Today, it seemed like an excellent day to pause, take a quiet moment, and just . . .
Respect the Cumberbatch.
This is going to seem a little redundant, a little "Yeah. Well, duh . . ." to the Cumberbitches, who now seem like vestal oracles, fore-sighted visionaries whose entranced states first pointed to that which was to come. I bow to their wise prophetic instincts. It's like we need a new evolutionary chart to take the place of that classic monkey-to-man thing, starting with William Gillette loping the Earth with his knuckles on the ground, working onward through a Neanderthalian Basil Rathbone, and finally arriving at Benedict Cumberbatch, upright and chin slightly tilted toward the heavens as a faint glow emanates from his very flesh.
Hyperbole? Maybe a little. But the dude made the cover of Time magazine. An actor who gained his first real name recognition for most of us by playing Sherlock Holmes. And instead of being typecast, as so many actors have in such an iconic role, went on to two more classic characters and perhaps the most notorious character of the cyber age. And made the cover of Time, just by being Benedict Cumberbatch.
The irony here at Sherlock Peoria is that the late Sherlockian Bob Burr, who was dismissive at best of BBC Sherlock, had a subscription to Time that ran out just before the Cumberbatch issue . . . almost like he was as psychic as a Cumberbitch, but with typical Burrian exactness.
Even if this is the peak of Mount Cumberbatch, it's a pretty respectable height, which is why I wanted to stop and mark the moment, just as I did earlier in the week with TV Guide. Can Oprah just put Robert Downey Jr.'s Sherlock on the cover of her 0 magazine by tomorrow, so we can pull off a Sherlock Holmes trifecta?