Running Through Corridors: Rob and Toby's Marathon Watch of Doctor Who (Volume 1: The 60s)

by Robert Shearman

  (I should also mention that I owe Michael Napier-Brown my first professional engagement as an actor – he was latterly a noted theatre director, and he gave me three lines in The Merchant of Venice at the Ludlow Festival. So this mad, bloodthirsty Mexican will always have a special place in my heart.)

  But really, I’m just digressing from the sheer amount of momentous stuff in this instalment. Troughton starts off low key and mischievous, clearly enjoying his game of cat-and-mouse with Brayshaw, and matching him for deviousness. For his part, Brayshaw really sells the terrifying consequences that will result if the Doctor calls the Time Lords. And even though the Security Chief discovers the War Chief’s treachery (resulting in the Security Chief’s prolonged line, “No, what a stupid fool youuuuu areeeeeee,” which should be put in some sort of museum for cherished, hilariously-bonkers-and-brilliantly-bad Doctor Who moments), the War Chief later turns the table on his nemesis, and guns him down in a businesslike, unruffled manner. His final, desperate – and ultimately unconvincing – attempts to talk the War Lord round show how much the story is now pulling out all the stops. If the War Chief has become so surplus to requirements that he can be shot dead, then some even bigger guns are about to be fired – in the Doctor’s direction.

  Strangely enough, there’s an inherent sense that The War Games as an adventure comes to an end here, with nearly everyone we’ve met in the last nine episodes sent back home. That Carstairs goes back to 1917 makes me concerned for his safety, but I like to imagine that he and Lady Jennifer hook up, get married, and have a daughter who marries someone called Crichton – enabling their grandson to later become the head of a shady outfit known as UNIT. Yes, I realise I’m walking this route only because David Savile plays both Carstairs and, 14 years later, Crichton, but why not? It’s not the first time (nor the last, I’m sure) that lines have been drawn between two characters based upon an actor playing multiple roles.

  One more thing: you know that something formidable is happening when even Philip Madoc looks coldly terrified, and weightily informs us that “[The Time Lords] are coming” in a way that sends shivers down your spine. It’s interesting that this event is portrayed first with an ethereal howling, then with our heroes desperately struggling against some invisible force as they try to escape, and then some august and imposing organ music. Although this adventure hasn’t been about them, the Time Lords here blast their way unforgettably into the climax of one of the most impressive and iconic episodes it’s ever been my pleasure to watch.

  The War Games episode ten

  R: And he’s gone! My favourite Doctor. Spinning into the distance, then into nothing, whilst complaining that he’s feeling giddy. It’s a little comical, it’s rather surreal. I suppose it ought to be quite funny, really. But I found it rather upsetting, because it’s the most unjust regeneration of all. (And, yes, I know it’s not really called a regeneration yet.) The next few Doctors die at a moment of triumph – Baker saves the universe, Davison saves a friend, and Pertwee faces up to his fears and in a way saves himself. Troughton selflessly ensures that a bunch of ungrateful soldiers get to be returned to their own times and die upon their own planet’s soil – and for that, he’s stuck on trial. He’s the only Doctor to bow out in a state of defeat. And that’s the part of the episode that makes it so very affecting. Look at the way, for example, that the Doctor responds when Jamie and Zoe try to persuade him to make one last ditch attempt at escape; Troughton plays it resignedly, hopping his way to the TARDIS, as if it’s all for their sake, as if it’s all so they can get one last little runaround together. When they’re caught once more, the gravity with which he tells his friends that it’s all over, and the emphasis with which he delivers his goodbyes, is that of an adult telling the children it’s time to put away their games and get ready for bed. The adventures are over. It’s time to grow up.

  Troughton gives such a clever performance here. Contrast the first half of the episode – which is all about manic flight, about the joy of being irresponsible and refusing to believe the party’s over – with the sad acceptance of the end. Hines and Padbury look rather hurt as he decides to bow to his fate and give up on them. And all those awkward farewells, the mutual promises that they’ll remember each other, are all the more poignant because you quickly learn that the Doctor has already realised their memories will be wiped. “They’ll forget me, won’t they?” is the first thing he utters after they’ve dematerialised out of his life forever – he knows that those well-meaning assurances of eternal friendship eventually add up to nothing. It’s the saddest moment in Doctor Who ever since Hartnell reached the same conclusion at the end of The Massacre – that no matter how many companions the Doctor picks up along his travels, sooner or later they part company. Watching this as a kid I cried buckets, not so much that Jamie and Zoe were gone, but for the added cruelty that their many adventures were gone as well. And now it feels like a metaphor for moving on – that soon they’ll see the Doctor as being such a very small part of their lives. And the same thing is about to be true for the audience at home; they’ll move on too, into colour, with new adventures and new companions and a brand new Doctor – and the kids at home will soon have forgotten that this impish little Doctor ever existed at all. Troughton’s on borrowed time now. All the energy of the Doctor we’ve come to know and love gets seen only one more time, as in his bad temper he demands that he decide what his next face can look like – it’s all impotent bluster, the Doctor knowing full well that the game’s up but refusing in his final moments to disappear gracefully.

  It’s a decidedly odd episode. The runaround bits of the first few minutes seem a bit pointless at first – until you realise that these clips from The Web of Fear and Fury from the Deep aren’t exactly disguised; this is Doctor Who for the first time borrowing images from its past for a final hurrah. And it’s a peculiar mix, really – the Quarks, the Ice Warriors, the Cybermen all make a final wave at the curtain call. (The Time Lords get introduced to a Dalek! There’s a relationship that won’t turn out well for either of them.) They go to all the trouble of filming a new scene on Zoe’s Wheel, with Tanya Lernov turning up. There’s a real sense, perhaps for the first time, of Doctor Who faithfully paying dues to its past, and reminding the audience just how far we’ve travelled these last three years Patrick Troughton has been the Doctor.

  There are other things to mention, of course. I love the way that the Time Lords present images of the Earth wars by a series of pictures and photographs; rather like in The Massacre, it’s as if the production team can most sincerely commemorate these real-life conflicts by suggestion, giving us glimpses of the art they inspired. I also think it’s wonderful irony that these new Time Lord people have special laser eyes, and turn them upon the race that have used a variety of spectacles for the last ten weeks to emphasise their will. On its own terms, though, as a conclusion to an epic ten-parter, this all feels like a rather padded epilogue. But as a means of bringing the entirety of black and white Doctor Who to an end, it has an undeniable majesty to it.

  I began this book believing Troughton was my favourite Doctor. Whenever anyone asked – and people do, don’t they? They always do – he was the one I always plumped for. I thought it was because I loved all those monster stories. It turned out I was wrong. The monster stories as a whole lack the invention and care of so many of the Hartnell adventures, and although there’s been a move towards experimentation in his final months, the series has been running dry for quite some time. And yet it’s been wonderful to watch and listen to – and that’s almost entirely down to Troughton; the delicacy with which he’s handled the comic and the serious, the sparkling way in which he’s always made every least scene sing with energy, the fact that right up until the end he was clearly always trying to find new dimensions to the part... He’s still my favourite Doctor. He was amazing.

  T: Aw, Rob, you’ve just made me cry...

  History teaches us that this story was ten parts long out of a producti
on necessity, but if nothing else, it’s helped to make the audience feel that they’ve really been through the mill. Here at the end of this, I feel exhausted, drained and rather emotional – especially because we won’t see the likes of Troughton again. Sorry to echo you, my friend, but Troughton is definitely my favourite Doctor too. He was such an incredible, versatile, nuanced actor, the fact that he’s really only remembered in association with Doctor Who – when like (say) Peter Davison, his talents ranged even wider than that – makes me rather irritated. He never gave a bad performance on Doctor Who, and only on rare occasions slipped into slightly over-zany antics – even then, he was usually dealing with material that probably deserved much worse treatment. He brilliantly sold the gravity of the drama whilst maintaining a joyful, shambolic lightness of touch that made him immensely watchable, unpredictable and fun. He might open this episode scampering around the TARDIS, flicking every switch he can, but the aura of defeat that hangs about him when they arrive on his home planet is immense. I think I shall miss this scarecrow most of all.

  It’s curious, though, how fandom is inclined to call this story “epic” when the Doctor’s homeworld itself seems so very small scale (and comes complete with Time Lord Turkish Baths), and the second Doctor’s swansong involves his head being manipulated on a monitor after some verbal jousting with three robed men. But really, it’s the fact that this episode causes such a seismic shift in the series itself – that it unseats this most brilliant of interpreters of the role, as well as his faithful companions – that it seems so weighty. Anything less than this (the second Doctor being killed by a monster, or shot by a laser) would have almost seemed an insult. The way that Troughton takes a final bow – as he’s basically sentenced for, well, daring to be an individual – accords his character so much respect.

  What I do mind about this is that Jamie and Zoe are made to forget all but their first encounters with the Doctor. (It’s as if the Time Lords have wiped almost all of Troughton’s adventures – so, this wasn’t just a bad habit on the BBC’s part.) I really, really dislike this. Are there any moments in Doctor Who you pretend to yourself didn’t happen, or write off as a mistake – you know, like everyone in The War Machines calling him “Doctor Who”? Well, I pretend to myself that the Time Lord conditioning is faulty and that Jamie and Zoe do remember, because I love them so much, and it’s right and proper that they should have their memories of these fantastic experiences.

  You say you cried watching it... oh hell, I’m comfortable enough in my masculinity to admit that I even cried when I read the book. This time around, it was Jamie being all playfully chiding, Zoe looking forlorn and, finally, Troughton’s childish little wave that set me off – I really feel gutted that I won’t be spending time in the company of this lot again. When Frazer and Wendy take that one last look around the TARDIS as they leave it early in the episode – as if the actors themselves are acknowledging that they are leaving it for the last time – I wanted to grab them and give them a big hug. And even now, I should give a special thank you to Frazer Hines, who appeared in more episodes of Doctor Who than many of the subsequent Doctors, and yet his enthusiasm and commitment were apparent every week. The man’s a bloody legend.

  And thanks to you also, mate, for letting me do this project with you – at this point, I really feel as though I’ve experienced something quite monumental. I know we will carry on tomorrow, but today feels like the end of an era in more ways than one. When we started this, we couldn’t identify Matt Smith at 20 paces, I still smoked, had never been to America and had never attended a convention as an adult. But tomorrow, we not only start a new era of Doctor Who, I will fly to New Zealand for the first time, to do my one-man show about my love for this wonderful series. You and I have been extremely fortunate in that Doctor Who has taken us to new and exciting places in the real world as well as fiction. I wouldn’t be making tomorrow’s journey were it not for the good, the bad and the ugly of this brilliant show – and neither would I have had any of the fun times I’ve had so far this year.

  I feel bigger on the inside.

  Acknowledgements

  Toby Wishes to Thank: Firstly, I’d like to thank Rob for asking me to do this with him – it was a flattering proposition from a bona fide Doctor Who writer which quite knocked me for six. He’s been instrumental in easing me into a new chapter in my life and introduced me to all sorts of people, and I’m very grateful. A good friend.

  2009 was a big year for me, and many friendships were forged and strengthened in the months that this volume was created (if I’ve failed to mention anyone here, fear not – I clearly didn’t meet you till Volume 2 or 3). While undertaking this project, I’d suddenly find myself travelling around the country and headed towards, say, Inverness without a copy of The Krotons to re-watch – a quick text to John Williams, and he’d ensure it was there when I arrived. Steve Hatcher dropped everything on a couple of occasions to instantly furnish me with recons I’d not got or had packed away into storage (and a word here for those hardworking fans behind those brilliantly rendered labours of love – their skill and application are hugely appreciated and admired in Hadoke Towers). Neil Perryman, Martin Oakley and Simon Harries had a butchers at some of my early efforts and said nice and/or useful things. Mark Attwood will have a big grin on his face seeing his name in (another) Doctor Who book – he deserves far more, frankly. Lee Martin and Jason Cook occasionally remind me of a life outside of Doctor Who and have always been there when I’ve needed proper friendship, and Neil Smith, Ros Bell, Mike Thorpe and Leanne Burke are rays of sunshine who make my life easier with regularity, good grace and not enough credit.

  I’m also indebted to Derek Fowler, Danny Jones, Paul Cornell, Simon Guerrier, Mark Wright, Steve Roberts, Sue Cowley, John Kelly, Michael McManus, Andy Murray, Jonathan Morris, Karen Baldwin, Ed Stradling, Steve O’Brien, James Seabright, Kat Portman, Steve Broster, Daren Thomas, Damon Querry and Matt Hayden, as well as everyone who made me welcome in the USA, New Zealand and Canada (which will feature in future volumes). From the comedy circuit, I am indebted to John Cooper, Dominic Woodward, Michael Legge, Andrew O’Neill, Mitch Benn, Dan McKee and especially Johnny Candon, who have all enabled me to discuss the Taran Wood Beast and Eric Pringle in green rooms up and down the country to the confusion of everyone else present. And especial thanks to Robin Ince, for suggesting that talking about such things on stage might be a funny thing to do.

  Thanks to Lars and Christa for making it easy, and enabling this whole thing to happen with good grace and skill. And really huge and heartfelt thanks to Peter Crocker, a close and valued friend, for going over the thing with a fine-tooth comb, making salient points and being there with good company and words of wisdom and support (not to mention curry and gin).

  Louis, Ethan and Oscar represent the next generation, provide necessary perspective, and are duty bound to be the custodians of my Dapol collection when I am dead and gone. They also make me very proud (probably to the same extent that I make them very embarrassed).

  Rob Wishes to Thank: As this is one of those very rare occasions when Toby has been allowed to write something first – ha! – I’d would like to acknowledge all the people that Toby is acknowledging, thank you. (Except for the bit about me, because that would be weird.) I would like to add, though: Owen Bywater – who got me into this Doctor Who thing when I was eleven years old, and is still a friend; my younger sister, Vicky, who was braver than I was, and dared to watch The Creature from the Pit when I was far too scared to do so (oh, that Erato blob was terrifying!); my parents, Joyce and Dennis, who despaired hugely of my Who obsession, but never tried to hide the remote control; my wife, Jane Goddard, for marrying me in spite of my love for Doctor Who; my agent, Suzanne Milligan, for representing me in spite of my love for Doctor Who; and Liz Myles, Nicholas Briggs, Ian Mond and Robyn Brough, for looking over the manuscript and egging me on.

  Credits

  Robert Shearman... is probably best known as a writer fo
r Doctor Who, where he reintroduced the Daleks in the show’s BAFTA winning first series, in an episode nominated for a Hugo Award. But he has long worked as a writer for radio, television and the stage. He has received several international awards for his theatre work, including the Sunday Times Playwriting Award, the World Drama Trust Award and the Guinness Award for Ingenuity in association with the Royal National Theatre. His plays have been regularly produced by Alan Ayckbourn, and on BBC Radio by Martin Jarvis; Big Finish recently published a selection of them under the title Caustic Comedies. His first collection of short stories, Tiny Deaths, won the World Fantasy Award. The follow-up, Love Songs for the Shy and Cynical, won the Shirley Jackson Award, the British Fantasy Award, and the Edge Hill Reader’s Prize. A third collection, Everyone’s Just So So Special, was published in 2011.

  Toby Hadoke... is an actor, writer and comedian. His one man show Moths Ate My Doctor Who Scarf enjoyed a West End run, a major UK and international tour, a sell-out success at the Edinburgh Fringe and a Sony-nominated radio series. A follow up, Now I Know My BBC, premiered in 2010. He is resident compere at XS Malarkey Comedy Club, won The Les Dawson Award in 2003, and also a Chortle Award in 2007. His TV acting credits include Casualty 1907, The Forsyte Saga, Phoenix Nights, The Royal Today and Coronation Street. His writing includes The Comedy Sketchbook (BBC 1), The Comedy Christmas (BBC 2) and pieces in The Guardian, The Independent, Doctor Who Magazine and SFX. An experienced radio and theatre actor, voice-over artist, TV warm-up man and radio pundit, Toby has also moderated commentaries for the Doctor Who DVD range.