John Walker's Electronic House

Mr Davies,

Doctor Who isn’t very important at all, really. It’s a television programme with a legacy of kitsch nonsense, recently revived to provide a moment’s entertainment at Saturday teatime. It’s trivial. In the end, it doesn’t matter. But it’s also capable of being something special.

The recently broadcast two-parter, Human Nature/The Family Of Blood, demonstrated this. The premise, from start to finish, was wholly silly – a man who travels through time putting his person into a watch that he then ensured the remaining human form would not consider of any consequence. Daft. Aliens chasing him through time, possessing humans, shooting green deathrays, animating scarecrows – all ridiculous. And yet, in its execution, it was something special. It told a story of love, of fear, of tragedy. At its heart it was the moving and horrific tale of a love doomed by death, but death made so much worse by the illusion of survival. The cold cruelty of the Doctor contrasted with the unconditional love of Mr Smith made his ghastly offer of letting Joan accompany him all the more chilling and upsetting.

It spoke bravely of the terror of war, and the depths of awfulness when children are forced to fight. Its ending at the memorial was bold and beautiful. It scared children, it moved adults. It was what television should aim for, wrapped up in the silliest of clothes.

It was written by Paul Cornell.

Looking back at the previous two series, Cornell once more stands out with Father’s Day – another remarkably emotional and evocative episode, made all the more impressive by using the dreadfully cast and constructed family Rose was surrounded by, and somehow making them tolerable, let alone engaging.

Mark Gatiss has written hugely entertaining episodes that tap into people’s memories of the classic series, while still appearing fresh.

Then there’s Steven Moffat’s episodes. In the first series his wonderful The Empty Child/The Doctor Dances two-parter was both terrifying and wildly fun. Then series 2’s The Girl In The Fireplace was a stunning piece of writing, containing an epic story in under forty-five minutes, and somehow surviving containing the hateful character of Mickey. I look forward greatly to his offering for this series, Blink, next week.

You have a great team of writers contributing to the series. And you have successfully relaunched a franchise that was previously too tired to work. Please, Mr Davies, concentrate on your godfathering of the series, focus on maintaining the thematic arcs of darkness and emptiness in the Doctor’s life, and please, stop writing for the programme.

Where you have succeeded, you have achieved a lot. You’ve created a space in the UK schedules where the fun of science fiction can be made accessible for a family audience while leaving room for genuine pathos. This is wonderful. The vast majority of episodes you have written for the last two years have taken all this opportunity, and wasted it. Nasty, flimsy outlines of ideas glumly inflated with special effects.

Please, look at what the recent two-parter achieves, and compare the results with your so many episodes this series. Look what your programme CAN be, when you work in the position for which you are so talented and accomplished. Let your programme BE that. We don’t need another soap opera. We don’t need endless attempts at contemporary references (in a time travel programme, for heavens sake). And we really don’t need a tourism commercial for Cardiff. (If we wanted that, we’d watch Torchwood, and then gouge out our eyes with rusty spanners). Step up, sit in your executive throne, continue your script editing maintenance, and give the writing task to the fantastically talented crew you have recruited.

Let Doctor Who rise above a trivial Saturday teatime filler, and let it be that little bit more of which it is so clearly capable.

Thank you,
John Walker

A Summer show tends to mean it wasn’t even good enough for a mid-season pick up, but they had the episodes, so they might as well show them. Traveler, from its first episode, seems surprisingly reasonable.

Three recent university graduates, at least two of them comfortably rich, the other a new lawyer, are on a Kerouac-inspired road trip, beginning in New York. Visiting an art museum, they agree to race from the top to the bottom on rollerblades. But what’s this, the guy filming them on his camcorder is looking a bit shifty. The front two race off and he lingers behind. A fire alarm goes off, the two on the blades are being chased by a security guard, and they slip out through the crowds. Outside they phone the third friend who asks if they got out, then apologises, then a bomb blows up the art museum.

So we’ve got ourselves a terrozritz situation, and some unlucky suspects. Immediately their faces are on the news, and the fear sets in. Oh noes, I thought – they’re going to refuse to ring the police for a spurious reason, aren’t they? And thus the set up begins, one shouting that they should call the police, the other saying they shouldn’t because of the… because of the monsters and you know mumble.

BUT! Shock, horror, first guy wins and immediately phones the FBI. He explains everything, explains about his friend, and asks for help! Goodness me. Then the twist arrives as the other guy’s dad tells him that it’s a set up, that they’ve got to get out of Manhattan and fast. They can’t trust the police, and they know it for sure. Justified running, rather than the tiresome: “If they’d only go and say something they’d be fine” nonsense that plagues so many of these ideas.

And so off they run, surrounded by conspiracies, discovering that their friend is not who he claims. Twists and turns, lots of the police shouting, “What’s your 20?”, and the runners being decently smart rather than useless morons.

It’s fairly rubbish still, with some of the most awful exposition I’ve ever seen. (One character informs the others what their jobs are one at a time). But maybe some hope? We’ll see.

You know what? Big Brother 2 was a really great social experiment. I watched it obsessively, more the live feed than the nightly broadcasts, including, I will confess, falling asleep to the image of their falling asleep. I do not boast this, and I don’t pretend to defend it. It gripped me for one summer, and I genuinely believe it was a very different programme back then.

BB2 was won by Brian – super-camp and very sweet young guy who I imagine is now selling the sort of jewelry that turns your skin green on a channel in the deepest depths of the cable swamplands. And I think he deserved it. Not for the reasons broadcast on the nightly episodes, but those constantly revealed in the live feed. While the newspapers fellated themselves into a mad twisted snake over Pa”Ya’know, I mean, sersiously”ul and Em”I like blinking I do”ma, the much more quiet Dean and Elizabeth (oddly painted by the edited show as deathly boring and deeply evil, respectively) made it their mission to help Brian change from the selfish little brat that entered into the rather lovely chap who deserved the win, and the TV work that followed. They literally created school time for him (at his request), where they would send him away to read a chapter of one of their books, then talk over what he’d read. He declared himself Catholic, but had never heard of Adam and Eve. Rather than being disgusted, Dean instead patiently taught him the history of his religion. They cared for him, and he transformed. Meanwhile Dean would strum melodically on his guitar, and when pestered by the housemates, sing some of his songs. (He was of course announced by the papers to be simply trying to promote a singing career by forcing his music on everyone).

Of course, a couple of things stand out rather oddly now. Books and instruments are now banned from the BB house. They made it “boring”, because people “would just sit around reading.” God forbid it. It’s imperative that instead they spend their days lying perfectly still in their competitive efforts to see who can grow the most threatening melanoma/atheroma. FAR more interesting! Of course, just to be safe it’s also been the policy to only allow in those very unlikely to know what a book is, let alone stare confused at the pictureless words inside.

For the last three years I’ve not even been able to bear the thought of watching a single minute of it. I’ve tended to read the BBC news stories during the launch week, have a scan of the profiles to be sure it’s everything I’ll hate, and then dig myself a bunker in the garden to avoid the Summer rays of gleaming headlines and asinine conversation. As Jesus nearly said, “Wherever two or three are gathered, bleating about Big Brother will be there.” This year I admit to having been intrigued. Not because it’s an “all women house”, but because those women appeared, from their descriptions, to have been chosen by their potential political conflicts. Yes, yes I was stupid and wrong.

For your pleasure I will now tell you why everyone involved is hateful, and why I shall be back in the bunker from now on.

Sam and Amanda are twins! Blonde twins! They like pink! They squeal! Perhaps these two things could be combined if someone were to slit their bellies open and spill them inside out. They like to speak at the same time, and simultaneously announced that they don’t like people who “speak in dictionary language.” Just actions people, just actions.

Lesley is in the WI, and is 60, and has serious hair and serious glasses. Watching her face became the only reason to continue putting up with the hour’s descent into the abhorrent, as each screeching halfwit entered the house and her spirit died a little more. It’s looking like it could be Britain’s first televised suicide.

Charley can’t spell her name. She also considers herself an It Girl, and has big earrings and the mutant mouthchild of Billie Piper and Julia Roberts. I imagine she’ll announce her friends call her “Chazzer” soon, and then I get carried away and imagine she’s run over by a combine harvester.

Tracey is possibly the most irritating human being of all time. Kudos to the producers for finding her. She’s a “mad quaver” or something, with PINK HAIR OMG! and a man’s set of chromosomes, which she uses for largin’ it. She is in fact a really badly programmed robot, malfunctioning horribly such that it can only sputter three phrases no matter how irrelevantly. “‘AVE IT!” she must shout at the post as it arrives through the letterbox in the morning, followed by getting the kettle “BUZZIN'” before “LARGIN’ IT” into the mug. “‘AVE IT TEABAG!” She collects carrier bags because, well, because she’s an idiot. She won’t break down impressively because the malfunctioning robot has taken over completely now. Instead she’ll go all dark and moody, and punch a door, and then all the others will cluck in worry and bump into the walls.

Chanelle is, as far as I can tell, the sort of name that only ever appears on Big Brother. Surely in the real world a child named such would be generously drowned to save it from her parents? Chanelle wants to be “rich, or famous, or a speech therapist in Spain.” She also wants to be Posh Spice, and has confused Planet Earth with a giant look-a-like contest. If anyone watches this (and I know you will be, James) could you alert me the moment she says a sentence that doesn’t include some form of the phrase, “People tell me I look a lot like Victoria Beckham”? Thanks.

Shabnam is apparently made of soggy tissues.

Emily conspiratorially informs us that “there’s a new music and it’s taking over our country. It’s called Indie.” Goodness me, whatever must this new sound be like? Will it catch on? Can you dance to it? Can you catch on fire? Reading about her she appeared interestingly right wing. In reality, she’s just going to vote Tory because Mummy and Daddy do. Annoucing, “Education, education, education” in her introductory video somewhat gave away her confusion over politics. But she hates stupid people. She’s rich and posh! Private school doesn’t seem to have held her back from investing her massive intellect into working as a waitress.

Laura was the crowd’s favourite because she’s fat and deeply stupid, and thus not a threat to the sorts of egos who give up a day to stand and scream as eleven people walk past them and go inside a building. Until a fatter and more stupid contestant came along after. My accurate prediction: She will spend the vast majority of her time in the house in tears, because that’s always got her the attention she needs before. She will refer to every other younger constestant as “Such a mean… sniffle… bitch” at some point.

Nicky wants to prove that being Indian doesn’t stop her from not being Indian. Or something. Possibly the only contestant with a life potentially containing some interest (she was living in Mother Theresa’s Indian orphanage at one point in her life), her vacuous demeanour suggests that we’ll only get to learn her favourite lipstick. Were we to watch. Which we won’t.

Carole is the result of some mad scientists’ seeing what would happen if they crossed the colour grey with a binbag full of wet clothes, and brought it to life. A massive 50-something bisexual (ie. divorced and so desperate) who dedicates her life to announcing her geographical location (east London, apparently) and saying “fuck” like a teacher trying to appear trendy during assembly. “I’m going to shake it something rotten. And they will be shaken shitless.” So much so she’s too busy to be employed at the moment, what with all her war protesting and all. War’s not nice, we learn. And if the others can’t cope with her, then, well, that’s their problem because she’s who she is, and that’s just the way it is. It’s funny how it’s only the most wretched people who feel the need to announce this, rather than reflecting on the fact that everyone they ever meet hates them, and therefore there might be something about themselves that could be questionable. No! Stop the thoughts! Swear some more – and I speculate here – and spell Tony Blair, “Tony BLIAR!!!”.

If anyone can think of a reason not to bolt the doors shut, turn off the cameras, and quietly forget about them, then, well, you should probably go in and join them.