He’s the doctor. Dr. Who.
I grew up on the series in the UK, and imprinted helplessly on the manic Tom Baker incarnation of the time lord. I still love men with crazy teeth and curly hair. The theme song alone makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. As a kid, I often watched it from behind the couch when the rubbery monsters declared themselves. Ask any Brit, and they will affirm the same. We are all Wholigans.
One of the joys of parenting while your kids are still small is forcing them to also imprint on the cultural footholds that anchored your own development. So when Friday night trips to the movies started to feel like a rip-off and a punishment for me, I found Dr. Who on Netflix, and made a standing appointment with the Doctor.
Now we are all utterly hooked. The episodes are clever, with saucy humor hidden between the lines for adults, and an over-arching ethos of courage, non-violence and cunning. There is a lovely lexicon of catchphrases, and long-running naratives to weave it all together. The baddies are scary, but not too scary.
The Doctor has already transmorgified a couple of times since we jumped in, so there’s one for everyone – the doe-eyed consumptive appeal of David Tennant, the rough-trade bulk of Christopher Eccleston, and the newest incarnation, the natty dorkihunk of Matt Smith
Episodes are short, and the back catalog is bottomless, so unroll the sleeping bags, make the popcorn, and have yourself a marathon of bbc goodness. After a couple of episodes you will rue all the money you’ve hurled at Pixar on your Friday nights over the years.