Inspired by a viewing of “Neverland” – which offers an extremely sanitised and revised reading of JM Barrie’s relationship with the Llewellyn-Davies family, who inspired “Peter Pan”, I’ve been digging around in Barrie’s life and works.
It makes for creepy reading. According to a recent account by the writer Piers Dudgeon (“Captivated”), Barrie was impotent and deeply scarred by his mother’s slide into depression and rejection of him after the death of Barrie’s older brother at the age of 13. There is even a suggestion that Barrie might have been unwittingly responsible for the accident that killed his brother; whether or not this is correct, Barrie was clearly an emotionally maimed individual who was never able to form non-exploitative and healthy relationships. His effect on the Llewellyn-Davies family was largely tragic; of the five boys he unofficially adopted, no less than three eventually committed suicide.
That aside, for it’s a huge and fascinating subject in its own right, I found myself reflecting on the continuing myth of Peter Pan, the boy who is incapable of growing up, his strange relationship with the blonde and nurturing Wendy and the very English note of melancholy that surrounds their story. The novelisation, and to some extent sequel, of Peter Pan, “Peter and Wendy” is available on Wiki as an opensource document. I’ll confine myself to a few observations on its final chapter, “When Wendy Grew Up” and the links this has with “Doctor Who.”
Let me say at the outset that I’m not suggesting that Russell T Davies took “Peter and Wendy” as a source text; it’s more subtle than that. There’s a rich stream of fantasy tradition, running all the way from Lewis Carroll through to “His Dark Materials” and beyond that uses the metaphor of escape to other worlds to shed a light on the human condition, particularly the Romantic understanding of childhood as a time of innocence and the inevitable sense of loss that accompanies growing up. Fantasy figures tend to be outside the adult world of commitment and responsibility, by their very definition – and although this light-hearted reading of the Doctor has been put under considerable pressure in “New Who”, it remains encoded in the show’s DNA and, arguably, the English collective consciousness. It’s behind the argument voiced several times by RTD after his tragic finales that, ultimately, change is the only constant in the Doctor’s life. It’s the fear of making him ordinary and dull, so deeply ingrained that ultimately RTD had to square the circle, somewhat clumsily, by creating a duplicate Doctor and hiding him away in another universe, so we didn’t have to watch him doing precisely that.
So, here goes. Due to length (I do quote fairly fully from the original text) I’ll have to divide this critique into more than one part.
The Doctor is firmly rooted in the Edwardian tradition of a thoroughly decent, yet subversive, travelling gentleman explorer with a private income. A boyish streak and a certain emotional immaturity characterises this product of the British Empire, probably reinforced by public school education, remoteness in intimate relationships dating from childhood, the ability to use charm and social confidence to control other people and the innate superiority which naturally accompanies a colonial attitude to other races. All this has been observed in the Doctor’s characterisation and I don’t intend to go into it in great depth here.
There is a deep, and frequently sentimental, poignancy attached to much of the children’s literature of the culturally influential Edwardian period. In retrospect, the First World War bathes it in a golden glow of nostalgia, but in fact the sentimental cult of eternal youth and romantic innocence of childhood was prevalent long before, and in “Peter Pan” it reaches, perhaps, its fullest and creepiest expression. The play, debuting in 1904, was as huge a hit in its day as New Who has proved to be a century later.
Rose, despite her youth, is presented as a Wendy to the Doctor’s Pan figure. She recognises his need for emotional security and longs to nurture him, and he is torn between his desire to stay with her and his compulsion to continue with his travelling life. By the end of “Peter and Wendy”, Mrs Darling is hovering anxiously on the sidelines of Wendy’s fantasy life, recognising her attraction to Peter as the dangerous thing it undoubtedly is.
It’s difficult for anyone who has watched “Doomsday” not to feel a stirring of familiarity when they read Peter and Wendy’s parting lines:
As for Peter, he saw Wendy once again before he flew away. He did not exactly come to the window, but he brushed against it in passing so that she could open it if she liked and call to him. That is what she did.
“Hullo, Wendy, good-bye,” he said.
“Oh dear, are you going away?”
“You don’t feel, Peter,” she said falteringly, “that you would like to say anything to my parents about a very sweet subject?”
“About me, Peter?”
Mrs Darling, who has already adopted the six Lost Boys, intervenes at this point and offers to adopt Peter, too:
“Would you send me to school?” he inquired craftily.
“And then to an office?”
“I suppose so.”
“Soon I would be a man?”
“I don’t want to go to school and learn solemn things,” he told her passionately. “I don’t want to be a man. O Wendy’s mother, if I was to wake up and feel there was a beard!”
“Peter,” said Wendy the comforter, “I should love you in a beard”; and Mrs. Darling stretched out her arms to him, but he repulsed her.
“Keep back, lady, no one is going to catch me and make me a man.”
Wendy is still torn, and she worries that Peter will be lonely without her and the Lost Boys.
“I shall have such fun,” said Peter, with an eye on Wendy.
“It will be rather lonely in the evening,” she said, “sitting by the fire.”
“I shall have Tink.”
“Tink can’t go a twentieth part of the way round,” she reminded him a little tartly.
“Sneaky tell-tale!” Tink called out from somewhere round the corner.
“It doesn’t matter,” Peter said.
“O Peter, you know it matters.”
“Well, then, come with me to the little house.”
“May I, mummy?”
“Certainly not. I have got you home again, and I mean to keep you.”
“But he does so need a mother.”
“So do you, my love.”
Mrs Darling has the objectivity to see that Peter will always be tempted to have his cake and eat it, and that this spells doom for Wendy’s long-term happiness. She will never be able to resist the desire to put his own needs before her own, thus reinforcing his refusal to take responsibility for himself. Eventually, we all have to grow up to become emotionally healthy people. We can’t keep running off to a fantasy world; it’s the ordinary life, day after day for us. Isn’t this exactly what Jackie tries to tell Rose in “Army of Ghosts”?
What happens when I’m gone?
Don’t talk like that!
No, but really. When I’m dead and buried, you won’t have any reason to come back home. What happens then?
I don’t know.
Do you think you’ll ever settle down?
The Doctor never will, so I can’t. I’ll just keep on travelling.
And you’ll keep on changing. And in forty years time, fifty, there’ll be this woman – this strange woman… walking through the marketplace on some planet a billion miles from Earth. She’s not Rose Tyler. Not anymore. She’s not even human…
The entire tone of the Doomsday beach scene references the Peter and Wendy myth, among others, right down to similarities of dialogue. When the Doctor mentions “the one adventure I can never have”, it’s quite possible that ringing in RTD’s subconscious is Peter’s creepy remark, “To die would be an awfully big adventure” – its fantasy credentials reinforced by the fact that Dumbledore says something very similar to Harry in “The Philosopher’s Stone”.
The Doctor will always have the TARDIS, a relationship that even Rose can’t completely comprehend. It’s far from being a straightforward relationship, but the TARDIS, like Tinkerbell, is familiar and unthreatening to the Doctor, whereas his love for Rose is very much an unknown quantity.
Eventually an uneasy compromise is reached, one which would bring out the Freudian in many a reader – Mrs Darling will let Wendy return to Neverland once a year, for a week, to do Peter’s spring-cleaning (Arguably, that’s precisely what we’ve recently seen Rose do in Stolen Earth and Journey’s End!) Wendy is resigned to the arrangement, rather than content, already suspecting that Peter will forget her:
Wendy would have preferred a more permanent arrangement; and it seemed to her that spring would be long in coming; but this promise sent Peter away quite gay again. He had no sense of time, and was so full of adventures that all I have told you about him is only a halfpenny-worth of them. I suppose it was because Wendy knew this that her last words to him were these rather plaintive ones:
“You won’t forget me, Peter, will you, before spring cleaning time comes?”
Of course Peter promised; and then he flew away. He took Mrs. Darling’s kiss with him. The kiss that had been for no one else, Peter took quite easily. Funny. But she seemed satisfied.
There’s a hint here that Peter has the ability to infiltrate the Darling household and destabilise the intimate relationships of the people he experiments with loving, but can’t ultimately commit to. It’s clear that this precisely, though probably unconsciously, parallels Barrie’s own tortuous relationships with the Llewelly-Davies family. It also reminds me of the first moments of Army of Ghosts, where Jackie welcomes the Doctor as a “Lovely Big Boy” and, in fact, kisses him rather than Rose.
The conclusion is predictably sad: Wendy remains devoted to the memory of Peter and lives for their next meeting. She is careful to wear the clothes she wore when she fist visited Neverland – her uniform of a dress made out of leaves. And Barrie goes into rather prurient detail about the struggle she has to squeeze her developing figure into it! In Series Four, Rose, too, adopts a costume that fixes her temporally at the moment when the Doctor last saw her. He’s probably far too preoccupied to notice.
Wendy finds that Peter has detatched himself emotionally from the experience of their relationship. He barely remembers things that were life-changing for her:
She flew away with Peter in the frock she had woven from leaves and berries in the Neverland, and her one fear was that he might notice how short it had become; but he never noticed, he had so much to say about himself.
She had looked forward to thrilling talks with him about old times, but new adventures had crowded the old ones from his mind.
“Who is Captain Hook?” he asked with interest when she spoke of the arch enemy.
“Don’t you remember,” she asked, amazed, “how you killed him and saved all our lives?”
“I forget them after I kill them,” he replied carelessly.
When she expressed a doubtful hope that Tinker Bell would be glad to see her he said, “Who is Tinker Bell?”
“O Peter,” she said, shocked; but even when she explained he could not remember.
“There are such a lot of them,” he said. “I expect she is no more.”
This is, admittedly, more callous than the Doctor’s memories of his many travelling companions, but there is a parallel there; the Doctor doesn’t have a normal concept of time, or meaningful relationships and in a sense, he has to forget the people he’s killed, because to remember would destroy him. It’s the only way to maintain the upbeat, babbling image of eternal youth.
In the concluding part of my essay, I’ll be arguing that RTD’s conception of the character of the Doctor attempts to replace this fantasy figure with a more mature and emotionally rounded one, but that in doing so he is continually thwarted by the section of his audience who remain invested in the conception of the Doctor as Peter Pan. I’ll be considering how far RTD has succeeded in reconciling these two opposing forces, especially with reference to the conclusion of the relationship between The Doctor and Rose as depicted in “Journey’s End.”