"A chain of circumstances that fragments the law that holds the universe together."
The Twelfth Doctor, we're told, is moody, rude, aggressive, offhand - cruel even. Think so? Consider Logopolis. The Fourth Doctor is moping around, getting obsessed with things that aren't obviously important. He's like a Dad in a loft, shed or cellar in search of something to do; fighting middle-age with all the enthusiasm of a sloth. He shouts at his companions, he makes a joke to Tegan about her dead Aunt and then consoles here with an absent-minded pat on the back. The Season 18 Doctor might just be a genuine madman in a box; he's dangerous but there's no sense of fun or the faux-childish sulking his other incarnations indulge in. He broods and glums around the place, his only humour is cruel. Put simply, Peter Capaldi has nothing on Series 18 Tom Baker.
Of course, by this point the end of Tom and start of the Doctor is increasingly blurred. And Tom is no longer infectious, fun – a mad, impossible uncle with a smile on his face, sweets in his pocket, secrets. He's the scary relative who smells of stale fags, glowers in sullen silence and might suddenly bark at you to shut up if you bother him.
And just as The Doctor perceives the end approaching, so does Tom. We know that many Doctors found the end of their tenure wounding – Tom's dismay is there on screen for all to see. It's the most remarkable coming together of art and real life: both of our heroes sadly playing out their last moves and contemplating the end of life as they've known it.
Tom looks ancient in Logopolis, illness and years of hard living finally catching up with him. His cheeks are sunken, he stoops and his hair has lost it curl: it's Samsonian, the most incredible metaphor for a man whose incredible powers seem to have deserted him. He is shrouded, wreathed, swaddled in that enormous burgundy coat that speaks not of a buccaneer, eccentric or bohemian but an elderly wizard. It serves to accentuate how thin he is, rather than adding to his imposing stature. He's like Casanova living out the last of his years in a freezing, lonely exile in Bohemia – banished from Venice and salad days. When Tom takes over from Pertwee he's a young man; by the end he's lying underneath the Pharos telescope he looks tired, defeated.
Tom, The Doctor, has seemed out of sorts all season, shedding the two companions that continued to root the show in silliness and whimsy and gaining an annoying manchild, who he appears to detest. Gone are the welcoming honks and flourishes of Dudley Simpson; instead the cold, metallic bleeps and stings of the Radiophonic Workshop. In Logopolis the incidental music feels funereal, downbeat – speaking only of doom. It's overcast all the time, as if even the elements are coming out in sympathy; most of the outdoor scenes are clearly lit artificially as the crew are losing the light. More metaphors; more context. Whatever John Nathan-Turner's faults, he ensures everything is pointing in the same direction in Season 18: the season of entropy, decay and death.
There's something else though. The Fourth Doctor is withdrawn, sullen and paranoid – suddenly detouring into odd flights of fancy. He wants to measure the TARDIS all of a sudden, something that has never bothered him before. And to do this he has to stop off at the Watford Gap and measure an actual police box? What? For all of Bidmead's high concepts and supposed grounding in science, much of Logopolis is simply gibberish.
His plan to 'flush out' The Master by materialising the TARDIS underwater is the worst plan since wheeling the big wooden horse into Troy and going for an early night. Let's just parse what would happen, had the Doctor's plan of landing at the bottom of the Thames and opening the doors not been foiled by landing on a barge: the force of the water would immediately have crushed he and Adric to death.
If they survived the torrent of millions of gallons of water then they would undoubtedly have drowned or died from hypothermia. This also assumes that the Master couldn't simply have closed a bulkhead or got into his own TARDIS. It also assumes that opening a trans-dimensional craft underwater wouldn't have simply drained the Thames.
It suggests nothing less than the Doctor actually losing his mind in Logopolis; driven to his wits' end by foreknowledge of his impending death. He sees - and recognises - The Watcher early on and carries the knowledge that death is literally stalking him throughout the rest of the story. Not only that, it's suggested that the Watcher tells the Doctor to go to Logopolis, knowing he has the Master aboard the TARDIS. Does the Doctor simply accept that this is how it is? The Doctor's fall from the Pharos project telescope very much begs the question as whether the Doctor falls or chooses to let go. Does the Fourth Doctor choose to die?
The Watcher is a curio. As a youngster I was scared beyond all reckoning by mysterious, silent and notionally evil beings in everyday situations. The Tall Thin Man from The Boy In Space and The Watcher haunted my dreams as a child - in Logopolis we're given every reason to believe he's either The Master. In many ways he's more frightening - death in physical form. Where the Tenth Doctor moans about another man with a different face walking away afterwards, the Fourth has to spend Logopolis coming face-to-face with that man; the man who will take away everything that he has become, erase him, replace him.
While The Doctor is coming to the end of his life, The Master is reborn. Logopolis is our first meaningful introduction to The Master, inhabiting his new body. And while Anthony Ainley is dressed to resemble Roger Delgado, this is a very different sort of Master.
Whereas the Timelord we know from the Pertwee era gives the impression that he enjoys mischief, or besting the Doctor, the Ainley incarnation revels in evil. His gentle laugh, ringing throughout the Cloister Room, is a thing of wonder and his make-up hints that there's something physically wrong with him. "You look so cold," says Nyssa, mistaking him for her father and noting his alabaster skin.
Already there's a sense that there's something unstable - both physically and mentally - about this new Master. And that makes him all the more disturbing. It's not long before the Doctor realises that, far from the gentleman criminal or co-dependent emo he will be another incarnations, this Master is completely insane - and he's genuinely horrified; his sometime friend and nemesis has actually lost his mind.
Not to be reasoned with or indulged; no deals to be done - it doesn't matter that this incarnation is just as inept, he'll pursue his unhinged plans regardless. In Logopolis - and for much of the next ten years - the Master is a genuine psychopath that is actually intent on killing the Doctor, rather than defeating him intellectually. If the Doctor is depressed in Logopolis, the Master is maniacal - as if both are experiencing the outliers of a clinical depression.
In Logopolis the Master attempts to hold the universe to ransom by threatening it with total destruction and allows a few galaxies to collapse just to get the universe's attention. The end of the universe; the saving of the universe - you have to hand it to Bidmead. His vision of a Doctor Who where mathematician monks hold the universe together by incanting code is as high-concept as television science-fiction gets and actually a rather beautiful notion. As entropy increases in the universe - a closed system - the Logopolitans open up conduits to other universes. And in the meantime they chant; a life-support system for the universe. It's extraordinary, elegiac metaphysical nonsense.
The problem is, it's not especially interesting beyond the concept - and Logopolis struggles to show us why we should care, offering up only a tantalising shot of a city that looks like a brain, and some matte shots of many Logopolitans at their workstations, providing Tegan with her only notable line of the entire story.
Where Bidmead get it so very right, however, is in the demonstration of recursion, as the Doctor and Adric enter one TARDIS after another - Grimwade showing darker, more threatening iteration of the capsule after another with some wonderful lighting and shooting angles. Suddenly the TARDIS is alien and frightening - a great way of undermining something familiar and turning it against our heroes.
It's this section that caught my imagination as a youngster and, unlike Block Transfer Computation it does not disappoint on screen - we may not even understand why but we can tell that something has gone very wrong. What's more, the miniaturisation of the TARDIS due to some faulty code nicely prefaces the Master's plan - all it would take is a humble assistant to wipe a few star systems out of the sky.
Despite Season 18's reputation, Logopolis is not totally without humour: The sideways glance between Adric and The Doctor as Tegan dashes into the console room and some of the banter between the Timelord and his Alzarian companion, not to mention his rejoinder to the air hostess' query as to whether he's met Auntie Vanessa: "Well, a little of her...".
In retrospect we can look at Logopolis - and much of Season 18 - and view it simply as very odd, inept in various ways and depressingly po-faced. We can mourn for the fun and gentle whimsy - or the grand guignol horror - of past seasons; Tom in his heyday. But in the context of 1981, Logopolis must have been fairly extraordinary. The tonal shift, some of the directorial flourishes of Peter Grimwade, muted acting and haunting electronic music make it an incredibly different proposition to what had gone a mere eight months before - simply compare it to City of Death, barely a year earlier. Come to that, has there ever been anything like it on television since, especially at 5.30pm on a Saturday night?
It also makes no sense whatsoever, however, as if the Logopolitans' incantations are holding the story together by a thread. I've probably watched Tom's swansong 20 times and I couldn't explain why there's a perfect recreation of the Pharos Project on Logopolis, why the Doctor needs to measure a police box, how CVEs work - or why it's so important for Tegan to get to Heathrow.
Ah, Tegan. Barely a word that comes out of the Aussie air hostess' lips is not directly connected to air travel. When she arrives on the TARDIS she is scarcely surprised and tried to broadcast a message to the pilot, somehow rationalising that she's on a flipping aeroplane. Janet Fielding is pretty heroic spouting some of the worst dialogue you'll hear in Doctor Who, but Tegan is a wholly unlovable and pointless character, created solely to wheedle co-production cash out of Aussie networks.
Nyssa, meanwhile, is a companion created - wholly illogically - to smooth the transition from one Doctor to the next. On that basis we might as well have had Consul Katura. There is virtually nothing to say about Nyssa, other than to ponder whether Sarah Sutton is the worst actor to grace the series. The effect on Tom seems deleterious and the promo shot of his standing with Sutton and Fielding, both wearing huge smiles while he looks bewildered and disheveled, a man out of time, is sad to see.
At the end of it we've got a chaotic jumble of recurring characters, the end of the universe, an iconic villain in a new body; a big swerve as the identity of a mysterious character; a bypass on an A-road, sums, the Thames; a shrunken Doctor, an old Doctor, a new Doctor. It's an incoherent season - and incarnation's - finale that's baffling and illogical: in lots of ways, Logopolis has a huge amount in common with the end-of-season spectaculars of later years.
The strong after-image, though, is of Tom Baker and the Fourth Doctor. Arguably the series never quite recovered from the defenestration of its most successful leading man - and it seemed to finish Tom as an actor, remaining perpetually mournful, downbeat and solemn in virtually any television role over the next 20 years. Both parties were diminished in the aftermath but Doctor Who went on to Longleat, the Death Zone, Radio Times front pages and plenty of column inches.
Following Logopolis Tom withdrew from the series, and seemingly from public life, eschewing the opportunity of reprising the role for almost 30 years, barring a 60-second interlude for charitable purposes. He dispensed, forever, with the hair that was his trademark; the look that ensured he was beloved of children and parents, gone with the role that opened doors both professionally and personally. Logopolis is the end of all of it for him - and he looks shattered by the experience.
Again, the similarity between the situation both man and character find themselves in is impossible to ignore. Perhaps more than any other incarnation – or any other actor – this is a Doctor that truly didn't want to go.
Colin Baker might have had quite a rude awakening this morning. With his face splashed on the front page of the Daily Mirror, next to John Nathan-Turner in front of the TARDIS and the 100-point full-caps header DOCTOR WHO SEX SCANDAL, the Sixth Doc might have had reason to pick up the phone to his solicitors immediately (I suspect on balance that he would not win an action, but I wouldn't be totally sure - the obvious and reasonable conclusion to draw from it is that Baker has been implicated in a Savile-style scandal, even if the context clearly absolves him of guilt). A tiny caption points out that Baker is not connected with the sex rumours that have broken into the mainstream since Richard Marson's book on JN-T hit the desks of bloggers and Doctor Who fan journos over the last fortnight.
To recap, Marson's book alleges a number of sexual misdemeanors on the part of JN-T and his partner Gary Downie while they essentially ran Doctor Who in the 1980s. I've not read the book, but from interviews and reviews Marson seems to take a rather blase attitude to Nathan-Turner and even Downie to some extent; he apparently describes a visit to the Doctor Who production office where he ended up hiding under a desk in order to avoid a buggery from Downie, but seems to hand-wave it away as One Of Those Things. Nathan_Turner also makes a pass at the 17-year-old Marson and, when rebuffed, chides him for his provincial mindset. What larks.
Of particular interest to the tabloids, of course, is the suggestion that Downie and Nathan-Turner would scour the conventions for young men to have sex with and, while Marson doesn't seem to be of the impression that anything like the abuse that's come to light with the Savile probes was committed, the implication is that men who were under the then age of homosexual consent - identified with the gruesome term 'Doable Barkers' by Downie and Nathan-Turner - may have had a close encounter with the production duo's fluid links. At a time of Savile and BBC hysteria – and in the 50th anniversary year – it's all meat and drink to newspapers.
None of the revelations have come as much surprise to seasoned Who fans – and many will be aware of various additional rumours that have done the rounds for years about what went on at conventions, casting room couches, dressing rooms and more besides back in the day. There's a lot of nasty stuff floating around fandom from the 80s – and I'm not just talking about Time And The Rani or that picture of Ian Levine in his gym sweats.
Many fellow fans have been dreading the publication of the Nathan-Turner book as the threat to Doctor Who in the anniversary year is obvious. Marson seems to have reacted to the interest of the papers in the more prurient stories culled from the book – by all accounts the more grimy stuff does not account for a vast majority of the book – with a mixture of bemusement and irritation, but this is surely naivety on a grand scale or simple disingenuousness. The idea that this was not seen coming is too far-fetched to really believe; a charitable view is that Marson's book has unfortunately dovetailed with an elevated media interest in the BBC and its employees of yore - and the higher profile the anniversary year has afforded the programme.
But to me this is the inevitable result of a lot of scab-picking that fandom has indulged in over the last dozen or so years. In his rather good Guardian review of the book, Mathew Sweet asserts that the Who is the most documented TV programme of all time. I don't doubt it – I write a blog on the programme and my brother has contributed a chapter on religion in Big Finish plays to an academic tract, just two minor examples among dozens.
However, barring the discovery of another batch of missing episodes – or another long-lost interview like the Pertwee articles in recent DWMs – we're nearing saturation point on what else there is to say about Doctor Who, the classic series at any rate. This year we'll see Mark Gatiss' An Adventure In Time And Space (and very welcome too), a programme on the origins of the series, and scarcely a week seems to go by without someone flagging up another cod-academic blog or Mad Norwegian on Who. Lawrence Miles, Tat Wood and Lance Parkin – among others – are contributing interesting, weighty tracts on the show; the documenters such as Andrew Pixley, Richard Bignell, David J Howe, Ed Stradling and Mark Ayres are carefully cataloguing everything there is to know about the facts and figures of Doctor Who. It's been clear for some years that everyone has run of stock photos to use on the covers and the very close end of the initial run of DVDs means there's some sort of original documentary material on virtually every complete story.
Simply put, where the original series is concerned, there's nothing left to know. And so Doctor Who has started to eat itself. It's not enough to know about where The Hand Of Fear was filmed, that Sylv saved Sophie's life during the recording of Battlefield, the real identity of Robin Bland or that the noise of a Yeti's roar is a slowed-down toilet flush. Having devoured these factoids for decades we've turned our hungry gaze to the show's cast and crew. The internet has drip-fed us whispered anecdotes for years but – in the way that mainstream media often adopts the more populist tactics of new media and blogs – we've started to see more and more of this prurient material finding its way into recognised organs or mainstream books.
To read Doctor Who Magazine in the last few years has allowed us to glean hints about Patrick Troughton's extra-marital activities, how Tom thought Pertwee was tight, Nick Courtney's last hours and how Sylvester spent most of his time as part of Ken Campbell''s troupe shagging his way around London. Even the (otherwise excellent) recent Pertwee interview described a broken-hearted septuagenarian Pertwee uncontrollably sobbing because he'd recently lost a treasured stuffed toy. It was depressing as Hell, though the introductions did suggest that the material had, rightly, been edited to remove some of the more unsavoury stuff.
Elsewhere we now know about Hartnell's supposed racism (still a matter of some significant dispute, despite Sweet's assertion in the Guardian), Nick Courtney's crippling depression, Tom's womanising and boozing, Mathew Waterhouse's sexual awakenings while at the Beeb, the alcoholism of certain guest stars and which companion has supposedly slept with three Doctors – the latter, rightly, earning Gary Gillatt a stern rebuke from Colin Baker. Some of these have been rather nuanced and suited the idiom in which they were revealed. Tom's autobiography, for example, is a riotous joy and comes as little surprise, while Waterhouse's rather lovely Blue Box Boy is shot through with whimsy, irony and affection.
But most of this gossip is simply rather dismaying. I don't want to know about the sexual incontinence of my television heroes; I don't want to know that some Doctors dislike others, nor that JN-T was fellated by a willing Barker while on the phone to Biddy Baxter. I don't want to know that Troughton allegedly had a habit of whipping out his knob while I'm watching his "some corners of the universe" speech in Tomb Of The Cybermen, nor that Pertwee and Ainley hated one another while I'm watching them face off in The Five Doctors.
Our appetite for these forbidden nuggets is understandable - in a similar fashion, the internet "dirt sheets" about who htaes who backstage in the world of professional wrestling has opened up a whole new industry as people who grew up cheering Hulk Hogan, Stone Cold and The Rock now search for stories about steroid abuse, sexual liaisons and professional jealousy. Yet it only serves to cheapen the thing we love. To paraphrase Ecclestone's Doctor in Dalek, we haul something down from the stars and bury it in morbid, sad, everyday human frailties.
I don't dispute that the material of JN-T and Downie – some of it anyway – is fair game, nor am I suggesting that we should hush up tales of impropriety simply because it sullies our memories of a TV show. Doctor Who isn't just our progamme, it's one of the most famous series in television history. But we're continuing to unearth what often amounts to hearsay and conjecture about people who may have been dead for decades because of our hunger to know more and more about Doctor Who. Barry Letts might have had a thing or two to say about where our selfish pursuit for knowledge may lead us.
In today's front page it reached its apotheosis. In our 50th anniversary year, where we might have looked forward to the sort of treats one would associate with a childhood birthday, we're dreading Doctor Who being dissected in a media gaze that doesn't care about ruining the reputations of our show and its family. We only have ourselves to blame.