A cyberman catches a visitor off-guard as she visits the Doctor Who exhibiton in Kelvingrove

With the success of Kelvingrove’s new Doctor Who exhibition, Tara Hepburn examines the British love affair with the Time Lord

When Russell T Davies took the reigns of Doctor Who in 2005, he was asked by one of many baiting journalists why he thought people loved Doctor Who quite so much. He answered sincerely: “because it is the greatest idea in the history of the world”. This seems somewhat ridiculous, of course, but with recent visitors to Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum choosing in vast numbers to scope out the new Doctor Who exhibition instead of the works of Da Vinci or Van Gogh which hang elsewhere on the walls of that fine building, you’d be forgiven for thinking Davies’ claim may have some merit in it after all. The exhibition showcases some of the best, and most recognisable, Doctor Who props from its 50-year history, and has been the subject of unprecedented demand, being sold out virtually every day since it opened a few weeks ago. Staff stress that you book in advance online, the burden of turning away excited Whovians on a daily basis having obviously become far too much to bear.

The Doctor Who of old has long-held an almost national-treasure-like place in British hearts, proving that good ideas and exciting storylines are sufficient compensation for high-tech sets, or high-brow scripts.

Nonetheless, during the show’s years of absence from television between 1989 and 2005, Doctor Who quietly cultivated an image for itself as a haven for geeks and nostalgic enthusiasts. When the Doctor came back in 2005 after a 16-year-long regeneration period, there was a sense that the whole thing really had to be pretty good. With the best technology and writing that licence-payers money can buy, coupled with part-time television impresario and full-time Whovian Russell T Davies at the helm, the new series did not disappoint.  Doctor Who stepped up its game, and was picking up ratings and awards faster than the speed of, I suppose, the TARDIS.

More telling, however, than the show’s critical success, was its success in achieving that rarest of feats – Doctor Who actually became, for the first time in its geeky history, almost cool. The series seemed to be made, rather than broken, by shafting its familiar low-budget special effects; successfully doing the Doctors exploits the often-frightening loyalty they deserved, and making the whole thing seem a lot darker indeed. The women in the series were lifted from their occasional 20th century position as screaming ciphers, to intelligent and genuinely helpful sidekicks. The Doctor, too, became full of warmth, love and charm, elevating him to a level of social aptitude that would almost allow him to pass for human – and indeed endowed him with far more heart than a vast number of supposedly actual-human characters on British television today.

For all that the technology was, of course, far better than the older incarnations, this alone rarely ensures improvement all-round, as the recent high-tech/low-quality Star Wars films prove. The storylines and ideas – which were almost always gripping anyway – broke into mainstream consciousness thanks to a quality of script-writing that the show had not consistently seen before. With one of the UK’s leading screenwriters Steven Moffat (recently Steven Speilberg’s selection as scriptwriter for his forthcoming Tintin project) on board, the series became witty, tender, and emotionally-driven on top of all else. Moffat’s episodes were huge hits with audiences and critics alike, with the speech given by Professor River Song in “Forest of the Dead” which begins “Everybody knows that everybody dies…” considered to be amongst  some of the most touching dialogue on British television last year. The greatest achievement of recent Doctor Who writing exists in the respect that it has for the intellect and attention-span of its audience, which is not only lacking in much of current childrens’ television shows, but which seems increasingly elusive in television scripts in general.

As it happens, Saturday night television needs stuff like Doctor Who. With much of the TV-time afforded to talentless people auditioning for praise that is rightfully out of their podgy grasp, or lottery numbers idly rolling out of a glorified bingo machine, it is clear that this once-lucrative evening of TV is plagued by people chasing all kinds of fictional dreams. It would be far less ridiculous to curl up and watch David Tennant chasing cybermen, or Charles Dickens. The idea of spending a Saturday night watching TV that was essentially made for children, and which features sub-human alien creatures seems, then, to be the rule, rather than the exception.

This breakthrough in the new-found cultural importance of everyone’s favourite Time Lord was made clear two summers ago, as the organisers of London’s gay pride march found themselves in last-minute disarray, having accidentally scheduled their festivities to clash with the Doctor Who finale. Fearing a low turnout, a big-screen was organised for Trafalgar Square, meaning that the Doctor’s antics were played out to a keen crowd of Londoners, a privilege that the capital only usually reserves for important national sporting events – such as the World Cup final, or watching England getting beat in the World Cup quarter-final. Newspaper columnists had a field day, wondering exactly what had turned the Doctor into such a hero for the modern-day gay community – musing that his sidekicks were beautiful and spirited enough to qualify as modern-day gay icons, or even – somewhat embarrassingly – that David Tennant’s handsomeness had something to do with this new-found keenness for the show.

What was actually interesting, however, was not that Doctor Who had potentially gone all gay but, rather; the fact that a large-scale public event of any description could be threatened by a Doctor Who episode seemed an incredible reflection of just how important the series has become. Time will tell whether or not Doctor Who is the greatest idea in the history of the world, but with more people visiting Kelvingrove to look at a Dalek than a Dali – it doesn’t seem quite so ridiculous after all.

Photo - Jim Wilson

As Christmas shopping rears its ugly head, Tara Hepburn tells us why the modern Christmas is still beautiful

Whilst working last Christmas I was subjected to a tirade by a woman who saw the increasing popularity of the spelling “Xmas” in place of “Christmas”, as responsible for near enough everything that was wrong with modern festive celebrations. It is, as she so helpfully pointed out, Jesus’ birthday after all, so he probably should get a name-check in the title. Annoying as this woman was, I never liked Xmas much either.

Not from a religious perspective, mainly because it encourages people to pronounce it “Ecks-mas”, which sounds ridiculous and stupid. And whilst this season does seem to conspire to make the ridiculous a little more sublime, stupidity remains as annoying as ever.

There is, however, something finicky and indulgent about Xmas being the worst of your worries at Christmas-time. Whilst modern Christmases are perhaps commercialised and unreligious, there’s little evidence to suggest that the whole celebration was even Jesus’ gig in the first place.

The pagans knew how to throw a Christmas shindig thousands of years before Mary had even met Joseph. Apart from gathering en masse – as opposed to in Mass – there are very few differences between the way the pagan’s rocked their winter festivities and the way that Christmas exists in modern form.

Similarly, a number of winter’s other big festivals, such as Hanukkah, Thanksgiving, Yule and the Winter Solstice show a familiar fandom for gift-giving, lights, decorations, and generally staying ensconced in your warm home with your family, eating well and drinking better.

There’s no real genius required to figure out why such a wide-reaching habit might begin to form. Without the terribly exciting promise of Christmas, we might all come to realise that winter’s actually pretty rubbish. It’s cold, and dark, and the trees look skeletal and creepy, and we have to bundle up in clothes that are both not-enough for outdoor climes, and far-too-much for the tropical climes enforced by shops.

It’s a sick enough joke when snow falls in January or February, with little respect for the arbitrary dates assigned for merrymaking, but a sparse Scottish winter without anticipation of Christmas whatsoever would be utterly unthinkable.

There does seem something sad, however, about shirking all the holy connotations whatsoever. Unless you actively bat for some other God’s team (which I haven’t the faith or favouritism to do — I love them all equally), the religious agenda certainly adds a bit of gravitas to things. The nativity story is — overlooking all its Inaccurate Conception worries — a poignant and important narrative which seems universally and eternally relevant.

In a Jeremy Kyle climate, it’s easy to believe that children are more ill-gotten than begotten, surplus weapons in the petty wars of the stupid. It helps that this one’s a messiah, of course, but there’s something refreshing and really rather beautiful about celebrating birth in general.
Secular grumblings aside, the Nativity story succeeds in embroiling all sorts of magnificent sentiments: of hope, and love, and harmony, and interdependence.

It isn’t particularly important to the splendour of the story that this manger-cosy lad grows up to be Jesus Christ, to assume so seems to somehow miss a significant part of the whole tale. It remains a wonderful account of the meaning of the future, and children, and how important it is to love them, and help them, and provide for them, and let them be brilliant. He could end up working in Sainsbury’s for all that it matters, but with his love-heavy beginnings he’ll probably be the kindest, most helpful, charming trolley boy you’ve ever met. Though, it might be easier to fathom miracles of the biblical variety.

And, contrary to popular belief, the worst thing about Christmas is not that it highlights a godforsaken culture, where you get elbowed unapologetically when out shopping, rather; it’s tragic in being so shamelessly widespread and steeped in memories. This Christmas, as every other, will be a terrible, painful burden to people who’ve lost someone, for whom the whole shebang will be a cruel reminder of a life that seems almost gone to them now.

If the hope and faith of the Nativity, or the Church, can provide some solace in a horribly poignant time, then it would take a monster to deem it all irrelevant.

And whilst it is a pity if people can’t see these wider merits of the Nativity Story, it hardly represents much of a departure from the values it puts forth. Festive favourite “It’s a Wonderful Life” succeeds in tapping into all such Christmas rudiments with moving acuteness – providing a cars-instead-of-camels version of the Nativity story for the modern world.

Perhaps Church turnout is poor, but with heathen souls all over the country tuning into George Baillie’s tale of hardship and triumph, I wouldn’t write them off just yet. It seems that people very much do care about the kind of suffering that this time might inflict and — more importantly — about the idea that unity and hope always exist amongst the darkness.

However commercial the whole circus has become, people really do spend time with their families and think about others at Christmas-time. Retailers, obviously, benefit from the whole caper, but charities too raise a far larger percentage of their annual donations at this time of year than any season. Even if merely the remnants of Christian traditions remain, the heart of their intentions beats strong. It shouldn’t really matter if people do good things because it’s God’s kid’s birthday or not.

They’re being good for goodness’ sake. Which is perhaps more valuable anyway.

As Glasgow celebrates the work of Tennessee Williams, Tara Hepburn joins in on the admiration

This year marks a huge list of anniversaries if you’re inclined to look for them. It is, as it happens, 75 years since Monopoly was invented, 50 years since Elvis was drafted into the US Army, and 25 years since playwright Tennessee Williams died under dubious circumstances at the Hotel Elysee in New York.

Glasgow has chosen to celebrate only one of the three anniversaries listed above, perhaps deeming a celebration of all things Monopoly a little inappropriate given our current financial climate. And, although he was marvellous, the work that Mr Presley did for hearts and minds will always be secondary to the more noble work he did for rock and roll. Perhaps as a result of that exact process of elimination (or some utterly separate process of admiration) Glasgay! have decided to dedicate a chunk of this year’s festival to all things Tennessee Williams.

Gay issues were prevalent in Williams work at a time when homosexuality was still very much illegal. His most famous creation, Blanche DuBois, of “A Streetcar Named Desire” fame, lamented: “What is straight? A line can be straight, or a street, but the human heart, oh no, it’s curved like a road through mountains.” The festival allows anyone and everyone to revel in the beautiful language of a master, and he is – amongst a vast list of things – gay and brilliant. And that’s probably the general vibe that Glasgay! were going for anyway.

Born in 1911 to an abusive father, and an aggressive, delusional mother, Tennessee (then Thomas) Williams forged a close bond with his sister Rose, who suffered from schizophrenia and spent much of her life in and out of mental hospitals. After Tennessee left home, his parents had his sister lobotomised, a decision for which Williams never forgave them. He became estranged from his family and retreated to his writing, creating work which – not entirely surprisingly – was steeped in turmoil, guilt and mental instability.

Although his work went on to win innumerable awards, Williams’ life was blighted by alcoholism, depression and fear that he would ultimately fall victim to the sort of insanity which had ravaged his beloved sister. He died aged 72, having choked on a bottle cap whilst putting in eyedrops. His younger brother, from whom Williams was distant for a great part of his life, maintains that he was suffocated by those who attended to Williams’ health in his final years, murderously disgruntled by planned changes to their patient’s will.

Like any situation involving wills and vast inheritance, trust is slippery concept. I never much cared for how capable Mr Williams was at applying eyedrops, I was always rather more interested in his capability for writing amazing plays.

Some of Williams’ plays are being rehashed for the festival season, with Tron theatre putting on a loyal and passionate rendering of the Williams hit “Suddenly Last Summer”, as well as giving UK stage premieres to a few lesser-known one-act plays such as “Hello from Bertha” – a harrowingly dramatic piece which details the dying moments of a prostitute in a low-class bordello. The Arches are fielding a more experimental take on the Williams’ season, with “Elysian Fields”, a newly-penned play about Williams’ final months as a drunken and slowly maddening genius which has opened to rave reviews.

The GFT have an equally-exciting programme on offer, reeling up for a month of Tennessee Williams film adaptations from the golden age of cinema. A timely opportunity to catch “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof” starring the recently-late and interminably-great Paul Newman in a performance of complexity and depth, trying as he was to shake the weighty burden of incorrigible beauty that he so reluctantly hauled from role to role.

His portrayal of Brick, the sexually-conflicted yet powerfully masculine leading man, is compounded by his character’s extraordinary ability to spurn the advances of his own wife, Maggie, who is played by such an exquisitely-beautiful Elizabeth Taylor. Sexual orientation aside, you’d have to be crazy not to want to look at her face all day long. Other highlights include Marlon Brando and Vivien Leigh’s superbly-acted turn in Williams’ most celebrated creation “A Streetcar Named Desire”, as well as hidden gem “This Property is Condemned”, a one-act play spun seamlessly into a full-length feature starring Robert Redford and Natalie Wood.

The experience proves that, for all the developments in cinematography, budget and special effects, there really is no competition for good acting and even better dialogue. Not only do they no longer make them like they used to, they don’t write them like they used to either.

Although Williams’ work is often upsettingly personal, it has an enduring, accessible quality. A testament, perhaps, to the quality of his imagination and turn of phrase, but an indication also that the high-ideals and dark-sadness of which he writes are perhaps not as melodramatic after all.

Tennessee Williams succeeds in convincing us that not only does the course of love tail a windy road, the course of life does much the same.

Tara Hepburn

A friend said to me recently that she had no time for fashion — that it’s intimidating and elitist, and annoyingly ‘cool’. And whilst that’s a slightly sweeping excuse for her own sartorial ineptitude, it’s a belief that’s not without grounding. The world of fashion has been a bit bold and daunting of late:  all chunky heels, and black, and leather, and patent. Or all of the above.

It is with great relief, then, that there seems to have been a shunning of all things cool in favour of a bit of a square revival. Not geometrically speaking, of course, rather in terms of character.

With this movement the girls got tea dresses for the summer months, and the boys got checked shirts and clear plastic glasses (alas, there is not room to discuss the rights and wrongs of feigning sight impediments). And as the autumnal chill settles in, the fashion pack have provided yet more garms to keep both genders cosy as the temperatures drop. High street shelves are positively heaving with the sort of duffle coats and parkas that truly are anti-cool in every respect – keeping you warm, and keeping your Mum proud all at the same time.

But the real extent of the geek-chic renaissance is best witnessed in the sudden, almost palpable, presence of the humble cardigan. Guys and girls alike have truly embraced this primary-school staple, and not without good reason. Cardigans are brilliantly versatile – working with all kinds of looks, from dresses, to jeans, to smart night-out wear. And Primark have cardigans from just £4, so it’s not even that big of a financial-pull to get on board the brainy bandwagon.

And cardigans look good on everyone. Even the most appalling whale of a human being looks better in a cardigan, because at least it somehow creates the connotation that they’re possibly geeky, bookish and incredibly clever. We might conclude that genetics wouldn’t be so cruel as to deny them both looks and brains, thus they’re clearly a genius.

As it happens, genetics are cruel and obey no rules at all (Natalie Portman has a degree from Harvard, Wayne Rooney has no qualifications whatsoever) – and that person you just saw in a cardigan is probably just a fat idiot, but they’ll have waddled their massive geek-chic lard-filled body right past you before you’ve had the time to reach that conclusion. Cardigans are powerful things.

I’ll personally be holding onto the cardigan look, not because I’m a fat idiot, but because I’ve been rocking it since circa 1995. But then again, as 7-year-old school kids in the playground, weren’t we all? Who knew style could be so basic? I suppose we all did once upon a time, before it all got so complicated.