Sherlock Holmes - Der Seidenstrumpfmörder

Rupert Everett has the aquiline profile and world-weary vocal delivery that are necessities for a screen Holmes, but he (and the excellent actors around him) are hamstrung by a cliché- ridden script. Sherlock Holmes, telling Watson to "keep your breath to cool your porridge"?? The last two times I heard that expression on screen were both in adaptations of Pride and Prejudice--and I certainly mean no disrespect to either of them. Holmes is also made to deploy a Mary Poppins aphorism about pie crusts and promises--perhaps you remember it from your childhood Disney viewing.

This is a good-looking production (apart from the occasional wobble from the annoyingly popular unsteadicam), though I have it on good authority that London fog did not swirl rapidly around the lampposts and chimneypots. Beautifully designed interiors include a Duchess' drawing room, a Victorian graveyard, an underground lair of the villain (he always has a lair, doesn't he), and a ceramic-tiled morgue. Costumes are in a muted color palette of cream, black, olive green, and brown, and the girls in their costumes for a classical tableau look as if they have stepped out of a Alma-Tadema painting.

In addition to Everett as Holmes, the production is graced with a uniformly strong cast. Ian Hart brings an acerbic vigor to the role of Dr. Watson, and Neil Dudgeon injects Lestrade with some humor. The superb Helen McCrory, as Watson's American fiancée, initially appears brash and pushy (she calls Holmes "Sherlock" throughout, even though his best friend Watson invariably calls him by his last name), an often-observed trait of American women in British film/TV productions, but she is too good an actress to keep to that one-note character. Guy Henry is disgracefully underused--give him a bigger role!

The story is a new one, which is not in itself a criticism; it is creepy and intriguing. The most glaring problem of the show is with the script; I hope that director Simon Cellan Jones continues to make more Holmes stories--but that writer Allan Cubitt will not.

I really liked that movie. The way Sherlock Holmes is portrayed here strongly reminds me of the 2010 TV show, called Sherlock (which is really great). In contrast to every other Sherlock movie I've watched before, this one resembles the 2010 Sherlock the best and I really like that version of him.

Rupert Everett's replacement of Richard Roxburgh for a second post-Jeremy Brett installment of big budget Holmes adaptation is quite a wise one, adding as it does a touch of youthful energy to the detective's armoury. Indeed, the whole film runs at a cracking pace, dropping clues like confetti. But what really makes this adaptation shine is a growing sense of purpose in terms of atmosphere. Arthur Conan Doyle's creation is plunged further into its roots as a purveyor of the grotesque and shocking. Corpses, evil smiles (and that's just Ian Hart's Watson!), drug use, great music score, and plenty of dense smog enhance the proceedings further than the decent acting or script. Well worth a look on a dark night...

As a big Sherlock Holmes fan, I was looking forward to "Silk Stocking," but was very disappointed with Rupert Everett's performance. He gave the distinct impression of being bored all the way through. Also, I was surprised by the scene of him shooting up during the case. My understanding of the "real" Holmes is that he was bored in between cases, and that's when he enjoyed his 7% solution. When in the midst of a case, he was excited and engaged and focused -- none of which Everett showed in his performance. My favorite Holmes remains Jeremy Brett, who showed actual modulation in Holmes' personality (irritation and boredom before the case presented itself; excitement, sometimes to a bizarre extent, during a case; rapture at listening to a classical concert etc.) rather than the sleepy, Johnny-one-note performance of Everett. Four snores.

Apart from the names Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson, there's really nothing to connect this original BBC TV movie to the original Conan Doyle stories. It's a return to the old wartime Basil Rathbone films, set in the wrong period, packed with anachronistic detail, and which fails to pay even lip service to Holmes's famous method. It's a poorly written modern police drama right down to the obligatory, clunking serial killer plot. It's just dressed in period costume. Even the plot twist about the killer's identity comes in Edwardian dress, as it could only ever possibly fresh and original in disguise pretending to be a story written a hundred years ago.

The story constantly forces modern elements incongruously into Holmes's necessarily, fundamentally low tech world. The story is set some time after the Victorian era of the classic Holmes stories, apparently to justify the use of telephones and modern police techniques like fingerprinting. Watson is about to marry an American psychiatrist, which opens the door to the modern serial killer psychodrama whose emphasis is on woolly sexual motivation and grotesque patterns of behaviour, worlds away from the traditional Holmes story where logic and deduction solve single victim locked room murders. The oddly un-Edwardian London police set up an incongruous, modern incident room to collate the information about their spiralling body count. In one scene Holmes spins around this room staring helplessly at photographs and maps, unable to connect fact and incident, which reduces the finest logical detective mind in the world to the level of "Inspector X" in any paint-by-numbers police series. Eventually Inpector Lestrade himself time-travels to the 1970s to give a suspect an Sweeney-style kicking to make him talk.

Rupert Everett as Holmes drifts through the first half of the story like someone on a mixture of recreational drugs, which is clearly the writer's deliberate intention. Trying to exploit the radical elements in Holmes's character the story inflates his drug use out of proportion. Conan Doyle saddled his creation with a habit of injecting cocaine, but there is never any suggestion that Holmes had a narcotic monkey on his back. He claims his 7 per cent solution stimulates his mind in times of boredom, a world away from the use of soporifics to deaden his brain.

Ironically it seems that in order to make these seasonal specials featuring Holmes himself the BBC abandoned its own excellent Holmes homage, the quite superb Murder Rooms, which succeeded in every respect that this film fails, injecting modern style and sensibilities while still honouring the source material. They were faithful in period detail and in many respects to the type of detective story which suits the Holmes character, and where they took a post-modern approach were able to underscore rather than undermine the quality of the original. It begs the question, as they clearly have access to writers with the talent to produce this kind of work, why didn't they use them here? Even more ironically, in the UK while this film was one of the main planks of the BBC's Christmas 2004 season evening schedule, the BBC have also been showing daytime repeats of Jeremy Brett as Sherlock Holmes. The strength of this performance, and the faithfulness to the original material, casts the poor work here into sharp relief.