Let’s be clear on this: Stephen Moffat has not won me over.
When Russell T. Davies announced his departure from the show, Doctor Who was at the height of its popularity. Tennant was ooozing that same level of exhilaration when seeing new tech, meeting aliens, or just interesting people. More joy than Indiana Jones, we were led to believe that the Timelord is a responsible, insightful, smart, joyful, and curious creature.
Things were good. Tom Baker level of good.
Sarah Jane had a fantastic little show, aimed at those hungry for a bit more of the Doctor magic. Torchwood rocked our socks off because it gave us that low-budget love, with a bit of sexy thrown in for good measure, and the occasional bout of tears. And Doctor Who was the BEST.
And then Moffat came in. I had faith in the fact that here was a man who was not only a fan, but a working one, garnering recognition while working side by side with Russel T. Davies, “learning the craft.” And my sincere hope was that Moffat will somehow magically be competent enough not to invent things, but rather just keep up with them. But that is not how the things went down.
Moffat’s moment of power was announced with a “reboot” of a beloved franchise. Unexplained reboot, new start, call it whatever you would like, but the idea of some kind of reinvention of a show that good struck fear in my heart.
Then there was the issue of Matt Smith as the Doctor: likeable, cute, some may even say, sexy. But one also might add: bored, slow, not so curious, slightly patronizing, and entirely void of joy.
Similarly, his companion is similarly uninteresting. Amy, while played by gorgeous Karen Gillan: all legs, red hair and lips; is also an underdeveloped character.
As a result, the show took on a different hue. Now, more comparable to Davies’ Sarah Jane show, the Doctor is fascinated with saving the children, usually even smaller and younger than the ones in the care of Sarah Jane. In the Beast Below, the children are the only ones not eaten by the lovely, giant star-whale. Star-whale?! Why not a magic pumpkin, or a giant peach?
Story lines are relatively lackluster, and lead to overly sappy endings, and even the greatest story arcs still feel stilted as if being dumbed down for this massive global audience.
Moffat’s version of Churchill is quite literally pathetic. And the Hungry Earth, a really beautiful story set at an underground facility of cryogenically frozen race of Silurians, was lost due to the meandering nature of the new Doctor: stripped of any semblance of passion, anger, love, excitement…
That Matt Smith is the youngest Doctor is something we understood from the very beginning. But we gave Smith the opportunity to showcase his talents. The same courtesy was offered to Moffat.
That Moffat is more focused on Smith’s abs (see the Lodger) than the Doctor’s endless comprehension, empathy and enthusiasm for kindness and good, is an entirely different, and very sad matter.
The show now is not something I look forward to watching. Instead, I view it, week to week, with a disappointment, watching a beloved character dissipating, murdered by bad writing, acting and lackluster directing.
Doctor Who is, at this point, lesser show than Sarah Jane Adventures. And that is worrisome.
Related posts:
