I’ve been jumping from fandom to fandom most of my life, but for one reason or another, I never became what netizens call a “Whovian.” Sure, I’ve watched an episode or two of Doctor Who, but most of what I know about the series has been absorbed through social media. I watched from the sidelines as David Tennant stepped aside to welcome Matt Smith’s 11th Doctor, as Peter Capaldi and Jenna Coleman kindled an intriguing quasi-romance, and as the franchise made history with its first female Doctor (Jodi Whittaker). I was intrigued by all of that, but nothing I saw truly gave me an incentive to tune in: as the longest-running sci-fi show ever, I felt too daunted by its history. I didn’t know where to start, so I resolved to be a passive spectator. That is, until Ncuti Gatwa was tapped to lead the next chapter of “timey-wimey” shenanigans.
As a dutiful fan of Sex Education, I was already well aware of what Gatwa could bring to Doctor Who. His comedic timing and pathos were among the few reasons I kept my Netflix subscription — and the fact that he’d be the first Black actor in history to pilot the TARDIS (or whatever it is you’re meant to do in there) was an even bigger draw. The addition of Andor’s Varada Sethu in his second season as the Doctor only piqued my curiosity. With the series starting fresh on Disney+ and Russell T. Davies, the architect of Who’s modern era, back at the helm, it felt impossible to ignore the signs. I was finally ready to take my first real step into a franchise I’d orbited for decades. Then, the unthinkable happened: Gatwa’s tenure as the Doctor ended after only two years and 19 episodes, in a farewell sandwiched between two not-so-subtle ploys for nostalgia.
