For years, the legend of Doctor Who loomed large. References and inside jokes were commonplace, like the quip about Daleks preferring to flatten buildings rather than climb stairs. But with thousands of episodes in its history, the question of where to even begin felt daunting. The sheer volume seemed impenetrable, a potentially endless commitment.
My entry point, as is often the case, was entirely accidental. During a sleepless night of channel surfing, I stumbled upon a scene of astronauts in a Victorian library. The strange Kubrick-esque visuals immediately grabbed my attention. Then came electronic ghosts, and invisible, floating piranhas – each element layering intrigue upon intrigue.
And then, a line of dialogue delivered with perfect dryness: “You’ve been living in a computer simulation, your physical body is elsewhere.” The response? “But I’ve been dieting.” This blend of bleak, sophisticated humor sealed the deal. I was hooked.
It turned out I’d landed right in the middle of a Doctor Who marathon. Sleep was postponed, then cancelled, as I remained glued to the screen for five or six episodes, finally surfacing as morning broke.
The imaginative concepts were breathtaking. The writing consistently sharp and intelligent. It was clear: Doctor Who is a genuine treasure. This is the kind of show that demonstrates serious creative intelligence, a hallmark of the BBC’s dedication to long-term cultural impact over fleeting financial gain. Think of the legacy of Monty Python’s Flying Circus, Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, The Singing Detective, Brideshead Revisited – all testaments to this commitment.
Based on this initial immersion, Doctor Who easily earns a ten out of ten. The consistently high ratings and enduring popularity are, in my view as a new viewer, completely justified. This is a show that lives up to, and likely exceeds, its reputation.
