I LOVE WATSON: The Pilot

 Remember when I used to blog about Elementary? 

If you do, thank you for sticking with my ramblings. If not, let me give you a summary: A "Sherlock in name only" ongoing hate-watch from which I will forever attempting to redeem myself for, after karma blessed me with an actual true love of the most disrespected Sherlock Holmes movie of modern times.

Well, I'm back again, blogging episode by episode of that new CBS Holmes-related show with Craig Sweeney attached. And guess what?

Whether it's "I LOVE WATSON: The Pilot" or the in-two-weeks "I LOVE WATSON: "Redcoat," this blog will be an ongoing attestation to how I, reformed Elementary hater and John H. Watson Society podcast host, love CBS's Watson.

Last night I watched it while Zoom chatting with my fellow Watson Society bull pups, and wanted might have not focused as much as I could have. So tonight, I rewatched it with my companion, the good Carter, and gave it my full hundred percent. And I had fun.

Sure, as USA Today said, it's "unhinged TV." And a "patient-of-the-week drama crashed together with this half-hearted Sherlock Holmes mythology," "a nonconsensual cohabitation of two ideas with entirely different tones and themes smoothed over by Chestnut's soothing baritones." Yes, all of that.

But when a poor sick girl goes, "Doctor Watson . . ." my little heart goes, "It's Sherlock Holmes's Doctor Watson! John Hamish Watson! With a picture of General Gordon in his office!" I've been a diehard Sherlockian for a good forty-seven years, and do you know how many of those years have had Dr. Watson on a TV show? So let's get to reasons to love the new Watson and his show, despite what the other kids on the playground say.

* First TV Watson to go shirtless in a scene. And have the abs to back it up.

* Mary Morstan lives! And is having her own life (and maybe wife?)

* Ritchie Coster as Shinwell Johnson, giving us hope for a Kitty Winter appearance and driving that imported car with the "221B SSH" license plate. (It it Sherlock's old car? Was his middle name "Scott" as in some pastiches?)

* "You're my Sherlock Holmes." "We're not Sherlock Holmes, whoever that was." "I'm Dr. Watson." Once you get through the medical jargon and the repeated "FFI"s, there are some lines that I'm going to quote one day.

* Okay, when not text-chatting with Sherlockians, the sick pregnant Erica, played by Anjelica Bette Fellini actually made me feel emotion when she pleaded her case to Watson. I hope they keep up her caliber of patient.

* The four doc-sketeers. One of the twins looks like Tom Hanks sometimes. Ingrid Darian is either Moriarty's daughter, his lover, Mary's lover, or just a wicked looking red herring. Lubbock, the Texan with the overly Southern accent is just purdy and needs more dialogue. And that other twin, well, okay, he's the dull one for now, but maybe he'll kick his brother's ass at some point when he's just tired of taking guff. (Yes, I said "guff." I'm old enough to do that now.)

* Did you notice the Watson logo is over an x-ray of Moriarty's hand? Moriarty!

* And by Moriarty, I mean Randall Park in a white polo shirt with an ominious "Always & Everywhere" logo is the next stage of Moriarty's evolution after Andrew Scott. The whole point of the original Moriarty was "Who could believe this harmless professor was the biggest crime boss in London?" And, aw, it's Randall Park, good old MCU Jimmy Woo, he can't be so bad! Wait for it . . . keep waiting . . . I mean, it's just the first episode. Wait for it . . .

* Morris Chestnut. C'mon! Part of my issue with Elementary was that Jonny Lee Miller just never had the charisma I wanted in a Sherlock. Put Morris Chestnut and Lucy Liu next to each other and offer me a dinner date with one of the two and I might start having questions about my life. And I love Lucy Liu!

In this horribly team-sport time of binary choices forced upon us, I'm going to make it simple and just choose "love" when it comes to CBS's Watson. And I'll be back here in a couple weeks to see how much I loved episode two. Dr. Watson is family in a way, given my lifelong ties to the character, and you don't always get to pick your family, but you learn to love them, flaws and all. And he's got a new show.

Let's go!

The Serial Killer and the Guy Who Wanted More Than Credit

 If if haven't written this a dozen times already, I love my local library discussion group.

They inspire me with their wide range of opinions and call-outs on Sherlock Holmes stories. This month we got back to a story that they don't even especially care for, and they still inspired me to look at "The Adventure of the Cardboard Box" in a different light. 

"Cardboard Box" is famously the suppressed story of the Canon. Originally published in January of 1893, it quickly was yanked from any book collections of the Memoirs stories and did not appear again until His Last Bow in 1917. We're not entirely sure why . . . the adultery maybe? But I have a new theory.

First, consider when the Cushing case took place.

Watson is hanging out at Baker Street on a hot August day, complaining that everyone is out of town and his financial situation has kept him in London. Sherlock Holmes makes a comment about Watson having chronicled A Study in Scarlet and The Sign of the Four, so we know it's happening post-Mary-Morstan. Personally, I have placed this case as beginning on Friday, August 30, 1889, the day Watson's literary agent signed the contract to publish The Sign of the Four. We know Doyle was in London, so apparently he wasn't included in the "everyone" that was out of town. Surely, "everyone" was Mary, who was the whole world to Watson. (Okay, I'm going with her being his wife for this essay. Don't hold me to it.)

But it's a big time for author Watson. Second book. Same league as Oscar Wilde. Great hopes at these Sherlock Holmes books really taking off!

But maybe someone else had some hopes as well . . .

The end of "Cardboard Box" is a little different from most. Sherlock Holmes tells Lestrade who did it, Lestrade goes out and arrests them, gets a willing confession from the killer, and then?

"... he asked leave to make a statement, which was, of course, taken down, just as he made it, by our shorthand man. We had three copies typewritten, of which I enclose."

G. Lestrade is sending Holmes and Watson (Lestrade addresses Watson direction in an aside in his cover letter to Holmes, so it was to both!) the full verbiage of the killer's confession, and we assume that it's just a friendly "just so you know" sort of thing. But we know from other cases that Lestrade would often come by Baker Street to tell things in person -- so why that third typewritten copy just for Holmes and Watson?

Well, Watson did just have The Sign of the Four sold. And Lestrade, who had been in A Study in Scarlet surely wanted back in print after not being a player in Watson's second published case.

And since Lestrade actually supplied Watson with part of the text that Watson got published in The Strand Magazine, perhaps there was some fuss about Lestrade getting a percent of the profits off of that particular tale. And between Watson, his literary agent, and Lestrade they were unable to agree on a deal to make that happen in 1893, before Sherlock Holmes returned from the dead to act as a go-between between the doctor and the Scotland Yard man.

And, thus, to my way of thinking, Inspector G. (for Greedy) Lestrade was the real reason that "The Adventure of the Cardboard Box" was suppressed until 1917. (The year Lestrade passed?)

Oh, yes, I did title this blog post "The Serial Killer and the Guy Who Wanted More Than Credit." You still need to hear about the serial killer. So here's the quick and dirty on that.

Do you think a guy who cuts off people's ears and sends them to someone else is a guy who hasn't done that before? We don't know where Jim Browner's been or what he's done prior to this. Killing in a fit of jealous rage is one thing. But that ear-mail business just sounds so suspiciously serial killer-y. 

And if Browner wasn't caught until August 1889, could he have been responsible for only getting one ear from a victim that escaped in December of 1888? A victim who just went "I cut my own ear!" rather than attract more attention of the sailing serial killer who wanted both. A victim named Vincent van Gogh?

No wonder Lestrade wanted more credit and more of "Cardboard Box" in print!

Like I said, I love my local library discussion group. Because they haven't kicked me out yet.

A small cottage near Poldhu Bay

 In the many decades of Sherlockian life, our writers have often referred to this hobby and the world its stories conjure as a sweet place to escape the grim realities of everyday life. But this morning, after listening to my favorite Sherlockian podcast inserting commercials and a clip from another podcast on their network -- in which British folks comment on an American political event -- I don't know that the escape hatch is completely closing.

Friday night, during our long, long Dangling Prussian zoom of Sherlockian rambles, I even had to shut down what quickly was turning into a debate on a certain point of political dispute in the one uncomfortable moment of the night. "He Who Shall Not Be Named," as some called him the first time out, was not named or even a part of the discussion, but the influence of that 800-pound gorilla in the room was surely what turned the conversation in the direction it went.

I've had to do the 30-day mute on some Sherlockian folks on Facebook, who tend to be more political in their talking points as well. Some of us have enough other stressers in our lives right now without adding politics into the mix, and the aforementioned gorilla's constant need for showboating is going to be adding politics in the mix wherever possible . . . so how does even Sherlockiana remain a respite from the cares of the day?

And we do need that respite. There is a time for fighting battles, and there is a time for resting from that fight. To take our grim humours to a small cottage near Poldhu Bay at the furthest extremity of the Cornish peninsula, so to speak, as Holmes and Watson did at the start of "The Adventure of the Devil's Foot." Perhaps that's not the right metaphor, for as well-intentioned as that break began, anything that ends up being called "the Cornish horror" is probably not something that was a great vacation.

So here we are, with "the advent of some unspeakable dweller upon the threshold whose very shadow would blast my soul." Too much? I love that line too much not to use it here, but it does describe the vision that so many are seeing right now in America. We're not yet sure how much is puffed up showboating and how much real damage is about to be done . . . and now I've gone and done it, started talking about the whole thing that I pretty much wanted to avoid for those who want to just stick with the topic we all came to this hobby to bond over: Sherlock Holmes. John Watson. And all that swirls around them.

Sherlock Holmes. John Watson. Just typing those names felt good right now. Solid. Dependable. Adding just a sprinkle of seasoning of order to the universe just by typing those names. They are the best of us, and we need to remember the best of us right now. And that even Reichenbach Falls didn't claim Sherlock Holmes forever.

Sherlock Holmes. John Watson. Sherlock Holmes. John Watson.

Off to work . . .

The Dangling Prussian 2025: The Incorrigibles

 The big Friday night is nearly here.

A whole lot of folks are either in New York City as we speak, or headed there. A longer distance for some than others, more costly than many would like, but when they get to that city, at this time of year, the Sherlocking comes easy. It doesn't matter if you make the guest list of this private party or that. There are Sherlockians there looking to Sherlock, and you can pull up a chair in their midst make friends, see old friends . . . really, just easy once you get there. 

But we can't all get there. Simple fact.

Now, having a Friday night open is kind of nice. You can get pizza, watch a movie, have a drink with friends . . . or just chill. Friday nights are good for all kinds of stuff. Unless, of course, you're like Mary Jane, the one member of Watson's household whose first and middle names we know for a 100% fact. Mary Jane was incorrigible. The sort of person "not able to be corrected, improved, or reformed" by definition. And we definitely have incorrigible Sherlockians.

Not going to be in New York City on Friday night. Not going to any fancy dinner where they enforce Luddite practices of no electronic devices. But still as Sherlockian as hell. And still having an electronic device and prepared to use it.

Incorrigibles. Montague Street Incorrigibles, just to remind one that there was more than one street Sherlock Holmes lived on. And on this Friday night, January17th, at six PM Eastern US time, the Montague Street Incorrigibles will gather again this year, to gossip (yes, we're talking about you), to indulge (BYOB, BYOF, BYOC*), and to let whatever happens happen for a virtual pub night at the Dangling Prussian, known hangout of the incorrigible Sherlockian since 1991. (Check the Minnesota archives, if you doubt.)

Oh, for that first hour, we'll chat. Some of the usual Zoomers will probably dominate the conversation. The second hour might get a little more serious, with a bit of toasting and stories of days gone by. That third hour, come eight PM Eastern, thing might get mildly formal as we swear in the new members with our formal oath of office, open to all who are there. Might watch a short film. Definitely going to try out "Powerpoint karaoke" for anyone brave enough to improv a Sherlockian talk based on ten random slides they've never seen before. And perhaps some other bits thrown together at the last. This is not a serious function!

And as we near the end of the evening, we'll see what our spies in New York have to report. We always have spies. It's that kind of place.

So this is your invitation. And here is your registration link . . .

https://us02web.zoom.us/meeting/register/tZwof-qgqjsoH9AItYBhp8Rkm4j5x5_s1vpT

Don't get your hopes set too high. We're incorrigible, don't you know. And this night of the year is our night to declare it.

________________________________________________

*Crew. The "C" stands for "Crew."

The Noobs and the Older Hobbyists, a Meme

 So this popped up on the socials today . . .

It didn't specify which hobby, but I know at least one person out there associated it with our very own Sherlockiana. As an older hobbyist who has occasionally been an asshole myself, I have to say, yes, there is some truth in that. Probably moreso in fandoms with more consistent content flows -- I mean nobody hates Star Wars so much as a Star Wars fan. And the thing about Sherlockiana as well, is that I have always theorized we have more baby fans in their sixties than any other fandom. People come here after retirement, when they're returning to the things of their youth. Which does make it look like the hobby is consistently aging out.

But the truth of that meme, as far as I'm seeing it, is that so many of our older fans look at themselves as more connected to Sherlockians of the 1930s and 1940s than the Sherlockians of the 2010s, when ... had they the chance to hang out with those smelly old gentlemen of that bygone era, might not have gotten on as well as they imagine they would have. (Don't tell me they weren't smelly. I lived in the 1960s. People were smellier then, and wasn't the hippies. So much stale, clinging cigarette smoke, above all the rest.)

And here's the other thing. Your personal Sherlockiana may be dying. Mine has had to be reincarnated several times. I mean, the pastiches of the 1970s will only carry one so far. And Without A Clue is only funny so long. BBC Sherlock was like an adrenalin injection. Sherlock & Co. has been a steady infusion of glucose. The bones of one's fandom may stick around, but the body must regenerate to stay healthy. Some of us like staying in our comfort zone of the old, comfy, and familiar, 'tis true. But not all, and especially those who grew up in a different era of Holmes.

Just as we can't expect new fans from the Rathbone movies any more, there's probably an expiration date on Granada and Jeremy Brett. So it's good to pay attention to what's bonding folks to Sherlock Holmes now, what's going to inspire them to look at the source material, and what will bring them back in thirty, forty, or even fifty years when they're retiring, slowing down a bit, and ready to read those sixty Victorian tales they always meant to get to because they loved CBS's Elementary so much when they were young. (Okay, maybe Moriarty the Patriot. Sorry, I'm occasionally an asshole. I warned you.)

Yes, the hobby is constantly dying and being reborn, just as the generations pass. And you might not like everything the kids are up to, just like grandparents aren't fond of everything little Rickster is doing. But ya gotta love that somehow, even with a fresh new face, the line goes on.

And we must trust that it will, even if it doesn't look exactly like it used to. The house has new owners eventually, and they get to paint and decorate as they wish. But it's still a pretty cool house.

Or House. I kinda miss that guy. But here comes Morris Chestnut . . .

Reformed Watsonian

 Since the new year is always a moment to contemplate change, sometimes it's easier to look at how we have changed over the years instead of how we hope to change in the future. So let's step back to January of 1991. Instead of this blog, I was writing a monthly column for our local Sherlockian society's newsletter, Plugs & Dottles. (The Hansoms of John Clayton version -- it's a newsletter name others have used too.) And what did I write that January?

"Out, Damned Watson!" -- an essay that proposed eliminating Dr. Watson from future Sherlock Holmes adaptations. I know, right? What the heck!

It begins with the words, "One of the nicer points of Sherlockian scholarship is that when things get complicated, you can always blame Dr. Watson." And then it proceeds to complain about all the Watson problems -- chronology, wound, Doyle's name on the cover of the books, and then starts to go even further. Watson somehow caused acid rain and international terrorism? I was not in a good place in 1991, I suspect.

The editorial gets into how Granada added Watson to their adaptation of "The Musgrave Ritual," a case he had nothing to do with, and that seems to spark an opposite proposal: Take Watson out of the adaptations and just focus on Holmes's detectivework. Watson was there as a narrator was needed in written form, but for movies and TV? 

(Quick side note on the podcast Sherlock & Co.'s latest case: Sidelining Watson for "The Adventure of the Three Gables" and making Marianna Ametxazurra the person who accompanies Holmes for most of the adventure. So it is possible to do an enjoyable show without Watson . . .)

My 1991 proposal of removing Watson claimed that the new adaptations would "move at a quicker pace without having to wait for Watson, thus allowing them to keep up with the fast-paced adventure films that would be their competition." (1991 me had not seen a certain Robert Downey Jr. film yet.) "New blood will be drawn into the Holmes cult, and these new Sherlockians won't have to worry whether Watson was a woman or Jack the Ripper. They won't have to worry about Watson at all."

Apparently, 1991 me had a moment where the idea of amputating Dr. Watson from the pair might make the world a better place. Fast forward to 2025, and I'm beginning my seventh season as the host of a podcast called "The Watsonian Weekly," having gotten there during a stint as editor of The Watsonian, the journal of the John H. Watson Society. So I guess that idea didn't stick. 

Had the internet existed in 1991, I suspect I'd have been a bit of a Sherlockian troll. But, thirty-four years later, I'm a much nicer fellow. Although I do always like that BBC Sherlock line from Holmes, "Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them." I'll try to be kind to Watson in 2025, as I have, apparently, evolved since 1991. 

But you know how New Year's resolutions go . . . .