As much as I’ve enjoyed the past two series of Doctor Who, I’ve not experienced the same emotional punch that various aspects of the RTD era delivered. There’s been no “Sarah seeing the TARDIS for the first time” or “Yvonne being converted” or “Donna fighting to keep her memories” kind of moment in Moffatland. Emotions have become secondary in a way– the reaction to the impact gets shuffled off screen (although sometimes pop up when convenient for storytelling, as in “12 years” and “where is my wife?”). This kind of storytelling is great for generating good fan fiction but lousy for providing an emotionally satisfying closure for the casual viewer.
I’ve adjusted, though, and accepted less emotional realism in exchange for all the wibbly-wobbly timey-whimeyness. Needless to say, I surprised myself by watching the climax of “The Doctor, The Widow and the Wardrobe” with tears running down my face– tears of empathy, certainly, and tears of joy.
And yes, you’re going to have to read on past the cut to know what I mean.
