Television has become so capitalized, so factory-stamped, that its creative content feeds my imagination like air from a fan fills a cardboard box. Every show, no matter what genre, ends exactly how it started: with all the characters somehow avoiding growth and development despite the life-changing events of the episode (assuming these characters had distinguishable traits to begin with). It’s a virus of predictability that plagues modern media, and while studios continue to make money, there seems to be no end in sight; it’s more profitable to keep this art sick, than it is to find a cure.
I know I should look away, but my brain needs these colors, these pixilated shapes flashing and dancing and telling stories that, however dry and overdone, still entertain. I am still able to forget my reality and stare at the screen, open-mouthed, my intelligence flopping to the floor with every drop of drool.
All of a sudden, a sound fills the room. It’s like an extremely old engine, an ancient machine straining to breathe. Wind gusts, blowing everything around in the living room. I recoil, clutching my couch, for my zombified state has me too inebriated to remember how to run.
An image fills my television: A wooden blue phone booth, with POLICE BOX written across the top. From it emerges a man who looks surprisingly attractive in a bow tie, suspenders, and slacks. His hair is short but he has long bangs, a wide smile, and wise eyes that reveal the depths of his fun-loving, nerdy soul. He holds out his hand to me and says in a smooth British accent, “We’re going to catch ourselves a monster.”
Filled with a refreshing fascination, I take his hand and enter the box. It is larger on the inside, containing a circular room with a massive computerized column in the center. He calls this whirring, sparking ship the TARDIS (Time And Relative Dimension In Space).
The man’s name, as I would come to learn, is the Doctor (currently played by Matt Smith), the last of his species known as the Time Lords from the extinct planet Gallifrey. Since the show first aired in 1963 the Doctor and his TARDIS have travelled through the vacuums of time and the horizons of space. Since those campy low-budget classics, the Doctor has died and regenerated (i.e. change actors) eleven times, each incarnation befriending new and unique companions. Armed with his quit wit and intimate knowledge of literally everything, he has saved humanity more often than we’ll ever know.
Each of his incarnations has distinguishable appearance, style, and personality, ranging from cranky old grandfather to distinguished literary gentleman to elated mad genius. With outstanding special effects and unique, invigorating storytelling, Doctor Who is as unpredictable as hurricanes on the moon; a journey with him will never leave a person the same, fictional or otherwise. Characters turn up stranded on a parallel universe, heroes become corrupt and murder villains who had just learned compassion, and the Doctor’s past is literally his lover’s future. Before I realize it, I have subconsciously slid to the end of my chair and am no longer breathing. Nothing else matters to me than the Doctor saving Madame du Pompadour from clockwork robots and when he says not to blink or look away from the stone angels, I obey!
People continue to be drawn to the Doctor, even after almost fifty years on air, radio, and print. His is among the longest-running science fiction shows in television history, a cult phenomenon and a cultural icon in Britain. Perhaps it’s because of his unwavering faith and admiration in humanity’s ability to literally pick up the pieces and survive on whatever they can. Maybe it’s the fact that he has the answers but sometimes doesn’t pull through; the Doctor can’t always save everyone and often causes trouble for those who would otherwise be at peace. He is not a flawless being by any means, but his morals, determination, and personal depth are infectious. For television’s virus of predictability, the Doctor is most certainly in.
Social Networks