NEW STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This newsletter aggressively spoils things.
Oh, Doctor Who, you adorable weirdo1. This children’s show about an alien with a time machine and several poorly defined magic powers has been around for sixty years, and has gone from brilliant to terrible to brilliant again so many times it’s like the weather at this point: If you don’t like what Doctor Who is doing, just wait, it’ll change2.
And with this show, change is often painfully literal thanks to the concept of regeneration. This is when The Doctor experiences the sort of trauma (physical, mainly, but not exclusively) that would kill most other entities, but instead causes them to basically transform into a whole new version of themselves, casting aside their current physical shell and personality for a new one3. This has happened a lot over the course of 60 years, and now we’re on our 15th Doctor, unless you count the four sort-of, kind-of Doctors (oh, Valeyard, will we ever meet?) in which case there have been (checks notes) about 506 of them. Is that a lot? Depends.
New Kidneys! I Don’t Like the Color
Regeneration started off as a fairly clumsy writer’s trick: Original star William Hartnell was 55 when he originated the role in 1963, and not in great health4; by 1966 it was clear he had to leave the show. Instead of simply replacing him with someone similar, the production team decided to give The Doctor a new ability: Regeneration. This was really a pretty neat idea, because it created an in-universe reason why The Doctor would occasionally be portrayed by a different person, and also an in-universe explanation for why he was so darn unkillable.
Initially, regeneration was conceived as an exterior force imposed on The Doctor, then became a biological function. For a long time it remained pretty consistent: When the current actor decided to leave the show, The Doctor would get creamed by something and start to glow and shimmer and transform into a whole new actor. Along the way, things got occasionally complex: The Doctor sometimes could control or delay their regeneration, and sometimes regeneration went awry and extra folks were created5. It was also supposed to be limited to 12 occurrences, after which The Doctor would simply die, which probably seemed brilliant when no one could possibly believe the show would still be on the air in 2023, or that civilization itself would remain functional, or still primitive enough to be amused by Doctor Who6. When The 11th Doctor was facing the end of his contract, a new supply of regenerations was gifted to The Doctor, via magic, apparently, because the trick needed a tweak. So now The Doctor can essentially regenerate as many times as necessary7.
In the recent 60th anniversary specials for the show, returning showrunner Russel T. Davies decided to throw a bit of a bomb into the regeneration drama. First, he brought back the Tenth Doctor (David Tennant) as the Fourteenth Doctor, then he had them undergo a regeneration defined as a “bigeneration” that split them into two Doctors—a mopey one saddled with a lot of existential guilt and trauma, and a cheerful one who had processed all of that and was ready to start fresh8. Some see that as a bit of a cheat that allows Davies and future showrunners to trot out Tennant, one of the most popular versions of The Doctor ever, whenever they need a boost. But this misses the whole point of regeneration: It’s a writer’s trick. It’s designed to make things easier for the writer. As such it’s also designed to be tweaked whenever and however necessary, which makes the whole bigeneration business absolute brilliance.
I'm Fine because You Fixed Yourself
Writers are always doing stuff like this, essentially cheating9. The foundation of these tricks is our godlike status in our stories: You never know when we cheat, because the cheat erases itself. When regeneration was introduced, it was sold as a heretofore unmentioned aspect of alien physiology—it had simply never come up before10. The tweaks and twists added to this lore along the way were similarly handwaved—unique scenarios teasing out rare but totally acceptable variants of the process11.
The bigeneration concept is nifty, but the sizzling chemistry between Fourteen and Fifteen (Ncuti Gatwa) is what really helps sell what could have been a clumsy twist. What also helps sell it is the fact that The Doctor has always been a disruptive force, a nonconformist, destabilizing figure. They’ve been, in order, a sneering old fart, a mischievous trickster, a groovy secret agent, a curly-haired hippie, a preppy weirdo12, an escapee from a psyche ward, a grim mischievous trickster, a brooding goth, a wizened terrorist, an angry punk, a sarcastic know it all, a childlike god, an exasperated crank, an exhausting enthusiast, and a traumatized genius. And what ties all those incarnations together is their giddy determination that rules are for other people13. They’re The Doctor, dammit, and they will wave that sonic screwdriver around and warp reality as needed to win the day—so a sudden bigeneration is totally on brand.
Writer tricks are there to solve problems. If they no longer solve the problem, or solve the wrong problem, you change it up. Davies knows this. The bigeneration concept allowed him to strip away the trauma and depression The Doctor has been lugging around since 2005 and start fresh with the delightful Gatwa, because sometimes the best thing you can do with legacy lore and canon is chuck it in a box and put it gently on a shelf. Canon can become shackles if you’re not careful, and strangle a story.
If I could regenerate, have no doubt I would be conducting experiments involving grievous injury and death all. the. time. If I didn’t like my hair in the morning, I’d drop the toaster in the bath and have a change. No, I am not a serious man.
NEXT WEEK: Fargo’s delightfully weird power dynamics.
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I’ve had ADORABLE WEIRDO on my business cards for years now. What are business cards, you ask? <dissolves into elderly dust>
Of course, for 50-ish years The Doctor always changed into a white dude with interesting hair, so “different” in this context used to be a very relative term.
I personally experienced this when I was 10 years old and suffered a concussion when some enormous troll-like child knocked me down in the street. I woke up the next day as a 57-year old man who refused to wear pants. True story.
He was 55 in an era that apparently believed cigarettes and butter were health foods; in 2024 terms he was essentially 97.
It also went from a relatively short and sweet story beat to an extended farewell setpiece in which the current actor portraying the character made a meal out of their goodbye speech. When Matt Smith exited stage left, his farewell speech took 3 days, more or less. Or at least that’s my memory of the scene.
I kid because I love.
I want a season of this show wherein The Doctor regenerates at the end of each episode. Just murder him every single time and bring in a new guest star.
This has also happened to me. Several times. Scotch was involved in this transformation. Also, brief stays in psychiatric facilities.
That’s what revision is, really: Oh, did I forget I killed that character off sixteen chapters ago? Now watch me change reality to fit my needs.
I figure if I get hit by a bus and suddenly start to glow with regeneration energy (much to my surprise) I’d probably regenerate into Danny DeVito or Rudy Guiliani instead of David Tennant.
After all, once you decide there’s an alien race literally called Time Lords you’re pretty free to just go nuts.
The Fifth Doctor wore a sprig of celery on his jacket. That’s it, that’s the footnote. Your response to this detail determines whether you should watch this show or not.
For example, the rules surrounding trousers in polite society.
After all, it is Boxing Day.