Here in the United Kingdom there’s only one subject of conversation just now – no, not the forthcoming General Election (an announcement greeted with stoic resignation by a nation ground down by Brexit), nor whether Donald Trump and Kim Jong-un will condemn us all to nuclear oblivion – but instead, who will be the next Dr Who?
Fifty-four years and 828 episodes on from its first transmission, this quirky BBC sci-fi series, depicting the inter-galactic adventures of a Time Lord named “The Doctor” in his whirling Tardis, has gradually evolved into a significant part of British culture; although even back in 1963, when I was a child, no Saturday evening was complete without my ritual ordeal of peeking out in terror from behind my parents’ sofa as the Daleks – or the Cybermen – or the great hairy Yetis fresh from the snows of the Himalayas – attempted to foil the Doctor and take over the world.
No matter that the trundling Daleks couldn’t climb stairs, that the dreaded Cybermen seemed to be clad in outfits fashioned from egg boxes and tin foil – or that the Yetis looked like something you might find in the off-cuts section of your local carpet warehouse – no, despite these obvious deficiencies, they struck fear into any passing eight-year-old on a weekly basis.By the 1980s the show had become something of a joke, with its threadbare sets and tinpot special effects, but the BBC revived the brand in 2003 by pumping millions of pounds into special effects and replacing the cheap production values with something that wouldn’t looked out of place in the latest Hollywood blockbuster. And suddenly the programme was essential viewing once more.
Now the latest actor of the ten who have occupied the role to date, Peter Capaldi, has decided to hang up his scarf after four years in the part, and speculation is rife as to who will replace him. Will it be smooth, suave Idris Elba, Harry Potter’s own Daniel Radcliffe, or even perhaps, as rumour has it, a first-ever female Doctor (enough in itself to make the Daleks’ eyes water – if only they had any)? But one thing is certain – whoever gets the gig is guaranteed both a substantial payday and huge celebrity status.
For many years the chance to audition for the nation’s most famous time traveller was open to any actor with two hands, two feet and a working mouth. Indeed, the original doctor, William Hartnell, more resembled an elderly undertaker than a conventional leading man. But now, in an era in which appearance is everything and viewing figures are considered the sole yardsticks of success, anybody hoping to capture the part must have a skill set undreamt of by previous generations. As with similar iconic roles such as James Bond and Sherlock Holmes, a taut frame, gleaming white teeth and a substantial celebrity profile are nowadays deemed essential components for the aspiring candidate to the Tardis.
This preference for style over substance is inundating all areas of show business. Young actors leaving drama schools no longer need a working knowledge of Shakespeare and the classics, but rather rippling pecs, a square jaw line, and plenty of moisturiser. Indeed, one young graduate confided to me that while at drama college a leading showbiz agent assured him that acquiring a decent six-pack and a sharp haircut would do his prospects far more good than any amount of fine acting.
And the business is similarly awash with rumours of actors nowadays being chosen by ratings-obsessed producers on the basis of how many Twitter followers they have, rather than through any suitability for the role.
Whether or not Doctor Number 11 will be selected on such fatuous credentials is still to emerge. But if so, it would be a pity, for in art as in life, quirkiness and personal eccentricity make for far more interesting viewing than conventional good looks. Dr Who has always been a part best realised by actors who are a bit different from the usual muscle-bound hunks found in a million police series and action dramas, and I, for one, hope that the new incarnation proves as eccentric as their predecessors.
And what of me? Might I audition, realise my dream, and finally repay the Daleks for all those years of terror and fear they inflicted on my younger self? Well, I may not have much credibility as a doctor, but in the other essential regard I’m uniquely qualified. For whenever the name Michael Simkins is mentioned in casting meetings for TV and movies, somebody round the table will invariably ask ‘Who?’
Michael Simkins is an actor and writer in London
On Twitter: @michael_simkins
