I am baffled by the continuing success of Dr Who (BBC-1). But then I am not 10 years old, which is probably the optimum age at which one should watch it. The BBC obviously does not agree or it would not put on a special 25th anniversary three-part series at 7.30 at night when adult nostalgics are home to remind themselves what a lot of nonsense it always was.
Toddlers may have hidden behind sofas when the monsters came on. But Star Wars special effects have spoilt our palates for creaky space-age pantomime and flying police boxes. There is still more of Prof Branestawm about Dr Who than there is of Steven Spielberg. I caught a fellow critic rewinding his tape in an effort to unravel the plot, but what's the point? The latest Dr Who, Sylvester McCoy and his rather lacklustre assistant, Sophie Aldred, have to save planet Earth from a silver bow, a demented 17th-century murderess and a mad superannuated Nazi from South America. The trouble with fantasy, especially when it is as old fashioned as this, is that unless it is brilliantly done it is very hard to care.
Caption: Sylvester McCoy as Dr Who
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