All smiles but Ncuti Gatwa is leaving Doctor Who (Image: Getty)
Who is to blame for the BBC’s Dr Who crisis? Not Ncuti Gatwa. Even if you found the Doctor’s journey from stubborn old boffin to showboating clown hard to swallow, charismatic Gatwa lit up the screen. Not co-producers Disney whose dollars gave the show movie-level sets and special effects. No, the fault lies entirely with the writing and the producers who green-lit it.
The sci-fi series hit the skids under the stewardship of showrunner Chris Chibnall who, with the producers’ blessing, reinvented it as a propaganda machine. Instead of crafting gripping tales for families to enjoy, Chibs turned it into a long tedious yawn of ticked “issues”. There was 1950s American racism, eco-doom, the Iraq war, a pregnant (alien) man etc… The show duly haemorrhaged viewers. So Russell T. Davies was brought back to stop the rot. Finally some sanity, we hoped. Nope. RTD doubled down on the fashionable madness, introducing Donna Noble’s transgender daughter and the non-binary super-villain Maestro. He turned the new Doctor into a flamboyant, disco-dancing action hero, gave David Tennant’s Doc a crush on “hot” Isaac Newton, and sprung Davros from his wheelchair.
Most fanciful of all, he also unveiled a thriving steel-works in Camden, north London, presumably twinned with the fabled tin mines of Tottenham.
RTD can write, but science fiction is not his field. 2023’s Christmas special had plenty of spectacle yet strip away the flying goblin galleon and the musical interlude, and the story was muddled, illogical and dull. Plenty of smoke and mirrors; zero substance. Last year viewing figures dropped to 3.3m from a 2008 high of 13.3m.
Doctor Who needs a showrunner who is more interested in crafting clever, thrilling, heartwarming stories than in playing to the PC gallery. For the next Doc, why not try an emotionally continent, older white chap with professorial gravitas? Who knows, it might catch on.
David Tennant hosted The Bafta Film Awards and looked awfully pleased with himself as he laid into . The US President has flaws, of course, but it’s odd that the dressing-up community rarely denounce tyrants like of Ali Khamenei or Kim Jong Un. No kudos in there. And a real risk of payback.
As usual, the ceremony was far too long, dull and weepy. The only excitement came when Star Wars veteran Mark Hamill’s trousers started dropping, leaving him fumbling to salvage his dignity behind the lectern. Use the force, Luke, we yelled as one. Use the force.
Dignity is traditionally a casualty on The White Lotus. Series three of Mike White’s dark satirical drama finds a new set of super-rich holidaymakers at a luxury detox spa in Thailand. There’s high-flying financier Tim, whose loved ones have no idea know his business dealings are unravelling like a Rachel Reeves resumé; Rick (Walton Goggins), a shifty middle-aged grump keeping secrets from much younger girlfriend Chelsea; and a trio of women whose lifelong friendship seems unlikely to last.
We know from the opening scene that it all ends with gunshots and tears. Rick wants revenge on the hotel owner, and jealousy, rifts and shenanigans are on the cards.
There are already hints that Tim’s youngest children might be ‘closer’ than most families, and his eldest son Saxon is thoroughly obnoxious. It’s a great advert for Thailand and a lousy one for loaded Yanks. An embarrassment of riches. The Lotus itself is played by the Four Seasons resort in Koh Samui. Get saving.
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Some days it seems as if everybody on television wants to tell us what to think. We have lectures on the virtues of no borders from ITV drama, documentaries that are Hamas agitprop vehicles, and of course, the soaps.
Ross Kemp’s : 40 Years On The Square was more concerned with the show’s taboo-busting than story-lines. He forgot many other memorable moments. Not least the time Enders went to Ireland for three episodes and infuriated the Irish by portraying them as mince-thick drunks lost in a mythical 1950s time-warp where farm animals wandered the streets. The were forced to apologise after the Irish Embassy made an official complaint.
It was terrific to see vintage clips of Frank Butcher, Angie Watts, Kat and co, of course, but let’s not pretend the soap is “realistic”. Minty Peterson went from being a ruthless slum landlord menacing Janine to a loveable, unworldly dimwit. Villain Johnny Allen was said to be running prostitutes when Pat was 21…and he was 14.
And in 1997, Gita left Walford to have another man’s child, letting her husband Sanjay become a murder suspect. She returned months later and when he asked where she’d been, she looked him in the eye and replied, “Oh Sanjay, don’t be so unreasonable!” Realism, Ross?
And let’s not forget 2005’s glut of plastic gangsters. It was like Chicago in the 1930s. As true to life as the Teletubbies.
Eric Sykes: 50 Years Of Laughter was a fine tribute to the mill-worker’s son from Oldham whose sitcom Sykes ran for the best part of 20 years. Eric’s humour was observational, gentle, and devoid of bad language. He once said, “Drama, death, tragedy – everybody has these. But with humour you’ve got the antidote.” Something soap opera bosses would do well to remember.