I'm not entirely sure what I expected from a biography of Patrick Troughton, a great character actor, my personal favorite Doctor Who, and until recently, almost a total enigma. He hated giving interviews and when he did, he talked about very little outside his immediate job. When I heard the announcement of a biography - by his son, no less - I was pretty excited, and unconsciously, I probably expected something like Who's There?, the biography of William Hartnell by his granddaughter, Jessica Carney, almost 20 years ago. That had the benefit of two things Michael Troughton did not, however; one was the space Carney had to examine her grandfather's life at least reasonably objectively (he having died when she was a teenager), and the other was a reputable publishing house with a credible editing staff. Without both of these elements, Troughton's book is fairly shapeless - not a bad book, not at all, but also not a very satisfying one.

I think the absolutely critical problem is that Michael Troughton didn't have a firm idea of what he wanted to write, and - perhaps even more importantly - he didn't have a good editor to guide him. Celebrity memoirs are often co-written, not just because the celebrities may not be natural writers, but because someone skilled in the medium can bring shape and form to the work. Otherwise they are often chatty and highly anecdotal, which can also work if the celebrity has a strong enough personality. Michael Troughton, though, seems to be caught between wanting to write a straight-up biography of "Pat," a remembrance of the absent father he loved but often missed, and some more anecdotal material about seeing his father on TV or visiting Doctor Who sets. Apparently, the suggestion of a book came out of some articles Michael wrote for Doctor Who Magazine, and that's not too surprising; it is even less surprising to know that this book was first published by a Who-oriented fan publisher, which really amounts to little more than vanity publishing with slightly better publicity. It's clear that no editor spent time helping Michael craft this book - or even proofread it (the original edition has a staggering number of typos). Crucially, there are at least a couple of different stories vying for attention here: first, up until around 1960, the story of a young actor learning the craft and getting embroiled in some complex personal relationships; and two, after about 1960, the story of a family - and particularly one son - struggling to understand why they have been abandoned. Those stories aren't mutually exclusive, but they do have significantly different viewpoints, and the addition of lots of material about recording Doctor Who stories just seems like a massive, massive distraction.

The book is really at its best in the early chapters, when you get a picture of the young Patrick learning his art and making his first moves in both theatre and television. It helps that this section - the '40s and '50s, basically - contains numerous excerpts from his own diaries, which are brimming with character. In the '60s, the perspective shifts almost totally to Michael, with the only contribution from Patrick being his occasional, rather sadly disappointing, letters home to the family who felt like they weren't good enough. It's heartbreaking - and it's also uncomfortable. Rightly or wrongly, I ended up feeling like Michael was just too close to these events to talk about them like a biographer. They are clearly hurtful memories, and Michael seems unwilling to either fully explore that pain (which is his right!) or make some significant assumptions about his father's decisions. The result feels like a second half of a book that keeps you completely at arm's distance, with - as I said - the distraction of a lot of Doctor Who. Patrick's credits post-Who are practically rushed through, as if Michael realizes that the major selling point of the book is over and the potential moment of catharsis has simply passed.

It is, then, a terribly unsatisfying book. I'm glad I read it; Patrick Troughton remains my favorite Doctor, and I enjoy his performance in practically everything I've seen him in. That much hasn't changed. I really don't feel any closer to understanding him - he remains an enigma - and that's okay. I do, however, feel tremendously sympathetic toward Michael. I am saddened to know how thoroughly his father betrayed his "first" family. And I can't help but wonder, with those wounds being so deep, if this book was really a good idea.