WHUP ASS, MY DEAR WATSON

Surprisingly, there are a host of things to like about Guy Ritchie's new high-octane SHERLOCK HOLMES (2009) picture: some intelligent choices made in the "enhancement" of the source material being chief among them.

Sherlockians will certainly be alarmed in many cases - but, more likely, knocked off their beam a bit by how much time and consideration has been given to a study of the original stories for this production.

That does not mean to say that the movie is Canon-faithful to the last jot - it is most certainly not. But it is a rare thing, indeed, when a Hollywood production team - especially one out to start a potential franchise with a bang - embraces the original concepts of a source author with such enthusiastic attention - even as it firmly steers away from them.

Translated into virtually every worldwide language (including Klingon), Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Victorian era Consulting Detective slash part-time sociopath - along with his erstwhile roommate - are the most-filmed characters in history, with over 200 versions under their belts, and counting (Bram Stoker's Count Dracula runs them a close second): little wonder, since Holmes and Watson's worldwide name recognition rates somewhere between God and Santa Claus on any given day.

And fanatics of the original stories - the aforementioned "Sherlockians," by name - are the most cheerfully picky breed this side of Boba Fett. They always have been. In 1893, when his creator decided to "off" the Great Detective in THE ADVENTURE OF THE FINAL PROBLEM, thousands of Strand readers wore black armbands to mark the event. And it was only after a series of near-blackmail offers that Doyle was convinced to revive the detective, 8 years later: first for the one-off serialized novel, THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES - taking place, supposedly, before his demise - then, after another 2 years, contractually "resurrected" for good in a new series of stories and beyond, until Doyle's own death in 1930. Not that that stopped anyone writing stories featuring the characters - Wikipedia lists over 170 authors who have penned pastiches - many irreverent or comedic - through the years, with, apparently, no end in sight.

However, any time a film company is presumptive enough to spit out a new version of the pair's adventures intended to be taken seriously, a great hue and cry is heard throughout the Sherlockian community, and whispers of sacrilege abound. It seems in the case of this new film, that traditionalist cry is being heard from many film critics as well - including Roger Ebert and A.O. Scott.

Just as the Basil Rathbone/Nigel Bruce versions were for their generation and William Gillette before them - the gold standard for comparison these days is the much-beloved Granada Television series from the 80s and 90s featuring the astonishing Jeremy Brett as Holmes and, originally David Burke, then Edward Hardwicke as Watson - and well it should be. The first two seasons of that show, produced by John Hawksworth, are fresh, funny, intriguing, and a fine reminder of what riches may be mined by returning to the source material as if seeing it for the first time, knocking away the dust of traditional baggage, and investing in those forgotten or thwarted elements that made the stories appealing in the first place. In a sense, reinvesting in what has always been there.

The Granada series has, of course, over the years, been characterized as a "traditional" approach - when, at the time, it was anything but. The plots of the stories were adhered to, to be sure - as was the Victorian milieu. But Brett had very much a revisionist approach to Holmes - creating a persnickety genius unable to adhere to the polite social conventions of his time, and often trapped by his own relentless brain power. And, for the first time to a great many of us, there was a performance where one actually believed the character was as brilliant as he was supposed to be. But with that brilliance came personal cost, and Holmes' self-injury in the form of recurring drug abuse, sleep deprivation, et. al., again, for once, made perfect sense.

Peter Cushing had tried a similar, though charmless - and to many minds, now, very successful - approach for Hammer's 1959 version of HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES, directed by Terence Fisher, but was much-criticized for it at the time because - well, we were too comfortable in our Rathbone to be quite ready for that version yet, I think.

Match Brett's and Cushing's performances up to the original writing, though, and not only do both fit, but the central concepts hold. I hasten to add that a great many variants can hold when dovetailed with the very solid early writing.

The series also went a long way in "correcting" the image of Watson - in the stories a half-pensioned Army surgeon, wounded in Afghanistan, who has human flaws similar to his creator (by intention) - but is much more an active, useful partner in the business of detection: if not intellectually, then by way his always-ready service revolver. It also attributed to Watson an element of Manners Guardian - not in the stories - that worked very well. When Brett's Holmes forgot or disregarded Victorian protocol, his Watson was there to take up the slack - with amusing results. The best news, though, was that the fuddering old Nigel Bruce version - a by-product of William Gillette's famous play and Hollywood - was put to bed, hopefully, for good.

Gillette has a great deal to answer for, actually: beginning in 1899, the American actor would perform the character on stage -in a script collaboration with Doyle - for the next 30 years. It was he who wore the deerstalker hat as Holmes in every environment - not only when he traveled to the country, as in the original Paget illustrations. It was also he who adopted the enormous Meerschaum pipes - supposedly to allow himself to speak more clearly - although, more likely, given the size of the theatres he played, presenting, along with the hat, a very clear silhouette for the audience to immediately identify and follow.

The folks at Granada - in many interviews over the years - prided themselves by correcting these supposedly blasphemous inaccuracies, having Brett smoke long clay pipes to match the original drawings - and only sporting the deerstalker hat when a case took him to a place where one might actually - you know - stalk deer. However, it was Brett's outside work inspired, not dictated, by the stories that make his Holmes so quirky and memorable. And, early on, he was fortunate enough to look exactly like the brainy reed of Paget's drawings.

If we take Sidney Paget's fine interpretations out of the equation, and simply glean Holmes' habits and characteristics from Doyle's printed word, itself, the man seems to smoke everything short of hemp rope or rolled newspaper - in massive quantities. That is to say, the most important point seems to be that the detective smokes a pipe of any type of the period - the author doesn't really specify which - as it is the constant act of smoking itself that helps the character's byzantine process of thought and deduction.

Graham Greene once noted that he felt Charles Dicken's novels were ill-served by the beloved original Cruickshank illustrations, as they robbed the first-time reader of forming his or her own individual vision of the characters: a debatable point - but an interesting one for that small breed of conscientious film adapters with something unique to bring to the Dickens table.

What are we to make of the new Ritchie film then? Well, we can't knock them for not doing their homework, at least - nor throwing the Doyle out with the bathwater.

Here Holmes is bohemian in nature - and his hat choice seems to be whatever is available from his sitting room floor (the messiest on record) - or, in a very funny touch if you're aware of the issue, whatever can be stolen from the head of a henchman. His pipe is a simple black one, and in the key moment when he lights it in the middle of considering a three-pipe problem, it's as if he's done it that way for a decade or more.

Watson, appropriately, still struggles with being a middle-class doctor given his attraction to the exciting lifestyle of crimebusting - and, in this version, has a bit of a gambling problem (although the character being fond of wagering, and having his roommate guard his checkbook are Doyle touches).

Opening at the end of several years of cases - and the resultant chaotic roommate life with the detective - Watson is moving out of 221b in preparation for his marriage to Mary Morstan - on loan here (without her own case) from SIGN OF THE FOUR. Holmes and the good doctors’ seemingly last case together, then, involves the capture and death of the diabolical occultist Lord Blackwood. Yet events soon transpire leading them to believe Blackwood may not, in fact, have breathed his last.

Enter New Jersey singer/adventuress Irene Adler from A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA - a favorite character of adapters, since she provides sexual tension, and is really the only person in the stories - certainly, woman - ever to have gotten the better of the famously misogynistic Holmes. Their relationship hints at a bit more intense past involvement than is usually the case, but her presence here serves to discomfort the detective in the main, and that should be acceptable to fans. It could have been much worse, let's say (It is also interesting to note that there are somewhat steamier scenes in the misleading trailer for the picture - Adler in a teddy and so forth - which didn't seem to make it into the final cut).

Nonetheless, off we go down the mean streets of grimy Steampunk-inspired Victorian London. The style of the movie follows the insanely-paced buddy action picture boilerplate - which should be no surprise to anyone given that Joel Silver is one of the producers. It's a strange format when applied to these characters, but effectively done, nonetheless. All the usual camera/editing/CGI tricks are on display - just in case you had the silly notion of breathing during the picture - but the art direction and design are quite thoughtful, I must say - especially in its unique portrayal of the rooms at Baker Street, and that nautical traffic jam that was the Thames River, circa 1891.

Yet interspersed throughout are many Doylian scenes and touches obviously included to satisfy the faithful: Holmes and Watson reciting HENRY V together, the first scene in Baker Street with Watson attempting to calm a patient while Holmes fires a pistol into the wall in the next room, the contentious relationships with Mrs. Hudson and Inspector Lestrade, and, most importantly, the detective's methods of deduction. These attentions seem to have been part of the thrust of initiating producer Lionel Wigram's agenda, and they're pulled off with care, aplomb, and sense of humor by the cast and director.

The general element that will cause most longtime enthusiasts to balk at the picture, of course, is giving Holmes ninja-esque fighting abilities - another of Wigram's notions - and a concession to the 13-year-old boys that make up the Hollywood target audience these days. And there is no scrimping in this arena - the fights are wall-to-wall. Now, one may dislike that, but, as I've stated, there is Doylian precedent for it: in THE ADVENTURE OF THE EMPTY HOUSE, Holmes reveals his proficiency in the martial art Bartitsu, and several times in the stories he refers to his prowess with the "short stick."

The film also lightens the shock by having Holmes perform an animated cause-and-effect deduction of the separate harms he is about to inflict on his opponents. And his participation in back alley bare knuckle brawls - bouts that Watson can bet on - seems to have replaced the cocaine needle as his tonic for ennui in this version - a sensitive choice, probably, given the film's star - although there seems to be no end to drinkable narcotics about. Fair enough - and fun, says I.

And if one happens to have difficulty with the fast-paced action nature of the thing, that person need only return to the stories to find any number of plot elements probably just as dizzying to their original readers as these are to those of us used to a more stately interpretation: master criminals, poisonous snakes, gold heists, ghost dogs, secret war plans, jewel thefts, sulphur fires, shootings, hangings, stranglings, blowgun-wielding natives, damsels in distress, boat chases, fisticuffs, the KKK, the Mafia, even a very famous literal cliffhanger. They are called "Adventures," after all.

Robert Downey, Jr. is a fine Holmes - his screen persona of the quirky, yet charming outsider makes him a great choice, and his usual attention to detail and improvisational skills serve him well, as we've come to expect. His is not as complex a creature as Brett's, yet - but he has hardly had the time to fully develop his own ideas. His defining moment at this point arrives in a misplaced dinner table deduction that he can neither censor nor stop himself from making, and it shows where he might be in two pictures if the series is allowed to continue. He also makes a large investment in Holmes' patriotism - an all-important motivation for the sleuth - and a feature at times given short shrift by others.

Jude Law is a shockingly spot-on Watson - and perhaps the closest interpretation of the character as described by Doyle, ever. Say what you will.

Their relationship has the feeling of long history to it - you believe they've lived together for years. Both actors understand that neither character can really exist without the other - and that the cases are only solvable when both are engaged in the sleuthing. One can have it that Holmes is the only presence needed – but why, then, have a partnership at all? The script helps them in this respect by keeping them apart, then making it an event when they redouble forces. But it's just an outstanding beginning by both - again, obviously based on close study of the originals.

Mark Strong is a sensational villain of bottle, for once, as Lord Blackwood - based on the Victorian occultist Aleister Crowley - and the ubiquitous Eddie Marsan is a plausible Inspector Lestrade - no small feat.

The women – all capable actors - get short shrift, as per usual: Rachel McAdams is stunning to look at, and given the most to do, but one hungers for a Victorian Nick and Nora Charles since all the elements are there anyway - and they seem to have had the writers to pull it off. Kelly Reilly is wasted as the half-written Mary Morstan, and Geraldine James is allowed to make no solid impression as Mrs. Hudson - a fan favorite. There's no excuse or reason for it - it's just the usual Silver Pictures' Boy's Own Club at work, easily fixed if they were so inclined. Doubtful they ever will be.

And in production, Hans Zimmer's unique Morricone-inspired score for banjo, violin, and broken piano deserves uncommon praise - as does Sarah Greenwood's production design, along with Jenny Beavan and Melissa Meister's costumes.

You don't need me to cite examples illustrating how badly this could have gone - but I think Sherlockians should feel free to breathe a sigh of relief and let themselves enjoy the picture. It was time for the lads to have their cages cleaned out again - the film made me want to reread the stories, Jeremy Brett is on DVD in case of emergency - and the center still holds.