Tenth Doctor—I Didn’t Want Him to Go

**Due to recent misinterpretations of some one post from this blog, a disclaimer is now apparently necessary.  If this is your first visit to The Scratched Camera, please read the introductory post and discover, for yourself, that every typed word that follows is unabashedly my opinion and mine alone.  In said introductory post, which, shockingly, I did not simply type up for my own good health, I state that we all read events and characters with our own baggage in mind; no one observes with a perfectly clear lens—hence the name The Scratched Camera.  Therefore, it is completely your will to disagree with any material that follows, just as it is my will to agree and advocate for what is mine.**  ~End, irritating obligatory disclaimer~

Tenth Doctor—I Didn’t Want Him to Go

            In my limited New Who viewing experiences, I have noticed a trend with the regeneration of the Doctor.  Generally speaking, the new incarnation of the same man with a different face and personality will be notably the opposite of his predecessor.  In the case of Nine and Ten, one has no hair and the other has great hair is a very serious, somber man who suffers from PTSD due to his actions in the Time War; the other, while still feeling the sharp sting of his double genocide, has allowed his close companionship with Rose Tyler to lighten the burden, freeing him to become a completely different man. 

            The Tenth Doctor is animated, witty, chatty, brazen—although, the British and me, who am I kidding? would call him cheeky.  Typically, he’s relatively buoyant.  However, it should be noted, not every aspect of previous incarnations magically disappear with regeneration—Ten still holds a bit of Nine’s anger below his skin, if only tightly-lidded.  He will give anyone a chance, firmly believing that everyone is important and has the potential to pave their own path.  However, if you make the mistake of betraying him once, all his mercy is gone and he is suddenly almost as unforgiving as Nine was at his default setting.  Harriet Jones, Prime Minister can attest to this—six words was all it took Ten to destroy her political career.

            Ten has Rose Tyler to thank for his new empathetic abilities.   His new persona was born out of his love for Rose; you can see her influence all over him.  David Tennant, in an interview about The Christmas Invasion, stated that there was a line in the original script that indicated his new southern English accent was the result of an imprint from his time with Rose, and his developing affection for her. 

Nine’s accent—a distinctly thicker Northern English brogue—had been just one of several barriers that had existed between him and his companion, most of which are rectified with this new incarnation.  If we can accept that it was Davies’ intention for the Doctor’s accent to change due to Rose’s influence, we can then carry this over into other aspects of the regeneration.  Several times Mickey and Jackie make a point of commenting on Nine’s age in comparison to Rose.  This is not an irrational complaint—the age difference between Eccleston and Piper is eighteen years, placing him distinctly in a fatherly type position as opposed to the romantic vibe the characters seemed to be projecting.  Tennant and Piper, on the other hand, have eleven years between them; while this is still a decently steep age difference, Ten’s vivacious personality allows him to feel much younger than Nine. 

I find it interesting that, despite the fact that the Doctor is literally hundreds of years old, both Smith and Jackie immediately comment on the age constraint, a criticism that only becomes more frequent after they learn the truth about his age.  Truthfully, he’s several hundred years too old for her—not to mention the fact that he will never truly age or die, or so we thought at the time.  However, as soon as Tennant enters the scene, the age issue is no longer an issue at all.  I think the sudden approval of those surrounding the pair makes an interesting statement on society’s expectations for age in a relationship, not to mention society’s superficiality, as I believe the sudden wave of approval was certainly tied to the fact that David Tennant is distinctly more attractive than Eccleston, but that’s another argument for another post. 

            Nine was a project for Rose.  He was so miserable after the Time War, having developed a particular hatred for himself due to his necessary actions.  Tyler, being naturally a very compassionate individual, puts the Doctor back in touch with the race he truly cares for, reminding him of his inherent affection for humans.  By the time Nine regenerates at the close of series one, the Doctor is a bit more at peace with himself, however his sass would never quite fade, following him straight into Ten’s first big speech in The Christmas Invasion. 

            Series one and, therefore, by association, the Ninth Doctor were my first Doctor Who experiences.  I won’t deny that there were times I had to push through the somewhat lagging first series, at times forcing myself to watch.  However, I was fortunate enough to have a close friend who insisted I not only watch series one, but reassured me it would pay off in the end. 

            She had, of course, been correct.  I don’t think you can truly appreciate the complexities of Ten—particularly in terms of his relationship with Rose—without first viewing Nine’s reign on the TARDIS. 

            While I won’t deny that I teared up at Eccleston’s “you were fantastic and…you know what?  So was I,” I was beyond eager for Tennant to make his entrance.  I had been introduced to him almost eight years prior to my initial viewing of Doctor Who, when he played Barty Crouch Jr.—and, in the process, added yet another name to my rather long list of attractive villains I’m unashamedly a fan of—in Goblet of Fire.  However, I was still measurably wary; his few seconds in The Parting of the Ways—which is ironically the title of the chapter Crouch Jr. receives his Dementer’s Kiss in Goblet of Fire—wasn’t enough to give me much of an indication as to how the regeneration process could change things for his adventures with Rose. 

            I patiently sat through The Christmas Invasion, in which Tennant spends the bulk of his time in a comatose state.  Another friend, one which I got hooked on Doctor Who—because, let’s be honest, that’s just what we Doctor Who fans do—and actually very much enjoyed Nine, was gingerly (get it?) distrustful of Ten.  I assured her the Christmas special would persuade her.  I remember distinctly receiving a message from her while she viewed The Christmas Invasion for the first time, which read “how is he supposed to convince me in this episode if all he does is sleep through it?”  I responded with a simple “just you wait.”

            I was, of course, anticipating Ten’s big speech towards the end of the Christmas episode to win her over—and Tennant didn’t disappoint.  I clearly remember my own first viewing of the scene, my mouth agape and rough chuckles escaping my mouth, creating a most certainly unattractive visual.  I didn’t care in the slightest as he threw out a quote from The Lion King, much to Rose’s—not to mention my—delight. 

            A Doctor well versed in the foray of popular human culture wasn’t something I was familiar with—although I’m told Four and Five excel at it as well.  I had expected a certain level of sass—although, I won’t deny that Ten took this to new levels with a blatant charisma that Nine, as much as I have grown to like him, just wasn’t capable of.  His ability to turn one question—“Am I…ginger?”—into a conversation that was inherently flirtatious impressed me.  This was a Doctor I could see claiming as mine. 

            The questions Ten asks as he continues to delay the Sycorax are marvelous, especially to someone like me who had no background knowledge on what it meant to regenerate.  He wants to know what sort of man he is now—well, rude and not ginger, obviously.  He has the memories of all his previous selves, but he knows he isn’t the same man he was as Nine, who certainly never had the moxy to ask if he was sexy before blatantly winking at Rose. 

            Through series two, Ten and Rose grow very close, largely in part to the newly extended version of the list of their commonalities.  They grow further reliant on each other as the series progresses, eventually reaching the point where they both simply accept that Rose will be with him forever, despite Ten’s continued protestations and reminders that forever for her will not be forever for him. 

            This integration has cataclysmic consequences, all of which come raining down upon both of them at the end of series two.  Due to frequent trips in and out of a parallel universe, Rose is forced through a vortex with the rest of her family and lands in Pete’s World, where she will supposedly reside for the rest of her life. 

            The separation is strenuous on Ten’s sense of self.  While his personality will always hold a gregarious gob quality to it, he will never again be as ecstatic or optimistic about humans, or races in general, in his post-Rose reality.  He certainly never proceeds to an Eleven-like disregard for the preservation of a species, but he only becomes progressively less forgiving from this point forward. 

            Add the Doctor’s loss of the Master at the end of series three and the result is a distinct melancholy.  The Face of Boe had assured Ten he was not alone in this world—a fact which had eventually proven true, only to have his status as the last of his kind reaffirmed once again as the Master dies in his arms, refusing to regenerate. 

            Series three also carries the weight of Martha’s unrequited affections for the Doctor—feelings he can clearly see, but does not return and, therefore, decides it would be better to instead mention Rose repeatedly attempt to ignore them in the hopes that it will not become an issue.  He is, of course, incorrect, resulting in Martha’s exit at the end of the series, adding more misery to the Doctor’s growing heap. 

            If the pain caused by Rose’s expeditious exodus from the Doctor’s life was a 10/10 on his scale of emotional turmoil, the horrendous ordeal of his loss of DonnaNoble could easily ring in an eight.  While there is no romantic inclination between Donna and the Doctor, (thank god.  Martha made me beyond tired of that scheme) he does still consider her his closest friend—someone he could rely on in a world full of people with ulterior motives and hidden agendas. 

            It wasn’t just the fact that he lost Donna that plagued him.  It was the manner in which he lost her—forced to rid her of all her best memories, in which she starred as the most important woman in the whole universe—that truly bothered him.  He saw a beautifully brilliant potential in Donna that everyone else—her grandfather excluded—seemed eager to neglect, or worse yet—scorn. 

            The Stolen Earth/Journey’s End two-parter, while ravishingly riveting in terms of reunions, holds a hidden heartbreak in its depths.  Everyone gets an almost happy ending—Rose spends her life with the wrong Doctor, Donna is content but never happy as she fails to see her full potential, and the Doctor settles his companions into less than ideal arrangements—particularly from his point-of-view (that look of pain as Rose and Weird-Hand-Doctor (otherwise known as TenToo) share the kiss they never really got to experience kills me every time)—while simultaneously resolving himself to a life of reclusion once more.  As if his lack of anything remotely close to a happy ending isn’t enough, there is the turmoil he experiences on his path towards there, as he is forced to witness the soldiers he has morphed his companions into—Jack and Martha with their bombs, Rose with her gun and Donna with her Time Lord Lady brain and technological fighting power.  As Davros oh-so elatedly points out to him, he has created in them the very thing he hates most—a human with a gun and no common sense.  Although this is not strictly true, you can see the pain the revelation that anything remotely close to this has happened registers on his expression immediately. 

            After this round of losses, Ten only goes further off the deep-end.  The Doctor we are exposed to in the bulk of the specials that take place between series four and five is barely even recognizable as Ten.  By The Waters of Mars, gone are his joking comments and sarcastic attitude.  Certainly, in the start of the episode, his excessive excitement is still in place as he realizes just who he’s talking to.  But, by the end of the special, when he has decided he is above the laws of time and, therefore, has the authority to decide who should die and who should live, I ache for the Ten I fell for—the Doctor who (get it?) naively enjoyed his adventures with Rose Tyler in series two. 

            His disastrous decision-making, which leads to Adelaide Brooke’s suicide, is not excusable, however neither is it beyond understanding.  Everything and everyone he has ever cared about in his Tenth (Eleventh?  Damn War Doctor) incarnation has been taken from him.  And now, on top of all of his loss, he’s being told it is his time to regenerate. 

            In regards to his regeneration, he refuses to go down without a fight—an approach that fails to shock me, as that is generally his default procedure.  He puts off his reunion with the Ood, specifically because he knows that will be the end of this face—the face and the personality he quite prefers to the roulette that is regeneration. 

            As he continues to fight, he continues to lose.  The End of Time reintroduces both the Master and a general population of Time Lords, in the process potentially ridding the Doctor of the perpetual loneliness that has occupied him since series three; although he isn’t necessarily elated at their renewed presence.  And he’s correct to be wary; just as he and the Master begin to understand each other, they must eliminate the Time Lords who, in turn, take the Doctor’s eternal enemy with them, stripping him once again of all that could potentially hold a connection for him in the world. 

            Regardless of this final loss, he is alive and intact, if a bit injured.  For the smallest of moments, he allows himself to feel joy at the prospect that he had survived the ordeal.  The Ood were wrong, he assures himself, as he smiles that bright smile. 

            Tap, tap-tap-tap.  Wilf knocks.  All along the audience had assumed it was the Master’s drumbeat that would be Ten’s undoing, not the polite request from an elderly man for a door to be opened.  But the second the knock comes, Ten’s relief drops instantly.  Tears are back in his eyes as he turns towards Wilf’s precarious position and quickly explains the predicament, through technobabble that will undeniably bewilder Wilfred. 

            But he gets the gist—trapped and dead are now his labels.  However, Mott knows the Doctor far too well to think he will simply allow him to retain his fatal position.  We see one final display of the new Ten I’m not-so fond of, as he vindictively curses that he could’ve done more—so much more, if given the chance.  He damns Wilfred as insignificant—unimportant—when in comparison to himself, the Lord of Time. 

Had he allowed Wilf to die in his place, I strongly believe Ten wouldn’t have continued to hold the title of most popular New Who Doctor.  But, alas, finally the expletives escaping his mouth crash upon his ears.  Ten’s eyes drift to Wilfred as he reminds himself that this—a meager human being—is more important than him.  He has other lives, other chances; Wilfred Mott, grandfather and sole support system of his very best friend in the entire universe, does not.  No one, he reaffirms, is unimportant—especially not Wilfred Mott.

            Wilfred tries, of course. He pleads, begs, the Doctor to allow him to take his place—insists that he’s had his time.  No, the Doctor persists, he’s had his.  Before Mott can protest again, the Doctor gives him his final warning, enters the chamber and absorbs the radiation in the grandfather’s place. 

            His fight still isn’t concluded.  My Ten is back as he continues to evade the strong pull of regeneration, visiting each of his companions one last time—giving Donna a wedding present, saving Mickey and Martha, negotiating a date for Jack, and, finally, stopping in for one last look at the girl who worked at a shop—the girl who saved his life far more times than he can count.  He sees her, groans in pain as he asks her what year it is.  The disappointment on his face as he realizes he’s failed—he’s come too soon—breaks my heart.  She doesn’t recognize him and it devastates him.  The Doctor shakes it off, insisting on cherishing this one last reward as he gives her one last Rose-smile and tells her he feels certain she’ll have a great year.  One great year, indeed. 

From Gary King to Nicholas Angel:  Is Ten a good role model?  Ten is not perfect, as demonstrated by his destructive viewpoints towards the end of his time.  He is, however, a much better role model and example than Nine,—or Eleven, for that matter—who, upon our first introduction, seems very angry and aloof.  Ten, directly after the cooling influence of Rose, has become far more compassionate—firmly believing that all people and races are equal and important.  Preservation of people and races is, therefore, a high priority for Ten, one he never really loses sight of, even in the darker period of his later days.  This value and respect for all forms of life is an exceptional example to set, one I think more people could use an exposure to.  However, this does not mean he allows anyone and everyone to walk over him—he is no pushover and could never be described as gullible.  He has faith in all who surround him, until they betray him, at which time, that Nine deep sense of right and wrong and desire to extract punishment exposes itself once again.  This combination creates an exceptional mixture and sets an extraordinary example of how to toe a particularly pressing line successfully.  Everyone is important, but none are beyond retribution—“no second chances.  I’m that sort of a man.”  And an exceptional one at that.

Role Model Rating:  9/10

From Peter Parker to Spider-Man:  Is Ten relatable? Ten is social—always talking, always joking, always with a smile on his face, even if it’s a facade.  This automatically inclines us to like him—a fact proven as he is consistently voted the most popular Doctor, topping Four as the previous favorite.  To me, his popularity isn’t based purely on his Rose-smile and his cheeky remarks.  Above all, he suffers.  This makes him relatable—seeing a brilliant man like the Doctor suffer from hardships and loss just like we do humanizes him, despite his alien origins.  Sarah Jane counters his argument that he is the loneliest man in the universe by stating the fact that he has the biggest family in the universe.  But, at the end of the day, his family leaves; they each have a life to get back to.  Eventually, the annual family Christmas party must come to an end and we must split ways once again for another chunk of time. The case of his more permanent sense of loss isn’t beyond our reach either. We may not lose as intensely as the Doctor does, but we each have lost someone—either through death, betrayal or some other form of injustice.  Ten’s holier-than-time mentality towards his end deducts from his resonance as relatable, but it cannot steal all of his credit.  As he continues to grasp at straws to prove he can control at least one thing in his life, he discovers it is akin to grabbing at smoke—his grasps for control in a virtually uncontrollable reality is, at its very core, powerfully familiar to those stuck travelling through every day life, the slow way, sans a Police Public Call Box. 

Relatability Rating:  7/10