Matt Smith: the rise and fall of the hipster Doctor

A young Doctor with old man's eyes, he whirligigged around the screen like a spider playing Twister against itself. But Matt Smith’s legacy suffers from the fact that something went awry in the writing of the last series of Doctor Who.

“Well, here we go again...”

With the announcement that Matt Smith will be bowing out of Doctor Who this Christmas, it’s time for us to play the regeneration game once more, with all that traditionally accompanies it: Will The Doctor Be A Woman headlines, slightly awkward discussions on the Today show, and all of fandom searching for an actor who can embody the hopes and fears of a nation via the medium of a kids TV show. (Note: I will accept Tilda Swinton, Idris Elba, or Jason Statham).

But it’s also a time to look back at the outgoing Doctor. Matt Smith plummeted into the national consciousness in a flaming TARDIS back in 2010, a whirlwind of limbs and hair and a catchphrase that didn’t quite catch (Geronimo, we barely knew you). The youngest actor to take on the role, he faced a huge challenge in taking over from David Tennant, who’d come to define the Doctor for a whole generation of fans.

Smith’s Doctor was a fizzing bundle of energy, enthusiasm and contradictions - by turns stern and childlike, he was both a dotty professor, and the first Doctor to care about whether he was cool. Smith gave the role a manic physicality. Legs from a 1930s silent comedy, arms waving at things in seven different dimensions at once, bow-tie rampant, he whirligigged around the screen like a hipster spider playing Twister against itself. 

Smith’s performance - like Steven Moffat’s scripts - would frequently try to go a dozen different ways at the same time, before finally pointing himself in the direction of the story and marching resolutely towards it. He had the air of someone confronting head-on the mysteries of the cosmos, and determinedly trying to chip away at them with his chin.

But then there were the eyes. Those old man’s eyes. When Smith was at his best (and he was frequently wonderful) it was all in the eyes; exhausted eyes, furtive and alien and so very, very old. More even than Eccleston and Tennant - who weren’t exactly bad at it themselves - Smith excelled at the sudden switch of tone, the moment where he’d pivot on a single phrase and the antic clown would fall away, replaced with someone aged and scarred and deeply unknowable. Obligatory Tom Baker aside, no other Doctor has seemed so truly ancient and otherworldly, and fans knew that those were the moments worth cherishing. It was mood dubstep; everyone was waiting for the drop.

It’s almost impossible to disentangle the qualities of Smith’s tenure as the Doctor from Moffat’s reign as showrunner; they fit each other so well, both in their qualities and their flaws. For some time, it really looked like the eleventh Doctor could become the definitive Who; the standard to judge all the others by. But Smith’s legacy suffers from the fact that something went awry in the writing of the last series; that for all the enjoyable twists and flips as they were in flight, very few episodes nailed the landing.

Because when the script was missing something and the momentum was gone, Smith had a tendency to . . . well, turn it up to Eleven. He’d overcompensate for the exposition dumps and the gaps in narrative sense, twirling and gurning and SHOUTING A LOT and tripping over his own elbows. He would do Hair Acting.

(It also didn’t help that he was forced to spend the past half-season playing Unsettlingly Creepy Doctor, time-stalking a young woman for reasons the plot never quite seemed to justify.)

To an extent, the show’s suffered under the weight of its own ambition (a pretty laudable reason). Ultimately, the Moffat/Smith years have fundamentally been about story. Not just the giddy, headlong rush of Moffat’s narrative, but the idea of story as a living, breathing thing - a force of nature in its own right. In Moffworld, the Doctor’s superpower isn’t his mind or his two hearts or his sonic screwdriver; it’s that he’s a legend. He’s a fable passed down the generations, “a goblin, or a trickster”, the thing monsters have nightmares about, the reason our language has the word “doctor”. 

This was no subtext; it was all upfront in the plot, as befits a post-Buffy, monsters-are-metaphors TV show. Smith’s first series ended with him escaping oblivion by becoming a bedtime tale he told to the young Amy, her childhood memories a life-support machine; his last with Clara literally jumping into his lifestory to save him, the ultimate sacrifice of giving herself up entirely to his history. It was all about story.

And if there’s been a problem with this last series, beyond the structural flaws and the tonal mis-steps, it’s the lurking feeling that none of these stories really demanded to be told. They didn’t live out in the world, in herds of wild narrative roaming the twilight, just waiting to be discovered and written down. They felt like constructs, awkwardly fitting themselves around external necessities - marketing material in search of a plot, or an extended trailer for the upcoming 50th anniversary episode. They forgot to bring the mythic.

If his tenure as the Doctor right now has a nagging sense of promise not quite fulfilled, Smith still has - naturally - time. There are two showpiece episodes to go. If the rumours that the 12th Doctor was actually cast months ago are true, then there’s reason to trust that the moment has been prepared for. Moffat has set an awful lot of plates spinning over the past few years; with a bit of luck, he’ll use them to serve up a feast, rather than it all resulting in an unfortunate mess of tears and crockery fragments.

Because all told - when given the chance to shine - Smith was and is a magnificent Doctor,  this mad man in a blue box, this great floppy nonsense with the extrovert hair and those weary, haunted eyes. Let’s hope his story gets the ending it deserves.

 

Matt Smith's Doctor was by turns by turns stern and childlike. Photo: Getty
A still from Genius
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Thomas Wolfe biopic Genius is a hackneyed portrait of the great white male

Genius ends up being terrifically boring, while enthusiastically reproducing the creative hierarchies of the time it portrays.

You can learn everything you need to know about the film Genius, starring Jude Law as the volatile novelist Thomas Wolfe and Colin Firth as his weary editor, Maxwell Perkins, from its opening five minutes.

An overly desaturated shot of Twenties New York reveals a hoard of hardworking men trudging solidly through the ratrace of city life. But what’s this? One man is set apart, lingering on a street corner and staring up at the words “Charles Scribner’s Sons” on the building across the street. He smokes and stares, so we know he is like other men – yet different, more thoughtful.

Meanwhile, alone in an office, another man is reading Hemingway. He is interrupted by an enormous pile of papers that lands with a thud on his desk. This manuscript has been rejected by every other editor in the city (a sign of true, misunderstood literary genius). Is it any good, the reading man asks Manuscript Delivery Man? “Good? No! But it’s unique.”

Our reading man opens page one of the manuscript. “… A stone, a leaf, an unfound door…” His interest is piqued – here is a man who knows the earthy prose of a true male genius. We are treated to cinema's most captivating delight: a reading montage. The reading man barely glances up from his paper as he jumps aboard a leaving steam train. “… Of a stone, a leaf, a door…” The train races through the countryside. “And of all the forgotten faces…” The reading man trudges up a country path, still engrossed.

“Which of us has known his brother? Which of us has looked into his father's heart?” The reading man enters his home. He spares a fleeting glance for a woman (His wife? It is hardly relevant) in a sitting room surrounded by pieces of womanly fabric and several other ladies. Nameless girls (His daughters? They are beside the point) run delicately from room to room, giggling. Over dinner, he looks up at them occasionally to smile blandly at their delightful artlessness, but he cannot enter into trivial conversation – immersed as he is in the world of the story. “Remembering speechlessly we seek the great forgotten language, the lost lane-end into heaven, a stone, a leaf, an unfound door. Where? When?”

Our reader reads overnight, down the country path, on the same train in the morning light. “He stood for the last time by the angels of his father's porch,” he reads. “He was like a man who stands upon a hill above the town he has left.” He finishes the manuscript and sighs with the deep satisfaction of a man who is, finally, understood.

Cut to black. The word “GENIUS” appears on screen.

As an exploration of our problematic understanding of the word, Genius the movie is more revealing than any satire. It’s a script that could have been written by Mallory Ortberg. But its conception of genius as white, male, American, self-absorbed, indulgent, obsessed with its own individuality, and unable to comprehend its mediocrity, is presented without irony or self-awareness.

The movie continues in this general vein: Perkins and Wolfe strike up a friendship as well as a professional relationship and spend long hours together drinking whiskey, talking with what they consider to be great wisdom about how love is a lighting bolt!! and repeatedly crossing out words (as cinematically thrilling as you might expect). We meet other “geniuses” aside from Perkins and Wolfe: Hemingway and Fitzgerald. We ponder upon the real nature of genius – is it writing “wrenched from the gut”? Temperate editing? Or the genius of knowing your fellow man? There are writing montages, editing montages, and lots of close-ups of typewriting, crumpled papers, and streaks of red pencil. Hold on to your hats, kids, cause this is going to be a wild ride!

Women, black people, and the homeless are all used as vague backdrops onto which these conversations play out – but never fully considered as real, human people, people who Wolfe might find worthy for his next book, an investigation into America – all of it! In one scene, Wolfe and Perkins walk past a queue for a soup kitchen, prompting Wolfe to launch into a rant about the state of the country. “My work is frivolous!” he cries on a rooftop. But Perkins assures him of his enormous emotional contribution to society, and Wolfe soon seems to forget the men named on IMDB only as “Dock Worker / Homeless Man”. They stand arm-in-arm, smiling sagely out over a struggling city neither seem to know very well. Strings swell approvingly.

In another, we head to a jazz club with Wolfe and Perkins, so Perkins can experience the musical inspiration behind Wolfe’s experimental prose. The writers decide to best depict this with Wolfe throwing around words like “savage” while badly explaining the concept of jazz to anyone who’ll listen, before making grim sexual advances towards three women simultaneously: “Jazz Club Woman 1”, “Jazz Dancer” and “Jazz Club Customer”. It is not deemed necessary to give anyone other than Wolfe and Perkins any dialogue.

The film makes a less than half-hearted attempt to engage with the question of female creativity through Wolfe and Perkins’ partners. Wolfe’s girlfriend, the married Alice Bernstein (Nicole Kidman) is portrayed as Wolfe’s earliest and most steadfast champion: financially, emotionally and creatively supporting his literary endeavours. She is a set designer, and after Wolfe finds fame, he refuses to recognise her job as a creative or necessary pursuit, refusing to come to her plays.

As Wolfe becomes disinterested in her, Bernstein’s character changes at lightning speed scene to scene, one minute vindictively pointing a gun at her replacement, Perkins, the next swallowing handfuls of pills, supposedly as an act of attention-seeking, the next vowing she feels nothing for Wolfe at all. By the end of the film, she is reduced to muttering trite statements about how Wolfe was the sole thing that made her feel truly alive. We meet Zelda Fitzgerald, but only after she has been all but overcome by mental illness: she, too, is a hysterical prop used to warn the central men of the dangers of their obsession with their work.

Perkins’ wife is also a female artist side-lined. In one strange scene, we see her describe her playwriting, only to be talked over by Wolfe, who declares drama an “anaemic form” and returns to the topic of his novel, while Perkins’ daughters giggle at him in awe. We never hear of Louise’s work (or, indeed, anything about her that is not related to her husband and children) again. Perkins’ children, too, are only seen as interesting when they’re talking about their father or Wolfe.

These vague diversions do little to actually analyse the discriminatory way in which genius is conceived, be it in the Thirties or 2016. Here, genius is something white men do as their wives and daughters grow increasingly bitter. The homeless man standing out in the cold, or the black sex worker in a jazz club could have nothing of interest to add. In only allowing Wolfe and Perkins (and Hemingway and Fitzgerald) to speak for themselves, Genius ends up being terrifically boring, while enthusiastically perpetuating the creative hierarchies of the time it portrays. 

Anna Leszkiewicz is a pop culture writer at the New Statesman.