Doctor Who and the Deep Breath

In the olden days, when some people still had black-and-white telly, and Wagon Wheels were bigger (they were) and your mum and dad used to ask people, 'Are you on the phone?' and people still believed in TV detector vans, and you could pop down to the Post Office for a quarter of aniseed balls (insert nostalgic music here), there was a magical range of Doctor Who novelisations from Target Books.

A 'novelisation' was a necessary thing in the pre-video age - it was the only way of catching up on episodes you had missed, or of experiencing again those which you had. Because Doctor Who was so rarely repeated. It must be one of the BBC's few hit programmes of the 1970s and 1980s which never got a full series repeated on terrestrial TV. I'm pausing to think about that 'never', but... no. I'm prepared to be corrected here, but I'm pretty sure of this: not once has a full series of Doctor Who been repeated on 'normal' television - that kind of thing only started happening with the 2005 relaunch, when the BBC3 repeats became the norm. Only individual stories were repeated, often 'stripped' across the week on consecutive days.

The Target novelisations were a wonderful way of 'owning' the programme before one could ever do so on video or DVD. Terrance Dicks did a sterling job, novelising the bulk of them in the 1970s, but later on - largely thanks to the efforts of editor Nigel Robinson - some of the original scriptwriters came in to adapt their stories into prose.

The covers ranged in quality, from the wonderful to the puzzlingly bad. Many fans have a great affection for the work of Chris Achilleos, but I want to put in a word for the very talented Jeff Cummins too - perhaps I am biased, as he produced the stunning cover for my first novel The Dimension Riders in 1993, for which I am eternally grateful. The back cover blurbs were an odd mixture too. I don't mind a bit of melodrama, or a teasing blurb which deliberately avoids giving away a lot of the plot, but we did get the odd blurb which didn't do justice to the story at all. (Take this one for Mawdryn Undead, for instance, or this for The Awakening.)

I've started using the idea as the basis for school workshops, in which I get children and teenagers to 'mini-novelise' the openings of recent Who like 'The Impossible Astronaut' and 'The Day of the Doctor' - and even, if I am feeling brave, 1970s classic 'Horror of Fang Rock'. It provokes a lot of interesting discussion about the different ways in which stories are told in various media.

Sadly, the new stories broadcast since 2005 have not been novelised - the medium is seen as redundant in the post-DVD age. BBC Books don't think - rightly, I'm sure - that they'd sell enough to make them worthwhile. That doesn't stop people having a bit of fun with the idea, though.

So I wonder how that master of crisp and sturdy prose, Terrance Dicks, would have described the appearance of the new Doctor, played by Peter Capaldi, in a novelisation of his first story? Based on his previous work, would it perhaps be something like this?...

Inside the Police Box which was not a Police Box, but in fact a Time and Space vessel known as the TARDIS, was an impossibly huge, dimly-lit room full of books and scientific apparatus, with a many-sided console at its centre. At the controls stood that mysterious traveller in Time and Space known only as the Doctor. Now in his twelfth incarnation - although, in truth, the Doctor himself did not bother counting - he was tall and lean, with a hawkishly imperious, high-cheekboned face and elegantly swept-back grey hair. Authoritative blue-grey eyes were framed by dark, imposing eyebrows, while his mouth was set in what could have been determination, or perhaps grim amusement. He was elegantly attired in a high-buttoned white shirt and a dark blue Crombie coat with a blood-red lining, matching blue trousers and sturdy, polished black shoes...

Apologies to Sir Terrance if that's nothing like the way he'd do it nowadays...

The stars are my fault

Some books I have read recently, with the star ratings I gave them on Goodreads. Oh, how I do enjoy a good star rating. I'm sad enough to be excited by star ratings, having been raised on 1980s copies of the controversial Doctor Who Bulletin.

Disclaimer: Two of the writers below are friends on Facebook and one in real life as well, but as ever, my policy with friends' books is to review them if I liked them and to tell them honestly in private if I didn't!

The Fault In Our Stars by John Green.

Never would have read this if my daughter hadn't told me to... Lots of very sassy, unconvincingly smart teenage dialogue gets in the way of a genuinely touching romance, humour and some interesting writing. Ultimately, I'm not the target audience - I read it at some emotional distance and resisted the shameless tear-wringing. Everyone who likes this book says the bit in the Anne Frank House is awesome - I'm afraid I cringed at it more than a little. ***



The Set-Up by Sophie McKenzie.

First in a highly successful series, so it must be doing something right - who am I to judge? But I found it emotionally flat, with the main character's continual obsession over the lead girl to be puzzling. The writing was flat and 'Year 6 SATs' in style, with lots of cheap phrases like 'my heart was pounding', the exceedingly dull narrator's body apparently being contorted in various uncomfortable ways by his unnecessary emoting. His whiny emo-mooning is totally at odds with the action-thriller the story wants to be, and totally gets in the way of his being likeable. There was a vestige of a good spy/action plot at the heart of it, totally wasted by the plodding way in which it was told. And please, YA writers, stop making your characters nod, smile and bite their lips all the time! It must hurt their necks and mouths so much. *

Flood Child/Flood and Fire by Emily Diamand.

This book and its sequel are charming. They're full of jokes, fun and quirkiness alongside the darkness and exciting adventure, and compellingly told. There's some quite visceral violence too. In a future Britain, drowned in post-apocalyptic floods and at the mercy of rampaging raiders, a girl called Lily is in possession of a unique treasure - one of the last remaining computers in the world. Action-packed but with a sense of fun and an underlying intelligence - rather like a clever Doctor Who two-parter, in fact. ****

Floodland by Marcus Sedgwick.

Coincidentally, another 'flooded future England' book with a young female protagonist, but this time set in Norwich, much shorter than Emily Diamand's books and much darker, at least until the redemptive ending. Didn't totally feel it. A novella which felt a little like an expanded short story at times - a glimpse of a world whose other stories it would have been interesting to know. I gather his later stuff is very good, so I may seek out more of it. ***

The Quarry by Iain Banks.

Sadly, not a great final novel. I so wish Banks had gone out in a roar of brilliance, but this is the book of his where I've cared least about the protagonists since A Song of Stone. After the very enjoyable Stonemouth I had high hopes, but sadly it wasn't to be. Flashes of his old self can't redeem it. There's a MacGuffin of a lost videotape which turns out to be not very interesting after all, and would you believe it, some drugs and sex, long-buried secrets and a few rants against injustice and established authority. Enjoyable in parts, but ultimately unsatisfying - The Crow Road it is not. **

Dark Matter by Michelle Paver.

Haunting, unsettling tale of an Arctic expedition in the 1930s plagued by dark forces, this could so easily have lapsed into stereotype or laughable parody. Instead, it is thoroughly intriguing and pulls off the very difficult trick of narrating an intelligent ghost story for the cynical modern reader. Astonishingly detailed sense of place - you totally believe you are there in the long, cold Arctic night - and a compelling, psychologically-disturbing narrative. *****


The Unpierced Heart by Katy Darby.


In some ways a clever pastiche of the Victorian Gothic novel, with flashes of Conan Doyle - an engaging approach to the storytelling and a mystery which intrigues. The story unfolds through the perspectives of multiple narrators, cleverly intertwined, and there is rich, superbly-researched period detail. Not sure it totally holds the reader's attention in the end as it veers off into over-the-top melodrama with its moustache-twirling villain and the seemingly obligatory pox-riddled prostitutes, but it was entertaining enough. ***

The Liberators by Philip Womack.

More YA fantasy, this time with rather complacent, wealthy children. Superbly dynamic and intriguing opening which makes one think the Alan Garner comparisons are going to be justified, but soon lapses into smugness and tedious runaround. I found myself unengaged by the end. **

The Secrets We Left Behind by Susan Elliot Wright.

Compelling story set in two time-zones, with a disastrous decision in a squat in Hastings during the drought of 1976 having shocking ramifications in 21st-century Sheffield. Lots of research has gone into the 1976 bits, and you feel you are really there with the characters in very real settings. They have jobs/situations you can believe in, as well. The ending requires you to buy into something I can't reveal without spoiling the plot, but the author carries you along with her crisp, strong narrative, teasing you when you think you've worked it out. *****





Love Falls by Esther Freud.

Languid, Italian-set holiday romance with pretensions to literary fiction, populated with the kind of people I would go out of my way to avoid. Complacent, pretentious protagonists laze in the sun in between magically-appearing meals ('supper'), and having giggly romances. There is no plot. Seemingly random 1981 setting, in order to shoehorn in some irrelevant references to the Royal Wedding. Rape is presented as a casual irritation. I remember quite enjoying her early novels Hideous Kinky and Peerless Flats, but this is one of the worst books I have read in two years, and I'd have quite happily drowned most of the awful characters in the swimming-pool. *

     

On time travel, anachronisms and other matters

Quite impressed by Peter Capaldi's first outing as Doctor Who - and I feel happy enough calling him that, despite the inevitable clamour of fan voices reminding me that the programme is Doctor Who and the character's name is The Doctor. I'd have been joining them vociferously a few years ago, but like I lot of things I used to think mattered, I'm prepared to let it go. If Mr Capaldi himself says he is playing Doctor Who, then who am I to argue? I'll wait until mid-season before offering a proper judgement, as an actor's first story in the role is hardly ever typical.

My other big cultural experiences in this half of the year involve live performance. I was one of the lucky ones who got Kate Bush tickets for this autumn. I aimed for the later performances, using the logic that, in the brief booking window available online, the pressure would be on the earlier dates. 30th September, then, is Kate Day, and I literally have no idea what to expect from what is rumoured to be a 'theatrical' show at the Hammersmith Odeon. I had thought I would never get to see this woman live at all - the prospect of seeing an actual performance by someone so closely bound-up with my angst-filled teenage years is producing quite a mixture of emotions.

I hardly ever get to the theatre these days - but  I grabbed a rare opportunity to arrange a birthday outing for my wife, a keen member of the Richard Armitage Appreciation Society, to see the man himself in action in The Crucible at The Old Vic. Highly recommended if you get the chance. (It closes on 13th September.) I'd only ever seen the play once before, and I remember it being delivered in quite restrained, buttoned-up fashion. This production by Yael Farber is visceral, full-on and very shouty, and performed with complete conviction by the cast. Stage and TV veteran William Gaunt had a good few show-stealing tragicomic lines, while among the newer and younger actors, we should expect to see interesting things from Marama Corlett in future. The only disappointment (mainly for the ladies in our party) was that Mr. Armitage was unable to come out and sign autographs after the matinee, but that's understandable after a performance of such intensity, especially with another to get through a couple of hours later!

My wife and I had both forgotten that Miller's play involves a couple of examples of what might, at first, appear to be anachronistic language - there's 'pregnant' a few times (I must admit that jarred for me, as I would have anticipated hearing 'with child' or 'expecting'), and then one on which the jury is still out: 'She fancies him.' At first hearing, that seems like a very 1980s Grange Hill expression to use, but I'm willing to accept its usage in a way which implies 'she has a fancy for him' or 'she has taken a fancy to him.' Perhaps this really was said in late 17th-century Massachusetts?

This linguistic pondering ties in with the fact that the book I am writing at the moment involves taking some difficult decisions about how, and when, characters in the future might swear convincingly - will today's colourful Anglo-Saxon have bitten the dust, or will it just have become as harmless as 'flipping'? Even Doctor Who companions are allowed to say 'bloody' these days, Freema Agyeman taking a bow as the first sweary companion in the episode 'Smith and Jones' all the way back in 2007. That would have had Mary Whitehouse reaching for the smelling salts back in 1977. (For younger readers of this blog, Mary Whitehouse was an interfering lady in horn-rimmed spectacles who headed the 'National Viewers' and Listeners' Association', an organisation spiritually comfortable with the values of the Daily Mail. She would frequently write to the Director General about how she was so horrified by all the filth on TV that she just had to keep watching to make sure it was as disgusting as she had imagined.)

Both futuristic fiction and historical fiction are fraught with these linguistic pitfalls. (Ironically, getting contemporary slang right is easier than it has ever been, thanks to that universal tool for embarrassing your teenagers by being able to decode their language, Urban Dictionary.) I expect many people have had the experience of watching period dramas with older relatives, who tut and sigh and point out that a character in, say, Foyle's War or Miss Marple would not have done or said such-and-such a thing in the 1940s or 1950s? And that the script 'must have been written by someone who wasn't alive at the time'? (Well, that much is true - there aren't many TV scriptwriters in their 70s and 80s.) I often wonder how they know for sure, though - given that, even in early middle-age, my own memory of what people might have said and done in the 1980s and 1990s is not exactly 100% reliable. When exactly in the 1990s did the fad for 'rad' come in? (Post-Ninja Turtles, but would it have been widespread in 1990?) How far outside Manchester would someone have said 'sorted' or 'nice one' in, say, 1993, before Oasis went stellar? If a film set in 1987 featured a character saying 'Eat My Shorts', would I be confident enough in myself to assert that this was 'wrong' - or would I be more likely to assume that, just because I hadn't heard it at the time, that didn't mean nobody said it? (The Simpsons first appeared as a short feature on The Tracey Ullman Show in April 1987.)

So I find myself watching 'historical' TV set in my lifetime (like the recent Philip Glenister drama From There To Here) with my 'spot the anachronism' head on, which probably isn't healthy. Now that people born in the 1980s are writing about them as a historical period, there will no doubt be a lot more of this. What writers can be sure of is that, if they get it wrong, there will be someone, somewhere, willing to write them an outraged letter telling them about it...