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Keeping the Elite Powerless: Fan-Producer Relations in the “Nu Who”(and New YOU) EraLeora Hadas & Limor ShifmanPublished online: 11 Sep 2012.

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Keeping the Elite Powerless:Fan-Producer Relations in the‘‘Nu Who’’ (and New YOU) EraLeora Hadas & Limor Shifman

This article explores the relationship between fans and producers in an era of

technological and cultural change. Focusing on fans’ new liberties in the Web 2.0

environment, we study the ways in which fandom*previously conceptualized as a

‘‘powerless elite’’*copes with increased status and influence. We focus on the case of

Doctor Who, a cult series revived by a fan turned producer, and the love�hate

relationship between him and the show’s fans. Using grounded theory, we analyze

discussions in the LiveJournal community doctorwho and chart the strategies used by

members to negotiate their new place in the world. In an age marked by a rapid increase

in fan power and blurring of the boundaries between producers and consumers, we find

Doctor Who fans working intensively to disempower themselves and keep the fan/

producer separation in place.

Keywords: Cult audience; Doctor Who; Fans; Internet; Participatory culture

This article explores fandom in an age of transition. The main process it tracks is the

mainstreaming of fandom in the advent of the new technological and cultural

affordances commonly labeled ‘‘participatory culture’’ (Jenkins, 2006). In this era,

practices of involvement and amateur creation, previously reserved for a small

‘‘powerless elite’’ (Tulloch, 1995), have become prevalent cultural logics shared by

many millions. The blurring of the borders between consumers and producers, as

well as growing awareness of the added value of fan labor (Ross, 2008; Baym &

Burnett, 2009), have led to a perception of unprecedented power held by audiences

over production companies. While various scholars (e.g. Hills, 2010a) have

Leora Hadas is a doctoral student at the University of Nottingham, UK. Correspondence to: Leora Hadas,

University of Nottingham, Culture, Film & Media, Nottingham, UK. Email: aaxlh1@exmail.nottingham.ac.uk.

Limor Shifman is an Assistant Professor at the Department of Communication and Journalism, The Hebrew

University of Jerusalem. Correspondence to: Limor Shifman, Department of Communication, Hebrew

University of Jerusalem, Mount Scopus 91905, Jerusalem, Israel. Email: mslimors@mscc.huji.ac.il

ISSN 1529-5036 (print)/ISSN 1479-5809 (online) # 2013 National Communication Association

http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/15295036.2012.676193

Critical Studies in Media Communication

Vol. 30, No. 4, October 2013, pp. 275�291

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conducted in-depth investigations of the production discourses surrounding these

circumstances, here we aspire to examine the discourse of media fandom itself: how

fans negotiate their position and identity in light of their new status.

We examine these issues through the tale of one fandom: that of the British science

fiction classic Doctor Who, a show that has experienced a number of transitions

between cult and mainstream status. First conceived as an educational children’s

show, it had over time become a cultural icon, before rating troubles and eventual

cancellation turned it into a niche interest kept alive by fan produced and consumed

texts. The revival of the series in 2005 was inevitably accompanied by concerns

regarding the possible dangers of fans influencing the production, especially with the

new landscape of online activity now at the fingertips of every viewer.

Closely examining discussions held in a leading Doctor Who online community,

LiveJournal’s doctorwho, we trace the attitudes of fans towards a fan turned

producer*the new Doctor Who showrunner Russell T. Davies. Some of Davies’s

controversial comments about fans and their proper role have generated a rich and

revealing discourse in the community. In these interactions, fans discuss not only

power but responsibility, demonstrating a complex and nuanced attitude toward the

promises and pitfalls of participatory culture.

Fans 2.0: From the Powerless Elite to Participatory Culture

What is it that sets fandom apart from the ‘‘ordinary’’ audience? More than anything,

perhaps, it is the intense, creative involvement that characterizes fans’ relationships

with texts. Jenkins’s seminal work (1992) conceptualized fans as ‘‘textual poachers,’’

whose activity is not merely interpretive, as readers, but also creative, as producers of

their own derivative texts. Many studies have followed Jenkins’s study*exploring the

power of fans to rewrite and subvert the meanings and ideologies of texts. Others

have since expanded this focus on creative fandom, suggesting that fans identify

themselves through their practices of intense involvement, their expertise and

interpretive ability, and their devotion to marginalized texts and genres in defiance of

mainstream taste (Hills, 2002; Sandvoss, 2005).1

Another fundamental aspect of the nature of fan involvement is the question of

power and the desire to influence the original text itself. Tulloch (1995) encapsulated

the basic duality of the fan position in the term ‘‘powerless elite.’’ His account of

Doctor Who fans in the late 1970s focuses on their profound knowledge of the show,

its vast universe, and most intimate details. Devotion, familiarity, and the ability to

discuss, analyze, and speculate about the text make fans different from mere

followers, whose interest, being shallow and transitory, is considered undiscerning

consumption. The emotional investment of loyal fans is contrasted in Tulloch’s

description with their strict inability to influence the show and shape it into the form

that they, as experts and the most interested party, think it should take. This,

however, only serves to spur them on as guardians of the ‘‘true’’ text, of the vision of

the ideal Doctor Who, and the knowledge of what manifestations (moments, episodes,

or seasons) are to be considered the closest to that ideal.

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The internet, however, puts into question both the apparent powerlessness of

fandom and its elite status. Digital technologies, turning every form of text and

media into a single, easy-to-work-with code that makes the widespread sharing and

manipulation of existing content easier than ever, almost appear to have been tailor-

made to facilitate fannish involvement (Booth, 2010; Gray, Sandvoss, and

Harrington, 2007). Even more important is social change: the model commonly

labeled Web 2.0 views the internet as a platform rather than a provider, and users as

producers and participants rather than consumers. Tim O’Reilly, who coined the

term, refers to the power behind the new model as ‘‘harnessing collective intelligence’’

(O’Reilly, 2005; also, Benkler, 2006 in the aptly named The wealth of networks); and,

indeed, new forms of access to collective intelligence and collective action are often

described as the cornerstones of an online fandom that has grown far beyond the

playground of a particular audience.

The web provides fans with the perfect place to pool resources. The expertise that

was the pride of Tulloch’s fans depended on investment in time, effort, and

sometimes money to tape episodes, buy series guides, photocopy fanzines, and attend

conventions (indeed, all were described as the cornerstones of fannish involvement by

earlier fan scholars, such as Jenkins in his 1992 work). Yet, with a plethora of means

to easily discover and pass along information regarding every detail of a show’s world,

from recap sites to series’ wikis (Booth, 2010), that same knowledge is now within the

easy reach of any internet user, free of charge, and only a search string away.

Easy pooling of information offers new opportunities and pleasures, such as the

investigative games of reality-TV fans seeking to discover ahead of time which

participants stay or go (Jenkins, 2006). This ease of access is acknowledged by

producers when they create series with complex plots that unfold across media, inviting

viewers to become more involved, indeed, to become participants. This is implemented

by maintaining websites and forums in which viewers are invited to interact and

potentially be heard by the production, as well as through the creation of intricate

serialized narratives that engage viewers in game-playing or puzzle-solving (Ross,

2008). Such activities have now become embedded ‘‘in multiple pockets of everyday

life,’’ as BlackBerries, iPods, and mobile phones "bring fan objects out with their users

to the subway, the street, and even the classroom’’ (Gray, Sandvoss, & Harrington, 2007,

p. 4). While the ability to participate is certainly not utilized by all viewers, it

nonetheless renders the gates of fandom wide open, with tasty baits offered inside.

If the ease and accessibility of creating collective intelligence may change the concept

of fandom as ‘‘elite,’’ collective action now undermines the powerless aspect of

Tulloch’s definition. Audiences and producers alike were quick to learn*sometimes

to the latter’s dismay*that involved viewers working together can do much more

and much better than spoil the ending of a favorite show. Ross (2008) describes how

fans of the cult show Buffy the Vampire Slayer used the internet to campaign

successfully for bringing UPN access to their city and, furthermore, tells of how

producers now go to conventions like Comic-Con*once the stronghold of the

geekiest of geeks but now an enormous industry event*in hopes of generating

interest in their shows among participation-savvy cult fans. This last practice is not

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always successful: some of these fans reject such a co-optation of their once private

space; however, the returns for a producer who can engage fans successfully can be

immense. Such a creator can even use a loyal fanbase as a weapon against a network,

as Joss Whedon proved when appealing to Buffy and Firefly fans to campaign for

keeping his new series, Dollhouse, on the air before cancellation was even threatened

(Bentley, 2009). In contrast, the disfavor of fans can be a network’s bane, as the

WB found out the hard way when a cease and desist letter against a young

Harry Potter fan’s website earned it nothing more than tremendously bad publicity

(Jenkins, 2006).

This empowerment of audiences is the hallmark of what Jenkins calls participatory

culture: a media landscape in which the dichotomy of powerful producers and

powerless consumers is swiftly losing its relevance as audiences gain resources,

technical expertise, and the ability to make themselves heard not only by media

companies but also, and just as importantly, by each other. Both Jenkins and Ross

describe a sense of ‘‘shared ownership’’ among fans who are profoundly involved

with their texts, and in some cases have put actual work into keeping their shows on

the air.

However, involvement does not automatically equal influence. Ross paints a more

ambivalent picture when it comes to fans’ desire to affect the course of a show’s

narratives*in contrast to what Tulloch’s Who fans desired but were powerless to do.

While they consider it important that producers be aware of and in touch with

fandom, they just as strongly feel that showrunners should stick by their own vision

and not write according to what fans are saying. She ties this to a discourse of quality

that places great weight on loyalty to the creator’s original vision as a sort of

television auteur. Fans trust and expect the writers to tell their own stories, and are

content with being along for the ride.

Ross’s analysis focuses on ‘‘mainstream cult’’ (Hills, 2010b)*series that are

deliberately designed with the appropriate trappings to engage a mass audience in

cult-like ways, such as Lost and Heroes. In such shows, one does not expect to find

discrepancies between the tastes of those who define themselves as fans and the tastes

of ‘‘normal’’ viewers. Doctor Who, however, presents us with a case of mainstreamed

cult, a remake that comes complete with a history of fandom and a built-in

distinction between fans and non-fans. Remakes with similar baggage, from Battlestar

Galactica through Tron: Legacy and Knight Rider to Conan the Barbarian, make up a

substantial and increasing percentage of the offerings on large and small screens

yearly. Thus, Nu Who provides an interesting test case of a yet unstudied category. As

we shall see, a remake’s historical baggage has a crucial influence on the ways in which

even newly joined fans perceive their relationship with the producers of the text.

Case Review: Doctor Who as Cult and Culture

Doctor Who has veered back and forth between mainstream to cult status in its

almost fifty years of existence, depending not only on when it aired, but on where

(Hills, 2010c). This British series chronicling the adventures of the time-and-space

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traveling Doctor and his various companions began in 1963, then aimed at children.

Its popularity steadily rose over the next two decades, until it became something of a

cultural icon in Britain, its classic images of pepper-pot monsters and a time-

traveling police box coloring the childhoods of a generation. The powerful franchise

played an important part in building the BBC’s merchandise department in the 1960s

(Bignell, 2007), and in the late 1970s was helmed by literary legend Douglas Adams

and known to regularly net 10 million viewers and more (Chapman, 2006). It was, for

all intents, a mainstream program.

As described above, the term powerless elite was initially conceived by Tulloch

(1995) to describe Doctor Who fans: specifically, the fan culture that grew around the

show during Graham Williams’s time as producer (1977�1980). The Williams era

featured a turn toward a comedic and frivolous style, which the fans that Tulloch

studied*mostly members of semi-official, centralized fan clubs with print fanzines,

and active and influential leaders, and almost entirely male*considered a

deterioration in the show’s quality that could lead to decline and cancellation. The

problem was exacerbated by the recent introduction of the show to the United States

and therefore to an audience that had never known Doctor Who in any other form. As

devoted viewers possessing great expertise in the show’s history and myth*the elite

audience*they saw themselves as self-appointed gatekeepers of the text, empowered

to make value judgments regarding what the producers ought and ought not to do.

Yet, Williams allowed no fan influence whatsoever on the show (Tulloch, 1995): for

all its devotion, the elite audience was powerless to actually affect the text and change

those elements that left them dissatisfied.

Williams’s replacement, John Nathan-Turner, was initially heralded by these fans as

a producer who listens to them. In his era, the show became more serious in tone

and, maybe more importantly, embraced series continuity and saw the return of

many well-known villains from series past. When things turned sour for the Nathan-

Turner era and ratings began to drop, fans’ complaints initially centered on the show

becoming too violent, on weak stories, and controversial casting and design choices.

Tulloch’s account (1995) brings no examples of fans suspecting that their own

involvement with the show might have damaged its reception by the wider audience,

while Hills (2010a) quotes fan scholars associating the transition to the fragmentation

of the family audience in the UK, and pointing to the series’ ‘‘British exoticism’’ as

contributing to its cult status among US audiences. A key element of today’s fan lore,

however, holds that Nathan-Turner, and his successor Andrew Cartmel, were

responsible for the show’s decline precisely because they chose to cater to fans,

saturating the show with ‘‘fanwank’’ � says Craig Hinton, ‘‘a continuity reference

thrown into a story and having little relevance to the plot, put there purely as a device

to please fans’’ (as cited in Topping, 2006).

The show’s status declined through the mid�late 1980s, from an 18-month hiatus

in 1985 to an ‘‘indefinite halt’’ in 1989. However, for its fans, Doctor Who did not die

in 1989, but merely regenerated into new venues: books, comic strips, and, later,

audio plays, many of them produced and written by fans turned semi-professionals.

Just as they were by the fans, these productions were also for the fans, rather than for

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a large audience; post-television Doctor Who was quintessential cult, cherished by a

small and devoted group of those in the know (Hills, 2010a). In the context of these

semi-fannish texts, fanwank became a strongly derogatory term: basically meaning

fiction that only fans could understand and derive pleasure from, obtuse to outsiders

and thus of little if any value.

Between 1989 and 2005, only one attempt to revive the franchise made it to the

screen: the 1996 TV movie, a joint venture between the BBC and Fox Network. It was

a resounding failure among its United States target audience and served only to

reinforce the show’s cult status overseas. In a little more than 30 years, Doctor Who

had gone from children’s show to television icon to the niche interest of hopeless

geeks. The idea for renewing the series would have to wait almost another decade.

On March 26, 2005, fandom’s long-awaited moment had finally come: the BBC

launched a new Doctor Who series, produced by industry veteran Russell T. Davies,

himself a longtime Doctor Who fan and fan writer. This new series was not another

piece of niche marketing: it had no relation to any of the literary and audio play

material that accumulated over the years, nor did it follow directly from the event of

the Doctor’s last televised appearance. The Doctor was a new Doctor, the theme and

logo revised. Of old companions there was not a sign. The first episode began in a

way unlike any series episode since its 1963 pilot: from the point of view of ordinary

London shop girl Rose Tyler, with and through whom the audience meets the Doctor

and enters his world for the first time. In any number of ways, the Whoniverse was a

brand-new place, clean and eager for brand-new viewers.

Five years later, the success of the relaunch is apparent: ratings figures stand around

a startling 10 million viewers on average. The series won a gaggle of awards,

demonstrating recognition from both mainstream media and science fiction

communities. Fandom, too, has swelled accordingly, as attested to by the wild surge

of series fan fiction on the site http://www.fanfiction.net*from a mere 710 stories

between 1998 and 2005, to over 12,000 by mid-2008*and by the number of Doctor

Who LiveJounal communities rising*from fewer than 5 between 2001 and 2005 to

almost 160 by mid 2010 (LiveJournal, 2006a).

Nu Who and Old Fans: Russell T. Davies’s Anti-fan Discourse

In Triumph of a Time Lord, his comprehensive book on the new Doctor Who from a

textual and production perspective, Hills (2010a) describes the mentality and

processes behind the reinvention of the series. Russell T. Davies, as well as other

fans-turned-professionals involved in producing the new series, had personal

experience in the dark depths of the cult niche. All involved knew that the test of

the series would be in its ability to convert cult into mainstream: to turn an

infamously clunky, campy, and continuity-rich science fiction classic into a leading

family show, and relaunch the treasure of the few as the pleasure of the many.

With cult trappings and fanwank so strongly associated with failure, the new

show’s production team sought to demonstrate its detachment from the cult/fan

audience, even while most of its creative heads were fans themselves. Davies has, in

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this way, become something of a fan-Jekyll and producer-Hyde in his interviews and

conduct*celebrating fandom, including his own identity as a fan, while simulta-

neously lashing out at the powerfully Othered cult audience (Hills, 2010a). ‘‘True’’

fandom, as Davies constructs it, is primarily celebratory*it is not about expertise,

nor about creative readings and reinterpretation, but about loving the show. True

fans care about the show’s emotionally resonant mythology rather than the details of

its continuity (as cited in O’Brien & Setchfield, 2005)*a distinction that Davies also

associates with having attracted female fans to the show by putting an emphasis on

emotional storytelling. While they are afforded and even encouraged to display some

creativity, it is a creativity of the gaps, filling in missing pieces of the narrative handed

down to them rather than attempting a narrative of their own, such as when Davies

states that he has not filled in the details of the Time War in order to leave them for

fans to play with (Davies, 2007).

Diametrically opposite ‘‘good’’ fans are those tagged by Davies as ‘‘the ming-

mongs,’’ the ‘‘moaning minnies’’*a perpetually displeased ‘‘tiny minority’’ (as cited

in Setchfield, 2008) who are resistant and activist rather than celebratory. To Davies,

those who express displeasure with the show’s style and direction do so out of a

chronic need to criticize for the sake of criticism and a jealous wish to block out the

rest of the audience, both infantile behaviors taken from the discourse of fandom as

pathology. In this view, those fans who wish to be catered to, who believe that they as

fans should have some influence over the text by merit of their unique audience

position, are not true fans at all (as cited in Dowell, 2008).

Building on the image of the continuity obsessed basement-dwelling middle-aged

men who treat their hobby with pathological seriousness, Davies’s ming-mongs detest

comedy, relationships, and high production values (as cited in Setchfield, 2008).

What they favor is good old fanwank: continuity references, old monsters, and

overcomplicated explanations of trivial plot details. If these are perceived as the voice

of fandom, then catering to the fans means producing texts that the general audience

would find at best boring, at worst impossible to watch.

Yet, Hills (2010a) also notes that old monsters, classic companions, and continuity

references do appear frequently in Nu Who, along with sometimes explicit winks and

shouts-out toward the fan audience. The fans may be berated by the production

discourse, yet they are simultaneously catered to by the text itself. In what Hills calls a

‘‘powerless duality’’ (2010a), the position of Davies and his crew as both producers

and fans allows fan pleasures to be addressed in the text, while the production

discourse soundly rejects the notion of active catering. Moreover, Hills points out

that these fan pleasures have hardly scared off, and perhaps have even attracted, non-

fan viewers. Mirroring Ross’s examples, he shows how traditional cult features have

been reconfigured as audience attractors in Nu Who, and the specific ‘‘cultlike ways’’

in which mainstream viewers are invited to engage with the show, enjoying such

things as high concept storytelling, recurring monsters, and even obscure references

that may easily be labeled fanwank.

These processes work to blur the dichotomy between cult and mainstream, leading

Hills (2010a) to characterize the Nu Who as incorporating fandom into a collection

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of many different audiences, all of which can be entertained by the same devices that

appeal to fans. ‘‘For fanwank . . . read modern television storytelling’’ (Hills, 2010a,

p. 62). Approaching the subject from the production angle, Hills concludes that it is

mostly the producers who see critical importance in telling cult and mainstream

audiences apart. In the text itself, and among the long-time high-profile fan writers

whose opinion columns he examines, the separation is no longer relevant.

In what follows, we will complement Hill’s work by examining these questions

from a different perspective: that of the grassroots viewpoint of fan communities. We

are interested in the back-and-forth discussions, the conflicts and negotiations that

occur when the fannish everyman faces a new text in a new technological and social

landscape. The main question we address is: How do fans of a mainstreamed cult

show*with long experience in being marginalized*negotiate their newfound power in

relation to traditional media producers?

Site and Corpus: The Doctorwho Community on LiveJournal

Doctor Who fandom enjoys a dazzling volume and variety of sites dedicated to it.

Among these, LiveJournal (henceforth LJ) provides an interesting example of a Web

2.0 site par excellence. Rather than a mailing list or a message board, online fandom

forms that have been studied in depth (Baym, 2000), LJ is a blogging site: in order to

participate, users create their own customizable blogs. They may then join

communities*shared-access blogs where several or all members may post (Hellekson

& Busse, 2006).

Doctorwho (http://doctorwho.livejournal.com/) is LJ’s principal community for

Doctor Who fandom: founded in September 2002, it counts over 20,000 posts made

by almost 8,000 members. An open-membership community that allows posting on

every Doctor Who-related topic, it functions as a hub in every way and is often the

new Doctor Who fan’s first doorway into LJ fandom. The doctorwho community is

thus an appropriate site for the study of the changing face of fandom, being both

the place where fans had gathered before the airing of the new series, and where new

fans take their first steps in fandom. Its entirely inclusive nature means that fans of

many tastes, affiliations, and creative bents are represented and heard.

Our corpus includes postings made to the community between March 26, 2005,

and December 25, 2008. During this period, four Nu Who seasons produced by

showrunner Russell T. Davies were broadcast. During the time period selected for the

study, 17 posts generating 1,564 comments were devoted to Davies as producer. We

analyzed these threads according to the principles of grounded theory as formulated

by Glasser and Strauss (1967) and later Strauss and Corbin (1990). The threads were

first read and analyzed for the main themes that cut across the entire corpus, as

framed by the fans. This was followed by additional readings that focused on

relationships between the various elements, as well as on the temporal development

of the discourse.

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What Fans Want, What Fans Demand: The Community’s Perception of

Its Power

Much of the community’s discussion about Russell T. Davies revolves around the

posting of relevant news items, mainly interviews with Davies or the production

team. As mentioned, Davies can be highly aggressive in his condemnation of online

fandom, and so these interviews have a great potential for creating uproar. Two

elements of Davies’s attitude generate great volumes of fan reaction: derogatory

remarks about fans, and his assertion that fan views must never be taken into account

when making production decisions. These vitriolic comments pose a challenge to the

fans of doctorwho, since they bring up the trauma of a show brought down by fan

involvement, and force them to cope both with fandom’s dark past and the potential

dangers of its changing status.

We identified three main strategies employed by community members to deal with

Davies’s assaults: counter-attacks, concession, and critical self-inquiry. The first

coping strategy is the simplest and most immediately visible: Initial responses to

articles and interviews are usually made by angry fans out to dismiss or disprove

Davies’s derogatory statement of the day, often by claiming that he cannot cope with

honest criticism. Since this response is not as complex and multi-faceted as the

others, we won’t elaborate on it here.

The second coping strategy, tagged by us as concession, was formed mainly in

response to Davies’s comments about ignoring fans’ opinions and desires for the

series. From the first discussions, posters raised the argument that writing the series

to please fandom is inherently a hopeless endeavor:

Fandom is a strange creature, with many many heads, none of which can agree. Italso has many many hands with which it pokes itself repeatedly in the eye andtherefore gets nothing done. It’s not *possible* to listen to fandom and give it whatit wants, because it doesn’t KNOW what it wants. Even if it did know, it wouldchange its mind ten minutes later.(LiveJournal, 2006b)

Another idea that gradually becomes more salient in these discussions is that fans

are innately impossible to please. This does not refer to differing tastes between fan

groups, but to an imagined common mentality of fans that can never be satisfied.

This idea is succinctly summarized in a not entirely humorous definition of a Doctor

Who fan as ‘‘someone who hates Doctor Who,’’ to quote one particularly cynical

community member (LiveJournal, 2006c). Criticizing the show they love is what fans

do, part of their raison d’etre. To be a fan is to be chronically dissatisfied with

production decisions, rather than celebrate them (as Davies would prefer). This,

according to some fans, is more relevant to Doctor Who than to other shows. Doctor

Who, as a series, invites thought and scrutiny, and, as such, criticism; the competent

and knowledgeable audience is expected to be able to analyze the show and point out

flaws as well as merits. ‘‘Gushers’’ who welcome every episode with nothing but praise

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are thus no more fully functional fans than the ever-critical ‘‘haters,’’ and the

community clearly lets them know as much.

The third responsive strategy we identified, tagged here as ‘‘critical self-inquiry,’’

goes beyond this acknowledgment. It involves a more serious discussion of fans, their

self-perception, and their ideas about power. Specifically, it highlights the gap

between fans’ taste and what they perceive as legitimate demands from the producer

of a mainstreamed, rating-dependent show.

The Self-disempowered Elite

Fan opinion these days is that you should never listen to fan opinion.(LiveJournal, 2006d)

The third strategy espoused by doctorwho members in response to Davies’s assertions

is somewhat surprising. It posits that there is a fundamental difference between fans

and non-fans, but, surprisingly, it’s the taste of non-fans that fans defend. In other

words: writing to please fans would be detrimental to the success of the show among

a wider audience, and hence to its ability to stay on air. Ironically, doctorwho

members echo the fanwank argument that troubled the BBC and the Nu Who

creative team: the assumption that should they write the show to appeal to Doctor

Who fans, it would be filled with continuity references, obscure characters, and places

from the classic series that no one but the fan community would be equipped or

inclined to appreciate. Repeatedly, Davies’s supporters point out his great success in

making Doctor Who a massively popular show, at absolutely no risk of cancellation.

Rather than calling attention to fan references in the text where these do exist, they

seem to stress the unexpected part of the powerless duality and remind their fellows

that this success was achieved with complete disregard for the online fan community.

They encourage Davies to continue on that same track*even to carry on with what

they view as deliberate goading of the haters.

The creators of any fantasy show would be stupid to take what the message boardmassive might want into account because they’re a tiny, completely unrepresenta-tive fraction of the viewership it takes to keep a primetime programme fromcancellation. [. . .] If the direction of the new Who had been left to fandom it wouldhave been an imdb nightmare with special guest stars like Davros and Romana inevery episode and it would have been cancelled already.(LiveJournal, 2006c)

While his condemnation of online fandom seems to be all-inclusive and absolute,

Davies is not, as has been mentioned, entirely against fandom; in saying that fandom

is ‘‘larger than’’ the problematic element, and furthermore that the complaining

online fans are not ‘‘real fans,’’ he cues listeners in to the idea that they are not, in fact,

the ‘‘bad fans,’’ or at least they can choose not to be. Gradually, doctorwho members

come to adopt this practice, using it as an effective strategy for reflecting and

redirecting the most problematic comments. In a growing number of threads, they

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accuse the vocal complainers of wishing to see the show dragged back to the

problematic cult status of the 1980s. While directly accusing another poster of not

being a true fan remains taboo*an act met with outrage not just from the accused

party but from other participants in the discussion*the idea that Davies’s Others are

also the community’s Others does take root.

I don’t think he’s referring to people with legitimate criticism, obviously no one’sgoing to think that the show is fantastic for them every single week. But he’s talkingabout the ‘‘fans’’ that do nothing but complain about how all of new Who isterrible, yet keep on watching and complaining to the rest of us.(LiveJournal, 2008)

The ‘‘moaning minnies’’ are not ‘‘us,’’ but fans of a different sort who truly are as

unpleasant and destructive to the show as Davies paints them. These other fans

supposedly populate other sites, most often the forums at http://gallifreybase.com/

forum/ (formerly The Doctor Who Forum and before that Outpost Gallifrey). The

pinning of the moaning minny image on this forum is not coincidental: to

doctorwho, the DWF is the home of the ‘‘anoraks,’’ the old-school fanboys*again

distinctly male*who, according to fan folk wisdom, really do resent any and all

changes to their show and prefer it in its cult form. These fans were Othered by

doctorwho members long before Davies gave them additional reason; making them

his legitimate targets is not only easy and convenient, but also lends the viewpoint of

doctorwho members a certain prestige*a seal of approval for their fandom

authenticity from the powers that be.

This form of division, contention even within fan communities, has been

repeatedly observed and identified as counter to what later scholars saw as an

idealization of fandom in early fan studies. Both Jancovich and Hunt (2004) and Hills

(2002) have described how cult audiences are engaged in an ongoing bid to define

themselves through Othering both the mundane audience and the pathological fan.

Jancovich further notes that fans’ most radical Othering is of rival fan groups

imagined as less than ‘‘true’’ fans. Discussing community construction through

Othering specifically among Doctor Who fans, both Williams (2011) and Hadas

(2009) find the fandom to be rife with disputes along these same lines described by

Jancovich. It is interesting to note that while the different targets of this Othering*Williams’s fangirls, Hadas’ anti-moderation campaigners and the members of the

Outpost Gallifrey forums as portrayed by doctorwho posters*are wildly divergent

crowds, they seem to have in common an unruliness, a refusal to be contained. The

women who loudly express their attraction to actor David Tennant, the writers who

deny the need for moderation in fan fiction archives, and the fans who demand to be

catered to are all seen by their rival communities as ‘‘fandom out of place’’ and out of

bounds, and as such deeply problematic.

Hills’ conceptualization of powerless duality*which relates mainly to production

strategies*assumes a new meaning when applied to fan discourse. From the fans’

perspective, the gap is not between what is said and what is done, but between what

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they as fans want and what they feel themselves entitled to demand; between the sense

of shared ownership and the need to let go of the desire for involvement for the

show’s own good. There is no outright rejection of fan pleasures, but an insistent

rejection of the power to realize them: a conscious return to powerlessness. As we

shall now see, the same logic of fandom out of bounds is at work in the cases in which

community members do feel comfortable calling out production decisions,

informing not just relations between fans, but also the stance toward the blurring

of borders between producers and fans.

Fanwank Re-invented

Users of doctorwho acknowledge that fans, themselves included, want continuity

nods and references to the classic series. Yet when it comes to the question of what

they feel comfortable demanding of the production*the changes they believe must

be implemented to improve the show*we find that their main concern relates to

something else entirely. They believe that Davies is himself practicing fandom out of

bounds in the form of problematic, potentially destructive fanwank, as in writing for

fannish pleasure; however, his alleged ‘‘Nu’’ fanwank is not manifest through

continuity or nods to the fans*which, as mentioned, pass without incident*but

through issues related to genre.

A major source of fannish conflict and criticism in regard to Davies’s writing is his

leaning toward the dramatic and soap operatic at the expense of plot and science

fiction elements*a style that he credits with the success of the series outside its

traditionally male fanbase. Early writings about fandom established that fans tend to

see a strict contrast between character drama and science fiction plots. Scholars from

Jenkins (1992) onwards have described the former as brought into the realm of the

latter by female fandom reappropriating a male genre, and the resulting clashes

between male and female modes of fannish reading. This plot/drama duality is

intensely problematic to fans, and the decision to include explicit romantic situations

and relationships appears to be the most controversial of the changes made to the

series upon its relaunch (Hadas, 2010). In the present context, it is associated by fans

with the duality of canon/fanon, and in a broader sense with the roles and interests of

producers versus those of fans.

Interestingly, the inclusion of continuity references and nods to fandom in Nu

Who, which Hills (2010a) notes as deconstructing the binary between fan interests

and the tastes of the mainstream audience, go uncommented on by doctorwho

members. In contrast, the focus on romance and relationships, associated with female

fan fiction writers, is pegged by doctorwho members as Davies’s own special brand of

fanwank. He may not write as the continuity-obsessed male fan that makes fandom

dread a return to cult days, but he writes as a fan nonetheless*a feminized unruly fan

who refused containment, to the disapproval and distress of doctorwho posters.

Usually in fandom the show is plot-heavy, and then you have to leave it to spin offmedia and fanfic to flesh out all the touchy feeling relationship stuff. Then Rusty

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comes along and glosses over the plotty bits about the aliens and stuff so he can tellstories about how much Rose loves and depends on the Doctor and the Doctor’sloneliness issues and all that crap. He’s got it backwards!(LiveJournal, 2006e)

The inclusion of romantic storylines in Nu Who*at the expense, as fans see it, of

plot and science fiction and adventure content*sees fans commenting that for this

sort of content, they could read fan fiction, rather than watch the show. Particularly

aggressive responses on this issue were generated by the fourth season finale, in which

a human clone of the Doctor remains in an alternative universe along with

companion and love interest Rose Tyler, a twist that posters blatantly complained

seemed to be taken from a ‘‘bad fanfic.’’ ‘‘For me, I enjoyed a lot of the finale, but

found the whole clone/Rose thing quite unbearable and, to be honest, quite rubbish.

It was a fanfic ending for a mary sue’’ (LiveJournal, 2008).

One poster asked outright if Davies ‘‘just fanwank[ed] the finale’’* fanwank in the

sense of writing a resolution that would only appeal to fans, in this case, to one in

particular: Davies himself.

That members use of the specific term fanwank is telling. Davies’s fannish writing

is a source of deep concern to doctorwho posters, who are troubled by their

perception of the show being dominated by the sort of self-indulgent stories that are

better suited to the realm of fan writing, where the writer needn’t appeal to a mass

audience. Ironically, it is Davies’s unwillingness, or inability, to write a science fiction

plot, the staple of this genre long associated with having only cult appeal, which is

feared to be driving away the general audience. In one particularly contested

interview comment, Davies explained his reluctance to set stories on alien planets by

claiming that the viewing public doesn’t care about ‘‘Planet Zog’’ and the ‘‘Zog

people’’ (as cited in Graves, 2005). In response, posters accused Davies of having no

personal interest in such stories and of using*in fact abusing*supposed public

opinion as an excuse to write the series according to his own tastes, instead of what

the viewing public would actually like to see. In trying to distance himself from the

stereotype of the fan who supposedly desires an emotionless series of pure convoluted

plot, Davies, according to his critics, ends up valorizing fanwank of a different but

equally dangerous sort. Williams’s (2011) discussion of the infantilization of the

female ‘‘fangirl’’ fills in here for Hills’s (2010a) description of fanwank as associated

with regression and the fans’ inability to grow up*yet the principle remains the

same, the one of fandom out of bounds.

While the key issue that Ross highlights in limiting fan involvement is that of trust

in the creators and loyalty to their vision, Who fandom as reflected in our study is

constantly wary of the dangers of a creator who is also a fan. The principle of fanwank

as signifying a clear break between fan and mainstream taste still rings true to the fans

on doctorwho, despite the apparently proven ability of cult features to appeal to a

wider audience. The prevalent view among them is thus that Davies is not supposed

to write as a fan, neither as a continuity detailed anorak nor as a romance-oriented

fan fiction writer. He is also, as we have seen, not supposed to write for the fans,

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whether they are viewed as conflicting communities or as a single community with

contrary tastes. Both views lead us toward a single conclusion: In an era of seemingly

blurring borders between fans and producers, intensive boundary work is carried out

by fans to make sure they remain apart.

Concluding Thoughts: On Border Work in a New Playground

Change, my dear . . . and not a moment too soon! (The Sixth Doctor (Colin Baker),‘‘The Caves of Androzani’’)

It has now been 15 years since Tulloch coined the term, and in theory at least, the

powerless elite has never been more powerful. With an outspoken fan heading the

production and all the means of participatory culture available to viewers, the old-

school Doctor Who fans who stressed the importance of ‘‘transparent and true’’

communication between producers, fandom, and the larger audience (Tulloch, 1995)

may well be pleased. The views expressed by doctorwho members, however, seem to

suggest a reversal: in order to secure a wider audience, which remains the key to the

show’s survival, fans should have as little influence on the show as possible. For the

show to succeed, the fans must reject fan tastes.

Just as the trauma of cult status led Nu Who’s production team to orient itself

clearly toward a wide audience, so does it lead fandom to stand careful watch against

fanwank in all its forms, not just the traditional. Fans display equal contempt for

fellow fans who demand excessive reliance on continuity and for the producer

who allegedly treats the show as a piece of fan fiction geared to wish fulfillment.

A powerful fandom is dangerous, and a fan in a position of power equally so; both

run the risk of acting according to narrow fannish interests and thus creating an

unpopular show � and unpopular shows get cancelled. It would perhaps be better for

everyone if the elite were to remain powerless.

Much has been written of producers’ attempts to police fan activity; here, however,

we see it is the fans themselves who work to keep fandom disempowered and distant

from production decisions. They themselves conceptualize fandom as inherently

disruptive and stress that, if anyone needs to be catered to, it is the general audience:

the ghost in the Nielsen machine. In their view, fandom must acknowledge that even

if Web 2.0 platforms make it easy for fans to get organized and express their opinions,

their position is no more privileged than it has ever been.

The tribulations of Doctor Who fandom seem to call into attention that the

‘‘culture’’ component is as important as the ‘‘participatory’’ one when speaking of

‘‘participatory culture(s).’’ If the essence of fandom were merely participation, we

might have expected to see fans taking their new power to its logical extreme and

seeking to execute control of the text. However, to doctorwho members, fandom is

much more than a mode of engagement: it is a framework of taste and, subsequently,

an identity. Their identity as fans is thus part of a culture they wish to maintain

through various levels of participation.

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And this leads to a further conclusion about the mainstream/cult divide. As ideas

of cult-like involvement and participation grow ever more central to our perception

and construction of the modern media audience, this look into the self-construction

of a fan community may serve to remind us that cult as a concept had always been

based on separation from and resistance to the mainstream. It may be far too soon to

claim that the cult audience can be one among many without basic tensions arising.

In a field as vast and divided as online fandom, any study is essentially a pilot study:

a vast expanse remains to be explored along both space*as in other Doctor Who

communities and other fandoms across the globe; and time*as in the ongoing show

itself. In 2009, Russell T. Davies stepped down as showrunner and was replaced by fan

favorite writer Steven Moffat. Although we have chosen to stay within the boundaries

of the Davies era, a cursory inspection of community posts since shows that Moffat,

never nearly as antagonistic toward fandom as Davies, has so far managed to dodge the

bullet of similar criticism. A more in-depth investigation of the Moffat era may thus

provide us with valuable insight on the role of the specific fan�producer relationship

in the construction of attitudes toward the wants and demands of fandom. Similarly,

future research may ask whether the same practices are shared in fandoms in which the

production has a more positive attitude toward faithful viewers, or indeed within

fandoms of shows that do not have the specter of cult status hovering menacingly

overhead. All of these themes merit new scholarly episodes.

Note

[1] For a historical framing of this notion, as well as for a critical account of the fan/non fan

dichotomy, see Gray, Sandvoss, and Harrington (2007).

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