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{{article | publication = New Statesman | file = 1965-04-16 New Statesman.jpg | px = 450 | height = | width = | date = 1965-04-16 | author = John Holstrom | pages = 622 | language = English | type = | description = | categories = | moreTitles = | morePublications = | moreDates = | text = I scarcely feel the same warmth towards that more established national telly-myth, BBC-1's Dr Who, which holds much of our junior population rapt with awe and excitement. Certainly the idea of a flying telephone-box as a time-machine is pleasing, but where is the magnetism of the actual adventures in other ages or spheres? I can see only the wooden charmlessness of the adventurers, both as written and performed, the lamentably unchilling plastic monsters or (in the historical episodes) the pasteboard [[broadwcast:The Romans|Romans]], [[broadwcast:The Crusade|Saracens]] or [[broadwcast:The Reign of Terror|French Revolutionaries]]. If this instructs a fraction as much as the far more amusing ''Wonderworld'', I'll eat my hot sweaty hat. }}

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