When Doctor Who returned to wild acclaim in 2005, after 16 years off-air and about a generation of being regarded as an embarrassment, I remember turning to a fellow long-time apostle and saying of its legions of new young fans: ‘Well, maybe this time around they won’t be quite as mad as we were.’ They turned out to be much madder – and have only become more so in the years leading up to the show’s 60th anniversary this week.
With any object of cult devotion that aims for popular appeal, the question arises: are the nutty fans worth it? Can a person take the hit to their status when they enjoy something a fringe element loudly drools over? The existence of extremist devotees hasn’t stopped mass audiences tapping into the Marvel films or the ever-expanding Star Wars franchise. But I think the Doctor Who fans of today may be a special case.
The general atmosphere of its fandom has all the relaxed bonhomie of a Maoist struggle session.
Before 2005, there was a kind of happy hobbyism to Doctor Who fans. Yes, there was inevitably a very high level of what is now called ‘neurodiversity’, a heavy percentage of the boffin and the buff. Science fiction of all kinds, with its arcane technical lore and fantasy worlds, is catnip to socially awkward folk. But there were many sparky, creative people in Doctor Who‘s fandom, unlike other bad-all-the-way-down eccentric cults such as the Reverend Jim Jones’s People’s Temple or the Liberal Democrats.
But then the 21st century revived Doctor Who – initially to incredible success. (I was part of that revival and wrote six episodes of it.) And gradually the fans changed from amiable oddbods to seriously deranged. The undersocialised, smartphone-addled middle class kids of the new century are a worrying phenomenon all round, but Doctor Who gave some of them something to believe in.
As time went on, I started to notice a different kind of madness that, this time, was genuinely concerning; a shallow breathing, eye swivelling, febrile quality that was quite new. As with many other 21st century fan ‘communities’ – from knitting circles to Young Adult authors – the atmosphere soured. The shadow of identity politics brought denunciations and excommunications, and YouTubed outbursts of either extreme love or extreme hate, of the kind you’ll find described in textbooks about borderline personality disorder.
Alarmingly, the newbies were taking this slightly shonky children’s adventure series as Holy Writ, frequently saying things like ‘the Doctor would not approve!’ or framing its bog-standard cheerful liberalism to be somehow unusual, thundering ‘this has always been a progressive and inclusive show!’ as if all other kids’ TV was packed with fascist propaganda. They obsess over now-unacceptable gags or racial stereotypes from episodes made decades before they were born.
We, the makers of the new version, didn’t help matters. Adding a Harry Potterish ‘child of destiny’ angle – that only certain youngsters were good enough to be one of the Doctor’s helpers – was a bad move, it transpired. That unintentionally attracted – in modern vernacular, ‘empowered’ – the entitled egocentricity of damaged children, who love to think they are special.
As the revival went on, it incorporated tortuous adult relationships and attempts at emotional reality and political and moral depth. All this for what had always been a delightful piece of fluff for ten year olds, was a disaster – both for ratings, and for the young viewers.
Late childhood and early adolescence is a crucial time; the culture you take in during this period will stay with you forever – as has been proven by many of those who watched Doctor Who during these formative years. The show doubled down on its dangerously childish world view, where ethnic hatred and terrorism can be defeated by a stirring monologue. Viewers were captivated – and convinced that there was a lesson in the show for reality.
The makers of Doctor Who made another mistake. It’s very tempting when audience figures slide to focus on the core of who you have left, the people who are still enraptured, in the mistaken belief that this strange rump is your audience. The more recent series of Doctor Whodid an Ouroboros deal with the devil, and combined bum-clenchingly embarrassing moral lectures with recondite plots that were impenetrable even for people who knew all the lore.
The stereotype of the Doctor Who fan as the slightly smelly nerd in the corner has become inaccurate. It’s far, far worse than that now. People I know that have worked on it – and who, unlike me, are impeccable progressives – have had death threats. I’ve seen production staff shaking with fear at Doctor Who conventions. The general atmosphere of its fandom has all the relaxed bonhomie of a Maoist struggle session or Act IV of The Crucible.
To parents out there, on its 60th anniversary, as it returns again, I would say: keep your children away from Doctor Who. The thing itself isn’t scary. Let’s be honest, it never was really. But many of its followers should have you hiding behind the sofa.
