Doctor Who BBC1, Sat
You might say another series that has jumped the shark is Doctor Who, except that it has been leaping fish for 20 years. Doctor Who is the Large Hadron Collider of television drama: you take a really, really, really tiny, tiny idea, and truly, truly infinitesimal dialogue, then fire them at each other, at great expense, to see what happens. Over the years, the format has tried camp and comic; it's toyed with educationally moral, gone gothic, pantomime and fairy-tale horror. It has taken every permutation of storytelling and managed to crochet it into dross.
Last weekend's episode was a conceit of such pompous and ponderous, adipose crap that the only pleasure available was in watching the obvious confusion and embarrassment of Peter Capaldi, a fine and game actor, who was forced to mouth meaningless non sequiturs while gambolling gracelessly. The entire show was a monologue of Led Zeppelin lyrics, delivered with a liturgical portentousness. They've dressed poor Peter in Doc Martens, skinny jeans that are too long and that ubiquitous garment of louche eccentricity and bohemian mystery: a velvet jacket.
I felt for him. Doctor Who must have seemed like such a no-brainer gig; now he has discovered that it really is brainless, but with a huge, unstoppable budget. The real question posed by the current incarnation of Doctor Who is: who on Earth, or any other planet, is supposed to be watching this? Where in the solar system is the audience for this empty, gurning indulgence?
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