Review of Sherlock Holmes

Of the many infuriating crimes committed by Hollywood across the years – Mel Gibson’s accent in Braveheart and the fact that Pearl Harbor was about as historically plausible as Boudicca confronting the Romans with Kalashnikovs –  there is one that particularly stings. The crime in question is the cruel massacre of the character of Sherlock Holmes, by some long-dead film producers who felt that an English gentleman couldn’t possible leave the confines of his Baker Street apartment without a ludicrously shaped pipe, a deer stalker and a daft catchphrase or two. Elementary, I think not. At the same hands, Doctor Watson somehow became an elderly bumbling fool, so lacking in character that one was left wondering what exactly Holmes saw in the idiot.

In the Arthur Conan-Doyle stories, Sherlock Holmes was dreadfully unsociable, a frequent user of cocaine and occasional user of morphine, a constant smoker, an unruly tenant, an irresistible joker, a bohemian and an able fighter. Watson was smartly dressed, intelligent and – like Holmes – physically active. In short, the two were anything but the caricatures presented in the Basil Rathbone Hollywood productions of the 1930s/40s, which even transported the detective from the Victorian era to fight against the Nazis in a number of propaganda films.

 The point of this rant is not to point out that I’m a literary purist, but to demonstrate just how surprisingly good Guy Ritchie’s new Sherlock Holmes movie is. It’s certainly not a departure from the original stories, as some of those who have been spoon-fed the Hollywood lie are quick to argue. In fact, it’s a step nearer than any adaptation that has hit the big screen before. Robert Downey Jnr. is sensational in the role of Holmes. His accent is perfect and he captures the humour of Holmes with ease. Physically, he looks the part- very gaunt and wiry, with a visceral athleticism which shines through in a bare knuckle fight scene.

Jude Law as Doctor Watson is… Fine. As an actor, I find him about as interesting as unsweetened porridge, but his version of Watson is certainly a step up from the old portrayals. He has good chemistry with Downey Jnr. though, which renders the obligatory love story between Holmes and glamorous female crook Irene Adler (who despite having bested Holmes twice before, as she is quick to tell us, spends most of the film acting as some sort of gooseberry in the Holmes-Watson love affair) a little superfluous.

 Both the BBC and ITV have in the past produced decent TV portrayals, but something about them looked too clean. London never appeared seedy enough; in fact, it looked like the film crews popped down to Kensington and cleared the locals out for a few hours of filming without any changes being made to the scenery. But in the recent film, London is full of grime and pollution. The plot, concerning dark magic, witchcraft and the occult (but all ultimately explained by the rational mind of Holmes, never fear) highlights the dual nature of Victorian society: at once obsessed with spiritual purity, and yet fascinated by all things related to darkness and death. As a film it’s delightfully dark, but unlike some of Guy Ritchie’s previous endeavours, it really does work.

In fact, if the gushing review hasn’t yet given me away, you might have ascertained that I am something of a fan of this film. In fact, there are only two things wrong with it. The first is the lack of substance abuse. Call me strange, but I like my drug addicts to actually be on drugs. The second problem is the 12A certificate. It means the violence is effective but could be that slightest bit more gory. It means the sexual innuendo is there, but it could be more fun. It also means that, if you’re not careful, you might have to share your cinema with small children. And nobody wants that.