A version of this article was first published in The Courier on 30th December 2017.
DOCTOR WHO: Christmas Day, BBC One
LITTLE WOMEN: Boxing Day to
Thursday, BBC One
ERIC, ERNIE & ME: Friday, BBC Four
ERIC & ERNIE’S
HOME MOVIES: Friday,
BBC Two
A
piece of television history occurred on Christmas Day when Peter Capaldi
regenerated into Jodie Whittaker, the first woman to play the lead in DOCTOR WHO.
As
epochal though that moment was – Whittaker’s brief burst of screen time was
suitably tantalising - it didn’t overshadow the brunt of this enjoyable festive
special, during which outgoing show-runner Steven Moffat gave Capaldi the
emotional farewell he deserved.
Instead
of signing off with an epic bang, Moffat marked the end of this era – the first
twelve years of ‘Nu-Who’ basically - with a relatively low-key, character-driven
hour in which the dying Doctor, having fought, loved and lost for thousands of
years in an eternally evil-scarred universe, couldn’t go on any longer. He didn’t
want to regenerate, he just wanted to quietly die in the Arctic tundra.
And
not, as it turned out, for the first time. Moffat, who can’t resist sewing new fragments
into Doctor Who’s vast ongoing
tapestry, conjured a bittersweet storyline in which the Doctor’s original
incarnation – David Bradley doing a pretty good job of replacing the late
William Hartnell, despite the first Doctor’s political incorrectness being
jarringly overplayed – also tried to
stave off his imminent regeneration.
Here were two iterations of the same Time
Lord separated by aeons, yet united by fear, confusion and weariness. Nothing
says Christmas quite like a double dose of existential fatalism.
It
wasn’t as depressing as that sounds, of course. Moffat juggled pathos and gags
while building towards an uplifting final act in which both Doctors came to
realise the importance of their place in the universe. They lived to fight
another billion days.
The
Twelfth Doctor’s turnaround was admittedly rather sudden – all it took was a
group hug from his loyal companions – but in the context of a moving recreation
of the Christmas Armistice of 1914, I’ll let that pass. Moffat’s heartfelt
Christmas messages – death can never erase memories of loved ones, human beings
are essentially kind – never came across as trite.
Moffat
had his faults, as did Russell T. Davies before him, but this was a dignified
last stand. He’ll always be one of the best and most ambitious writers Doctor Who has ever had.
One
of the modern show’s most talented directors, Rachel Talalay did a typically
beautiful job. I hope we’ll see more of her standout work during the Whittaker
era.
Capaldi
and Bradley were ably supported by the excellent Pearl Mackie in her final
performance as companion Bill – oh if only she’d been paired with Capaldi from
the start – and Mark Gatiss delivering a sensitive guest performance as a World
War One Captain (and grandfather of classic Doctor
Who stalwart Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart) stoically facing down death.
This
was a touching celebration of everything the Doctor and the hit TV series Doctor Who stands for. The Twelfth
Doctor’s pre-regeneration speech, though grandly performed by the great Peter
C, was a tad overlong but just about succeeded as both a meta and in-universe
declaration of the selflessly heroic Time Lord’s core attributes.
If
incoming showrunner Chris ‘Broadchurch’
Chibnall heeds Moffat’s checklist, then Doctor
Who and Jodie Whittaker should be in safe hands. I remain cautiously
optimistic.
The
umpteenth adaptation of the classic novel by Louisa May Alcott, LITTLE WOMEN hopefully managed to
introduce this immortal coming-of-age saga to a new generation.
After
all, its themes are eternally relevant. Young women in the late 19th
century share the same fundamental concerns as their modern counterparts. Attitudes
may have evolved, but the human condition is unchanging.
Heidi
Thomas, creator of Call the Midwife, captured
the charm, wit and gender-political thrust of Alcott’s source material, while
newcomer Maya Hawke (daughter of Uma Thurman and Ethan Hawke) shone brightly as
proto-feminist Jo.
You’d
have to be a total numbskull to botch this timeless celebration of female
strength and charity. Thomas is not that numbskull.
Morecambe
& Wise were always a gifted double act, but it wasn’t until the brilliant writer
Eddie Braben refined their onscreen personae that they found a permanent place
in the nation’s collective heart.
Eric
was an innate comic genius. Ernie was the consummate foil. It was Braben, however,
who lit the Eureka bulb of making them both funny in different ways. Inspired
by Laurel and Hardy, these three wise men (including one Wiseman) struck cascading
comedy gold.
Braben
received his due in ERIC, ERNIE & ME,
an affectionate drama starring Stephen Tompkinson as an inspired freelance
writer who was eventually driven to extremes of nervous exhaustion by the crushing
burden of creating an annual Christmas spectacular for millions of expectant
viewers.
I’m
automatically suspicious of tears-behind-the-laughter biopics, but this one had
no truck with voyeuristic sensationalism. How could it? There’s no dirt to be
found beneath the fingernails of this story, just sweat, toil and the
nerve-straining demands of cheering people up for a living.
The
boys themselves were the stars of ERIC
& ERNIE’S HOME MOVIES, a truly heart-warming documentary boasting
recently unearthed silent footage – most of it shot by Eric – of them enjoying
their offstage lives in the ‘50s, ‘60s and early ‘70s.
One
usually endures other people’s family mementoes with a polite smile while
scanning for the exit, but watching these priceless documents in the intimate onscreen
company of delighted friends and family members – most of whom had never seen
them before either – was an honour.
I
was glad when it ended, but only because the lump in my throat was becoming
painful to the point of asphyxiation.
Morecambe
and Wise were the beloved funny uncles we never knew in person.
This
beautiful programme confirmed what we’ve always known. We loved them because
they loved each other.
