"Stocking in the throat. One tied about the neck. Signs of bondage. These are the killer's calling card. This man leaves his mark on his work like a painter leaves his signature upon a canvas." Sherlock Holmes says this while studying the corpse of a young woman...a girl, really, born of a wealthy, aristocratic family who had gone missing. She was the second, and now Holmes has been brought out of his bored lethargy. He will find the killer, and the hunt will take him into some of London's noblest families, where arrogance and concern over position is found far more often than love or even much affection, where the butlers are as much snobs as their masters, where hanky-panky with the servants can be excused as long as it's discrete.
Traditionalists who are fond of a Holmes who looks like Basil Rathbone and mysteries which definitely do not include a dose of sexual fetishism may not be thrilled with this version of The Great Detective. Holmes is played by Rupert Everett, a fine actor, but who is younger than we're used to. Holmes is easily bored, we all know that, but here we don't just hear about his fondness for the seven-percent solution, we watch him shoot up. Mary Moran, Dr. John Watson's wife-to-be in The Canon, has disappeared. In her place as Watson's fiancée is Dr. Jenny Vandeleur (Helen McCrory), an American who doesn't hesitate to call Holmes 'Sherlock.' "I'm a trained psychoanalyst. Surely you knew that," she says to Holmes while she, Watson and Homes are at dinner. "I didn't know that," Holmes murmurs. "I find it so strange," she says, "that you two could be such close friends and yet not talk about someone as significant as a fiancée." "I take no interest in such matters," Holmes says. "No," she continues, "but as I understand it, Sherlock, you dislike and distrust women." "Women are one of the necessary evils." "I take it you've never been in love," she asks. "My brain has always governed my heart," he replies. She beams at Holmes and says, "Would you submit to analysis? You'd make a fascinating study."
To my way of thinking, a Holmes story can work if the actor playing Holmes is first-rate at his craft, if the mystery (and the writing) is clever, if the actors give performances that are detailed and authentic, and if the production values capture the mood and look of the period. Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Silk Stocking works on all four levels. Rupert Everett's Holmes comes off as a bit dissipated because of boredom. He also is intense and honorable when he's on a case, even a little vulnerable. Ian Hart is very good as Watson. The mystery is well mounted, well played and well written, with lots of condescension coming from the upper classes. The story also is off-beat sexually, and not just games with a handy footman or two. There's plenty of attention to feet along with deep inhalations of slippers. Production values are very high, with much fog in the streets and graveyards, a chilly stone morgue, the clip-clopping of horse-drawn carriages and immaculate, bespoke clothing. When the upper- class English dress for dinner, the presumption of inherited privilege almost seems reasonable.
Holmes is such a vivid concept that any number of actors have been able to make him interesting. Rathbone is one, although I think seeing what Hollywood did to Watson would make Conan Doyle retch. Ian Richardson, Jeremy Brett, Peter Cushing, Christopher Plummer...all have done fine jobs. I'd add Rupert Everett to the list now.
And with the case solved and Watson and Jenny Vandeleur married and set to leave for their honeymoon in Paris, the three of them are finishing lunch. "What will you do with yourself, Sherlock, now that your Boswell's away," Jenny asks. "For me," he replies, "there's always the needle." "Holmes!" Watson says sharply. "Good old Watson," Holmes says with a slight smile, "you're the one fixed point in a changing age. No, I shall sit and stare at the wall like Whistler's mother, a study in gray. And now, it's time you left."
Perhaps while they're gone he'll encounter Irene Adler.