My relationship with Doctor Who has never been a steady one. When the rebooted series with Christopher Eccleston first premiered on Sci Fi Channel--back when it was Sci Fi Channel--I caught an episode here or there, often times the same episode in which the Doctor combats farty aliens who--gasp!--have taken over the government. Or something. The production quality seemed dodgy as BBC shows sometimes do, especially circa 2005, but the performances were oddly solid, especially from Eccleston himself. But the show never became habitual for me, only filler until something else came on.
Enter David Tennant, the Tenth Doctor, and my interest in the series waned further. He seemed too excited and playful compared to the brooding veteran who had proverbially "seen some shit." Then, down the road, I caught the last half of The End of Time and I reconsidered my assessment. Even though some silly pulp sci-fi crap goes down (population of earth turned into clones of the Big Bad Evil Guy), the performers are all in top form and the themes are oddly mature. First, this happens:
Later, the Tenth Doctor faces death with reluctance even though this was no true death since he would just be regenerated. Though I hadn't watched enough episodes to feel an attachment, Tennant's performance made me sorry for the Doctor. But regeneration means new actor, and new actor means new personality for the 900-plus-year-old time-and-space traveler.
I picked up right at the start of the Matt Smith-Eleventh Doctor-Stephen Moffat era, having just enough context to know what's going down. I sped through it, watching two or three episodes at a time. Lunch time? Doctor Who. Dinner time? Doctor Who. Bedtime? Fall asleep on the futon while Doctor Who is on. When I was through with what was available of the Eleventh Doctor's adventures on Netflix, I started at the back catalog with Tennant himself. And I grew to like Tennant's Doctor. The Tenth had a vengeful, angry streak that made him profoundly human. A few of his episodes got dark, borderline kid-unfriendly. He was a Doctor I could appreciate. While Matt Smith's Doctor is entertaining if not goofy, he wasn't a Doctor I could invest in.
At a conference I went to in 2012, a presenter argued that the new era of Doctor Who, this post-David Tennant, post-Russell T Davies period was a shift towards not only more kid-friendly but child-geared television show. The Eleventh Doctor was himself profoundly childlike. Once it was pointed out, I couldn't not notice it. When we're first introduced to our new Doctor, he hankers for a paring of fish sticks and custard, something you would expect a child to do or at least laugh at. Endearing at first, but exhausting as the series carries on.
Also, the story arcs of the Moffat-ran Doctor Who are outrageously convoluted to the point of contrived. The "Death of the Doctor" arc is one of the more unpalatable story arcs I can recall in a TV show with a lackluster resolution that is all too clever for its own good. Moffat's Sherlock also suffers from a similar malady: hyper-cleverness that points and laughs at the viewer for both not figuring it out and trying to figure it out. It's all entertaining, but it takes the heart out of a good program.
Now, after a long absence of Doctor Who on my TV screen with the exceptions of the occasional Tom Baker serials available on Netflix, I've returned to the show with the new Matt Smith episodes. The departure of companions Amy and Rory took a significant part of my investment out of the show already, and the mystery surrounding his new sort-of companion Clara is not engaging. Maybe it's because I slipped out of routine, or that I've seen more engaging television since the last time I watched Doctor Who on the regular, but this most recent series feels meandering. I hope there's a pay off, though. I need to watch something and it's a few months before Sleepy Hollow comes back on.
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