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Sherlock Holmes, much like Popeye and Tarzan, is a property that hasn’t been interesting or relevant for the past 50 or so years. Yet it still exists in spite of large-scale public indifference. As a character, Sherlock Holmes currently functions as pop-cultural wallpaper; It’s there, and it’s not unpleasant to look at, but who cares?
Well, apparently somebody cared, because Sherlock Holmes has been revised and updated for people who would like to sit through a Victorian police procedural but only if it includes slow-motion fistfights and farting bulldogs. On paper, “Sherlock Holmes” resembles a needlessly glossy remake of a once universally beloved classic, and as such it really shouldn’t work, yet surprisingly it does. (Although it’s not because of that farting bulldog. That was just terrible.)
As “Sherlock Holmes” opens, we find Holmes (Robert Downey Jr.) and Dr. Watson (Jude Law) apprehending Lord Blackwood (Mark Strong), an Aleister Crowley-esque cult leader who has been ritualistically murdering several young women. While awaiting his execution on death row, Blackwood confides in Holmes that he will rise from the grave and continue his killing spree, and there isn’t a single thing that Holmes can do to stop him. Scotland Yard and Holmes are stunned when just a few days later Blackwood’s grim vow becomes a reality. Complicating matters is the fact that Holmes and Watson’s longtime partnership is dissolving in the most painful and acrimonious way as Watson moves out of their 221 Baker St. apartment and into his fianc�e’s (Kelly Reilly) brownstone. If that wasn’t bad enough, Irene Adler (Rachel McAdams), a shady acquaintance of Holmes’, is now inexplicably back in his life and working for one of his oldest and greatest adversaries.
Over the years, director Guy Ritchie has developed a toxic reputation amongst film critics and film nerds. It’s not because he married Madonna (although that’s part of it), but because his films tend to be dull, frenetic knockoffs of Quentin Tarantino’s late ’90s output. His name on any movie practically functions as a seal of disapproval. Yet, as if proving that old adage that if you chain a million monkeys to a million other monkeys one of them will eventually give us a turd that smells like Shakespeare (that’s how that old saying goes, right?), Ritchie has finally given us a turd that smells like a good movie. To start with, Ritchie’s stylistic excesses are thankfully kept in check, and he really nails the depressing atmosphere of Victorian London. In a historically accurate touch, every square inch of the city is covered in soot, despair and pig carcasses. It’s disgusting and admirable. Equally admirable is his decision to ratchet up the homoerotic tensions between Holmes and Watson, who are amusingly depicted as an old bickering couple. The gay subtext is pretty blatant. In fact, it’s not even subtext, it’s text, bold, black text written across the foreheads of Law and Downey Jr.
Speaking of Downey Jr., his take on Holmes is certainly one of the most interesting, if not definitive, takes on the iconic character. As Holmes, Downey Jr. is an arrogant, tortured genius with a sense of humor and a mild drinking problem. His Sherlock is more complicated and far more human than Basil Rathbone’s stodgy robotic approach to the character. But there is one minor complaint: Why didn’t Downey Jr. wear the deerstalker cap in at least one scene? He didn’t have to wear it throughout the entire movie. A stiff wind could have blown it away, or he could have forgotten it in a restaurant. It’s like making a Batman movie where the caped crusader wears a straw boater and a Necky instead of his cowl and cape. Why take away the one thing most people know and love about Sherlock Holmes?
Rating: W W W
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