So, the 50th anniversary of Doctor Who's first episode is approaching. To mark the occasion, here's the first in an 11-part series of tributes to the men who've travelled in the fourth dimension…
Everybody has a favourite Doctor, but the only real Doctor was William Hartnell. No one else came close to matching his authority and scariness. He was genuinely alien.
Hartnell the man was born in poverty to a single mother in 1908. His career took off in the 1940s, playing hard men and soldiers in cop shows and sitcoms. He was spotted by producer Verity Lambert playing a rugby talent scout in This Sporting Life and offered a part in a new sci-fi show called Doctor Who in 1963. Bill was reluctant at first to work on a mere kids programme – but it turned out to be rather more special than that.
The genius of that early series was that it was pitched perfectly between children and adults; it's a testament to how much more "adult" children were treated back then. The real focus of the plot were two teachers, Ian and Barbara, who follow a precocious pupil home and find that she's living in a police box. The police box turns out to be a time ship (rather roomier on the inside than out) and her "grandfather" – the Doctor – is less than thrilled to meet them. In fact, he's so furious that he shuts the doors, presses a button and kidnaps them (See video above). Compare that with present-day Who where the Doctor only ever meets young women with regional accents who he instantly wants to bed but can't because – I don't know – he's impotent or something. Everything about 60s Who was way more mature and sinister.
To be honest, Hartnell's stories can be tough to re-watch. Each serial ran for upwards of 12 episodes a time, some of the scripts were plodding (I challenge you to sit through The Space Museum without slipping into a coma) and the effects shockingly poor. The Web Planet featured a cast of gay butterflies on strings, dancing ants and grubs on rollers that occasionally crashed into the camera. Bill sometimes let the side down by fluffing his lines (When invited to climb a hill: "My dear, I'm not a mountain goat and I prefer walking to any day." Awkward pause. "And I hate climbing"). There are moments when he looks lost and helpless before the cameras, the line on the tip of his tongue but he can't remember if it's "Daleks" or "cabbages".
Yet the modern viewer is struck by the deadly seriousness of it all. The show is 50 per cent teaching kids about history, which means a visit to China with Marco Polo and a tour of the French Revolution. Remembering that this was produced at a time when the BBC basically lacked censorship and was pushing the boundaries of what was acceptable, the violence can be shocking. A Crusader gets a sword in the chest, two companions die (I mean really die, rather than get turned into stardust and resurrected into a giant MacGuffin like in New Who), and that precocious teen who just can't act attacks her teacher with a pair of scissors.
And, to return to that first episode, the Doctor is not a nice man. He regards Ian and Barbara as nuisances and does his best to get rid of them. In one infamous scene they are all escaping with a wounded man from some-terror-or-other and the Doctor picks up a stone and considers battering the invalid to death to speed up their flight – only Ian, Mr Sensible In a Cardigan, stops him. Nasty stuff, but it all contributes to the slight uncertainty about who this Doctor is, where he comes from, what his agenda is and what he might do next. Watch those early opening titles and they're not the string orchestra, flying through space joy ride that you get today. They are an ominous journey into the unknown, complimented by a grinding, threatening soundtrack. They're thrilling in the way that a long lonely walk down a dark tunnel is thrilling.
Bill could be just as dangerous off camera. Some complained that he was bossy and rude; others insinuated racism. Actually, one gets a sense of an actor from a different era who didn't quite understand the revolutionary nature of the show that he was making. By the end of his three years in the role Britain was a different place and his character looked tired. In The War Machines he visits a swinging Soho party – a record player playing funk, a lone girl on a chair doing the twist – and someone tells him he's wearing "fab gear". The Doctor looks tempted to strike her. The real Bill might've at least called her a disgrace and threatened to telephone her father.
Hartnell left the show in 1966, had a nervous breakdown and succumbed to something common among former-Doctors: the belief that he was the real thing and everything that came after was a pale imitation. Unusually, though, he was right. Hartnell's Who was scary, authoritative, mesmerising. He was also anti-establishment and naughty. Heck, he was fab.