Abstract
In bringing these books together for review, it is notable that Philip Braithwaite’s and Mike Stack’s monographs both pay attention to how British TV science fiction deals in estrangement, and how its texts invariably comment on and reflect contemporary society, while also forming a key part of personal or group identity. Stack examines Doctor Who (1963-1989; 2005-) from the perspective of queer fandom, deftly uncovering its queer resonances in the Doctor, the TARDIS, the companion, and the monster through textual and paratextual analysis, as well as ethnographic work with gay fans. He wisely grounds his argument in early statistical analysis showing that Doctor Who fans are likelier to be gay than the population average. What could have been reductive or essentialist instead remains attentive to complexity, acknowledging the paradoxes of queer sensibility - particularly the attraction many gay fans feel toward ostensibly heterosexual or asexual texts rather than explicitly queer ones. The interviewees’ voices add a human depth, such as Chris’s incisive reflections on the Doctor as a paradoxical figure: a violent pacifist. Tom’s discussion of gendered childhood toys is similarly revealing, noting his parents wouldn’t let him have a Leela toy, because it was a ‘doll’ (p. 192).
Stack’s monograph largely fulfills its promise to probe Doctor Who’s oscillation between conservatism and disruptive queerness, demonstrating that these are not opposing forces but mutually integral to the show’s DNA. This duality – offering something both familiar and different – is key to the programme’s lasting appeal and franchise status. Despite genre shifts, tonal variations, and changes in cast, the core premise of the Doctor and their companions travelling through time and space in the TARDIS, battling monsters, remains intact. However, I would have liked deeper exploration of political identifications among fans, particularly given dissent over the Doctor’s ethnicity or the portrayal of sexuality in the series. Stack notes that Doctor Who fandom is whiter than the general population but a further breakdown of its ideological leanings – whether conservative, liberal, green or socialist – would have added valuable detail.
Drawing on psychoanalyst D. W. Winnicott’s 1971 theory (2005 [1971]), Stack persuasively argues that Doctor Who serves as a transitional object, offering a paradoxical imaginative space that invites varied readings. The show provides a sanctuary from real-world struggles, such as bullying, reinforcing its deep personal significance for many fans. He also highlights the Doctor’s distinct social status: he does not work but instead travels the universe as a leisurely gentleman. Chapter 2, on The Doctor, drawing on Piers D. Britton’s TARDISbound (2011), offers a fascinating analysis of class, theatricality, costume and camp, noting the significance of the Doctor’s occasional alias John Smith – the same name as the last man executed in Britain for same-sex activity in 1835. Stack’s discussion of ‘Carnival of Monsters’ (1973), chiefly The Doctor and fellow showman Vorg’s conversation in Polari, entertains and illuminates, drawing upon Paul Baker’s perception that Polari had broken through into ‘mainstream recognition’ (2019: 204).
Both books focus intriguingly on the resonance of liminal, depopulated non-places in telefantasy series, such as the police box, railway stations, petrol stations, and diners - spaces steeped in nostalgia yet emptied of life. Stack’s chapter on the TARDIS is the book’s pinnacle, examining its uncanny, unheimlich qualities and impossible dimensions. He blends history, from the real-world police box to cottaging, with Gaston Bachelard’s (1958) spatial poetics, crafting an impressively detailed account. His textual analysis is dizzyingly expansive, from the Wildean Venus de Milo statuary in ‘The Invasion of Time’ (1978) to the TARDIS roundels’ soothing Jungian resonance and the exploration of the TARDIS as an infinitely variable space which even becomes a city in Marc Platt’s New Adventures novel Cat’s Cradle: Time’s Crucible (1992)! This superb chapter evokes the odd, yet homely, allure of the TARDIS that thoroughly distinguishes it from more standard issue sci-fi space crafts.
Braithwaite’s monograph is more programmatic, usefully so, examining how 1970s–80s British TV science fiction mirrored Britain’s shift from social democracy to neoliberalism. His forensic textual analysis of Blake’s 7 (1978-81), Sapphire and Steel (1979-82), and Doctor Who post-1983 argues thoughtfully that their protagonists became increasingly cold and estranging, a stark contrast to Jon Pertwee’s and Tom Baker’s liberal humanist Doctors. He contends that pre-1979 British science fiction TV dramas reflected a more collectivist mind-set, albeit one still rooted in white male heroism. Drawing on Darko Suvin’s (2014) concept of cognitive estrangement, Braithwaite explores how British TV science fiction series diagnosed emergent Thatcherism but rarely, if ever, envisioned viable alternatives. He links the genre’s increasing depiction of Machiavellian individualism to the rise of neoliberalism, making implicit connections in my mind to 1980s–90s privatization policies – such as water and public transport – whose consequences still haunt us. However, the book sometimes overstates 1979 as a year zero for neoliberalism. Elements of proto-Thatcherite individualism were already embedded in 1950s–70s British culture, as Kieran Curran (2015) has argued, and, paradoxically, some socialist individuals and groups benefited from Thatcherite initiatives like the Enterprise Allowance Scheme. Public services were not damaged in 1979–90 to quite the same extent as in 2010–24.
Braithwaite’s strongest chapters are his meticulously argued readings of Blake’s 7 and Sapphire and Steel, series previously underexplored academically. He sees Roj Blake (Gareth Thomas) as emblematic of wayward collectivist idealism, while Kerr Avon (Paul Darrow) represents terse self-interest. Mark Fisher (2014) noted Sapphire and Steel’s emotionally austere leads, ultimately ‘betrayed by their own side’ (4), likening the series to Pinter plays and Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy (1979). Past time intrudes on the present in lightly inhabited or deserted spaces, reinforcing its eerie atmosphere. Design, music, direction, and acting make it one of British TV’s most enigmatic series – anti-Bond, cheap, studio-bound – while creator P. J. Hammond’s elliptical narratives, rife with surrealist imagery, embody popular modernism. To me, Hammond’s vision of inescapable past resentments and stranded figures – as a writer he is preoccupied by loneliness (2024) – suggests a covertly socialist rage at Thatcherism’s empty nostalgia and foreclosure of progressive futures. While Hammond offers no alternatives, Braithwaite astutely sees its bleak, inconclusive ending as a critique of neoliberalism’s false promises of freedom. Braithwaite’s analysis extends to early 1980s adaptations of science fiction novels, then to Knights of God (1987), which he reads as a conservative critique of Thatcherism, and Star Cops (1987), which, using Mark Fisher’s Capitalist Realism (2009), he sees as embodying a resigned, ironic accommodation with neoliberalism.
Braithwaite’s discussion of the Seventh Doctor (1987-9) challenges my own view of the character, convincingly highlighting his contradictory nature. Sylvester McCoy’s Doctor is ‘both the champion of the dispossessed and the ultimate authority figure’ (p. 120); he is clearly opposed to racism and Victorian values, yet at times operates like a Cold War spy or, even, an authoritarian demigod. His secretive, occasionally cruel, tactics are portrayed as narratively justified by necessity. Braithwaite feels that this kaleidoscopic characterization was excessively disparate: he could variously play the role of the ‘clown,’ the ‘hippie,’ the ‘revolutionary’ and the ‘dark manipulator’ (p. 146). However, for me, watching on TV aged seven and then repeatedly via off-air VHS recordings throughout the 1990s, this ambitious complexity made McCoy’s Doctor an unpredictable and compelling protagonist who enthralled me.
Braithwaite’s ideological focus could have been enriched with greater attention to aesthetics and style, production design, and performance. A deeper engagement with 1986-9 Doctor Who’s increased use of outside broadcast (OB) and the details of the performances of McCoy and Sophie Aldred as his companion Ace would have complicated some of these readings. Notably, the chapter neglects dramatist Rona Munro’s ‘Survival’ (1989), a magic realist, contemporary-set adventure attacking Thatcherite social Darwinism. In this final Season 26 story, the Doctor’s peaceful, radical side ultimately triumphs.
Stack, by contrast, engages directly with ‘Survival’ while also using an interview with fan Simon to explore how the Doctor and Ace form a symbolic queer family unit, which is also the most complex relationship in Doctor Who’s original run. Stack’s analysis of ‘The Curse of Fenric’ (1989) highlights the Doctor’s manipulation of Ace – not simply as a Machiavellian power move but as an emotional rupture that deepens their bond, while forcing Ace to confront unresolved feelings about her mother. Unlike Braithwaite, Stack emphasizes how by the time of ‘Survival,’ Ace is now able to happily call the TARDIS ‘home.’ McCoy’s and Aldred’s performances at this stage exude a bohemian warmth, solidifying their characters’ deep friendship.
Personally, my Doctor Who fandom largely revolved around reading and viewing texts rather than playing with toys but the series was still clearly my own transitional object – both an escape from, and an orientation point in, the world. These books navigate the inevitable contradictions within a vast, plurally authored text like Doctor Who, spanning countless media and generating clashing interpretations from its diverse enthusiasts, demonstrating the richness and complexity that make the show endure.