Alien monsters made from trash cans and toilet plungers (and bubble wrap)

Scott Brown reckons America is finally ready for Doctor Who:

Before you brand me a Benedork Arnold, let me explain: There's a fix I just don't get from mainstream American science fiction, perhaps because of its grinding obsession with the imperialistic (and its depressive sibling, the dystopic), not to mention its wearisome push for ever-shinier effects. Like its not-so-distant cousin American religion, American sci-fi is fixated on final battles, ultimate judgment (particularly on questions of control and leadership), and an up-or-down vote on the whole good/evil issue. Even the most morally restless imaginings Рthe Losts and Battlestars Рeventually prolapse into Bruckheimer-esque excerpts from the Book of Revelation. As an antidote, I turn to the Doctor Рa fussy 900-year-old neurotic who's part Ancient Mariner, part Oxford don, with a whimsical fashion sense, a close acquaintance with defeat and futility, and a tendency to rattle on. He subscribes to no Force-like creed. No enlightened military Federation stands behind him, photon torpedoes at the ready Рindeed, his race, the Time Lords, is more or less extinct. His signature gizmo isn't a blaster or a phaser but a souped-up screwdriver. His Millennium Falcon? The Tardis, which looks to the unschooled like an old telephone booth. It's actually a police call box, a relic from the '50s, and the ship's most spectacular feature isn't artillery; it's feng shui: It's bigger on the inside. The Doctor is courageous and heroic, sure, but in the M̬decins Sans Fronti̩res vein. Oh so Euro!

Preach on, brother…

[Via The Null Device]