McCoy joined but, by then, I'd really moved on.  I was sad when the series ended but not really surprised. It was part of my childhood and the time had come to put away childish things, as someone once said.

Then an odd thing happened.  The series, just like the Doctor, came back from the dead.  And, just like the Tom Baker days, it was brilliant and funny and moving and scary. By this time, I had a son and could share it with him and, much to my pleasure, he loved it too.  The Daleks were scary again; the Tardis (or should that be TARDIS) looked great and the Doctor was convincing.  I looked forward to watching it with Little 'Un - it was something we'd try to watch when it was broadcast, rather than timeshifting it: it was event TV for me.

But I started to notice something: as Eccleston gave way to Tennant, the Doctor started to get a bit... messianic. The program started to take itself seriously, trying to root itself in reality.  The writers and show-runners began to realise that they could do increasingly complex things but not really have to explain them because, hey - time travel, right? Wibbly wobbly timey-wimey became an excuse for sloppy writing and deus ex machina. 

And now we're up to date. I watched The Snowmen, the latest Christmas special, the other day. It was okay - had some nice touches. Matt Smith does a good job and sometimes the old magic is there. But something's missing, and I'm starting to wonder whether I'm just growing away from the series again. First we had Rose, who absorbed the energy of the Tardis and destroyed the Daleks, then there was Donna, who saved the universe, then there was Amy and the whole River Pond thing and now we've got a new companion, who has supposedly died twice. I guess it's meant to be intriguing but it just makes me feel exhausted to think that we're going to have yet another series-long mystery.  Everything feels so bloody portentous and, yes, messianic again: perhaps I'm getting too old but I miss the days when it was just... fun.