Doctor Who (2005) Series Review

 

Okay, my squirrel friends, I arrived late to the Doctor Who party—like, “the cake’s gone, the Daleks already crashed it, and someone’s crying in the corner about time paradoxes” late. But once I hopped aboard the TARDIS, I was hooked. I binged my way through the first seven seasons of the 2005 reboot like a time traveler on a deadline. And then, just as I was gearing up for more wibbly-wobbly goodness… poof. Disney and Max pulled a vanishing act and wiped the series from their archives just as I reached Season 9. I got the shaft. No regeneration, no sonic screwdriver to fix it. Just me, staring at the void where Matt Smith’s bowtie used to be. Boo indeed.

Still, what I did get to watch was a wild, genre-hopping ride through space, time, and emotional trauma. Christopher Eccleston kicked things off as the Ninth Doctor—gritty, haunted, and rocking a leather jacket like he was about to drop a punk album. Then came David Tennant, the Tenth Doctor, who basically made me feel things I wasn’t prepared to feel from a sci-fi show. He was charming, tragic, and could deliver a monologue that made you question your entire existence. And Matt Smith? The Eleventh Doctor was like a caffeinated alien toddler with a PhD in heartbreak. His run was quirky, chaotic, and surprisingly deep.

The companions were just as iconic. Billie Piper’s Rose Tyler was the heart of the early seasons—street-smart, loyal, and not afraid to challenge the Doctor’s ego. Freema Agyeman’s Martha Jones brought brains and backbone, even if the show didn’t always give her the credit she deserved. And Catherine Tate’s Donna Noble? A revelation. Loud, brash, hilarious—and capable of breaking your heart in under ten minutes. Karen Gillan’s Amy Pond and Arthur Darvill’s Rory added a fairy-tale vibe that somehow worked, even when the plot got tangled in time loops and creepy statues.

Now, I’ll admit: Peter Capaldi’s Twelfth Doctor didn’t do it for me. I tried. I really did. But his grumpy professor energy just didn’t click with my viewing vibe. Maybe I needed more sass, less scowl.

Even though I only made it through seven seasons, I became a full-fledged Whovian. The show was different—bold, weird, emotional, and unapologetically British. It didn’t just entertain; it made me think, laugh, and occasionally yell at my screen. And while I’m still salty about the streaming betrayal, I’m grateful for the ride. Allons-y, indeed.

I give this series 4 out of 5 acorns.