Ah, the Sherlockian quiz. From almost the first breath of two Cro-magnon Sherlockians meeting, they were testing each others knowledge upon the Canon of Sherlock Holmes. It is an abominable practice, one I doubt would have come about so quickly had the original Baker Street Irregulars been an all-female troop -- geek testosterone has been known to enter into it. And yet it persists, and yet even those of us who know better find ourselves drawn in once more, handing over the reins of our happiness to the domination of some quiz-ruler.
Do I seem a little bitter about the quizzes? Ask a devout ex-smoker how they feel about cigarettes, and you might get a similar reaction. For the Sherlockian quiz and I . . . oh, we have danced.
One of the worst occasions came early in my career at a local club meeting, where our every meeting featured a test upon one of the tales. I had determined to go home in the winner's role that night, so I had memorized every noun in the story, and a great many of the adjectives and verbs. And when the quizzing was done, I had scored one hundred percent. My trusted companion, the good Carter, had studied alongside me, and also scored one hundred percent. And the notorious cat-man, Ed Connor, who had apparently also decided this was his night, scored one hundred percent. During the rounds of tie-breaker questions that followed, the good Carter fell from the winning ranks, but Ed and I continued, tie-breaker after tie-breaker, not missing a question, until all the club members were bored to tears and it was apparent there was nothing in the story we did not know. The winner was awarded by random coin toss or some other such meaningless gesture.
And then there was one of the greatest Sherlockian quiz tournaments the world has ever seen, the Shaw Bowl in Kansas City, where Sherlockian societies from all across the land competed with teams of three in elimination matches. The final round saw Peoria's Hansoms pitted against the Stranger's Room from New York and the Norwegian Explorers from Minnesota, and as the round progressed, Quizmaster Shaw actually ran out of questions. In a make-do attempt to finish the tournament, he opened the Canon to a particular story and began tossing out questions from that story . . . a tale that happened to be the basis for the recited ritual of a club one of the Stranger's Room team members belonged to. As the Explorers first fell away, and then my own team, I remember there being some bitterness, alcohol, and rude behavior later stemming from that loss. (Though I won't say from whom or just what, in case I was among the guilty.)
And now comes "The Annual John H. Watson Canonical Treasure Hunt" and I find myself back in the thick of Sherlockian quiz world tomorrow. I had been asked to help with a particular question or two in years past by a participant or two who shall remain nameless, and then I remember the questions being particularly tormenting. And I think I heard that Regina Stinson is on a team, a quiz-taker extraordinaire whom I have never beaten at the massive quizzes they used to have in Dayton (and perhaps still do . . . I've been away a while).
Not exactly sure how the game is played, but it all starts at noon tomorrow and I'll be taking a "hare" approach from the Aesop's fable . . . though not by choice. Due to a particular event at my job, my time won't be my own until three and then the latest Mission: Impossible movie may have me for another two hours. But such is my hare-like confidence that I'll let others have a head start (Sorry, team-mates -- didn't look at the schedule when I said "yes.")
Will this go-round end in joy, or more alcohol and rude behaviour?
Or perhaps finally going the route of the Occupants of the Empty House, and swearing off quizzes forever. We shall see.
The ongoing investigation of Sherlock Holmes, reported from the Peoria, Illinois outpost of Baker Street's dirtiest half a dozen.
Friday, July 31, 2015
Lowering the bar for Sherlock, lowering it for ourselves.
Among our recent Sherlock Holmes representatives, we now have one suffering severe mental infirmities from old age, one rewritten as a complete heroin addict, and a very popular one that a lot of folks like to place somewhere on the Asperger's/autism spectrum.
Of the latest, one headline even went so far as to say, "'Mr. Holmes' makes Sherlock seem real."
And to a lot of people, giving Sherlock Holmes a diagnosis or disability is the equivalent of "making him more real."
Because, certainly, accomplishment, pioneering a field of endeavor, intelligence, and skills born of study and practice aren't just things normal people have, right?
One of the great things about Sherlock Holmes from day one has been how real he seems to such a large number of his fans. The great Sherlockian Vincent Starrett even immortalized that thought in poetry form with the line "How very near they seem, yet how remote . . ." Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson have long seemed close enough that we half-expect to see them, should we find ourselves wandering down Baker Street.
But as Holmes's has a resurgence beyond his loving fans and into the current public consciousness, it seems like his reality must constantly tie to issues, prices that have to be paid.
He can't be that observant without having to do drugs to dull his super-senses. He can't solve cases that take too much brainpower, or else writers might have to use their own brains too much to come up with stories. Whatever the excuse, lowering the bar for Sherlock Holmes lowers the bar for the rest of us.
Sherlock Holmes is a legendary character, of the sort we are meant to look up to. An embodiment of our dreams and aspirations, a vision of humanity at its very best. Has it become so hard to relate to the idea of humanity at its best? Are we so beaten down in our modern world that we have to have a Holmes who can barely get it together?
Or is it just that so many of us aren't thirteen years old anymore, without a wide open future and the hopes and dreams that make a pinnacle Sherlock Holmes someone we can look to as what we can become? All these failing Holmeses just represent our own failings, so we can just nod and go, "Well, that's the way life is . . ."
Yet those thirteen-year-olds are still out there, hoping and dreaming of being better humans than those that came before. I hope that the future makes sure they have a Sherlock Holmes that they can look to for inspiration, just as so many of us once did.
Because they are the new us, and who can't help but wish for good things for them?
Of the latest, one headline even went so far as to say, "'Mr. Holmes' makes Sherlock seem real."
And to a lot of people, giving Sherlock Holmes a diagnosis or disability is the equivalent of "making him more real."
Because, certainly, accomplishment, pioneering a field of endeavor, intelligence, and skills born of study and practice aren't just things normal people have, right?
One of the great things about Sherlock Holmes from day one has been how real he seems to such a large number of his fans. The great Sherlockian Vincent Starrett even immortalized that thought in poetry form with the line "How very near they seem, yet how remote . . ." Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson have long seemed close enough that we half-expect to see them, should we find ourselves wandering down Baker Street.
But as Holmes's has a resurgence beyond his loving fans and into the current public consciousness, it seems like his reality must constantly tie to issues, prices that have to be paid.
He can't be that observant without having to do drugs to dull his super-senses. He can't solve cases that take too much brainpower, or else writers might have to use their own brains too much to come up with stories. Whatever the excuse, lowering the bar for Sherlock Holmes lowers the bar for the rest of us.
Sherlock Holmes is a legendary character, of the sort we are meant to look up to. An embodiment of our dreams and aspirations, a vision of humanity at its very best. Has it become so hard to relate to the idea of humanity at its best? Are we so beaten down in our modern world that we have to have a Holmes who can barely get it together?
Or is it just that so many of us aren't thirteen years old anymore, without a wide open future and the hopes and dreams that make a pinnacle Sherlock Holmes someone we can look to as what we can become? All these failing Holmeses just represent our own failings, so we can just nod and go, "Well, that's the way life is . . ."
Yet those thirteen-year-olds are still out there, hoping and dreaming of being better humans than those that came before. I hope that the future makes sure they have a Sherlock Holmes that they can look to for inspiration, just as so many of us once did.
Because they are the new us, and who can't help but wish for good things for them?
Wednesday, July 29, 2015
A second manuscript from Mr. Holmes.
Before this year, few people knew of the manuscript written by Sherlock Holmes in his much later years. Many of those hearing of that business of the lady in gray might have thought that was all that he had written in that time. Recently, however, a Sussex historian named Chalmer Chops turned up a stack of other manuscripts written by Holmes during that period, and he was willing to let Sherlock Peoria reprint one of the more representative samples here:
Some readers of the many cases recorded by Dr. Watson might have wondered why it was that I left the business of consulting detection and retired to the downs of Sussex for such a prosaic past-time as the keeping of bees. I have often wondered this myself, a good three decades having passed since the decision was made. The good Watson wrote down the details of the matter in a tale he entitled "The Adventure of the Blue Diamond," which he then published in a book I keep in a wooden box with his other works. I could, perhaps, read that book and remind myself of some bits of the story, but I would rather sit here and puzzle it out myself as I attempt to ward off my random generic mental decline.
It was the winter time, and Commissar Petrov had brought us a goose that he found on the street. This was a great many years before the invention of the automobile brought along the invention of roadkill, and found street-meat was something we enjoyed on a regular basis. Mrs. Hudson cooked up the bird, and we were sitting down to a nice dinner when Petrov returned to enjoy the fruit of his discovery. As he removed his hat, a fine blue diamond fell out of the hat-band.
I have to stare into space for a time as I picture that falling gem, as it makes me more dramatic, a habit I developed when attempting to inspire Dr. Watson's own writings. It doesn't inspire me, so I think I shall make an excuse to visit East Lothian and the site of the tragic deaths of over a thousand people who were cannibalized by the Sawney Bean family. There is a particular turf that grows upon the Muirfield links nearby that I find packs a pipe most excellently, yet provides a steadfast reminder that we might all be eaten by our fellows at any time. Life is not a happy thing, and should not be enjoyed too much, even during a good pipe.
Which brings me back to that excellent goose dinner, Watson and I shared with Petrov as we looked over the amazing blue gem that fell out of his hat. The hat, it turned out, was found on the same thoroughfare as the street-meat, and we all decided to visit a pub on that street after our dinner for some beer and pretense at making a case of it.
The pub was called the Alpha Inn, and it was near the British Museum. Watson suggested we donate the gem to the museum, but Petrov thought we should just sell it and retire upon the split profits. He was a simple man, and just wanted to spend the rest of his days writing a book about the difference between wasps and bees, as a service to the general public, whom he didn't think were familiar with such a thing. As I picture Petrov taking another big sip of his beer, I pause and look dramatically troubled at the public menace of wasp/bee confusion.
During my reverie, I hear young Billy the page shrieking outside my window. He's apparently stumbled into the honey badger nest again, and I grab up my fireplace poker and head out to his aid. At the bottom of the stairs, I ignore Mrs. Hudson, whom will surely be very dramatic with me later, when I come back in to ring up the animal control people. Women can be so unreasonable where badger-nibbled children are concerned.
Which brings me to the unreasonable lady of the evening who recognized Petrov in the Alpha Inn, and began to plague him over "her cut of the goods." Watson chevied her off with a wicket to the shins, as was his particular skill with the trollops, and we returned to Baker Street, where Watson also chevied Petrov off and we kept the diamond in my safe.
Looking back, I am still not quite sure why I retired, random general mental decline and all that. But if Billy can stay out of trouble with the local vermin for long enough, perhaps I shall write yet another tale of the possible reasons before my inevitable passing. Life is not a happy thing, and should not be enjoyed too much, even during detective stories.
The New Adventure of the Blue Diamond
by Mr. S-something (add that later) Holmes
It was the winter time, and Commissar Petrov had brought us a goose that he found on the street. This was a great many years before the invention of the automobile brought along the invention of roadkill, and found street-meat was something we enjoyed on a regular basis. Mrs. Hudson cooked up the bird, and we were sitting down to a nice dinner when Petrov returned to enjoy the fruit of his discovery. As he removed his hat, a fine blue diamond fell out of the hat-band.
I have to stare into space for a time as I picture that falling gem, as it makes me more dramatic, a habit I developed when attempting to inspire Dr. Watson's own writings. It doesn't inspire me, so I think I shall make an excuse to visit East Lothian and the site of the tragic deaths of over a thousand people who were cannibalized by the Sawney Bean family. There is a particular turf that grows upon the Muirfield links nearby that I find packs a pipe most excellently, yet provides a steadfast reminder that we might all be eaten by our fellows at any time. Life is not a happy thing, and should not be enjoyed too much, even during a good pipe.
Which brings me back to that excellent goose dinner, Watson and I shared with Petrov as we looked over the amazing blue gem that fell out of his hat. The hat, it turned out, was found on the same thoroughfare as the street-meat, and we all decided to visit a pub on that street after our dinner for some beer and pretense at making a case of it.
The pub was called the Alpha Inn, and it was near the British Museum. Watson suggested we donate the gem to the museum, but Petrov thought we should just sell it and retire upon the split profits. He was a simple man, and just wanted to spend the rest of his days writing a book about the difference between wasps and bees, as a service to the general public, whom he didn't think were familiar with such a thing. As I picture Petrov taking another big sip of his beer, I pause and look dramatically troubled at the public menace of wasp/bee confusion.
During my reverie, I hear young Billy the page shrieking outside my window. He's apparently stumbled into the honey badger nest again, and I grab up my fireplace poker and head out to his aid. At the bottom of the stairs, I ignore Mrs. Hudson, whom will surely be very dramatic with me later, when I come back in to ring up the animal control people. Women can be so unreasonable where badger-nibbled children are concerned.
Which brings me to the unreasonable lady of the evening who recognized Petrov in the Alpha Inn, and began to plague him over "her cut of the goods." Watson chevied her off with a wicket to the shins, as was his particular skill with the trollops, and we returned to Baker Street, where Watson also chevied Petrov off and we kept the diamond in my safe.
Looking back, I am still not quite sure why I retired, random general mental decline and all that. But if Billy can stay out of trouble with the local vermin for long enough, perhaps I shall write yet another tale of the possible reasons before my inevitable passing. Life is not a happy thing, and should not be enjoyed too much, even during detective stories.
Funko-y Sherlock.
After all this time as a Sherlockian, it's very still strange to me to find Sherlock Holmes being all hip and trendy.
I don't know why I should be so surprised, since all those Marvel comic book characters that only true comic book nerds had heard of are now the stuff of blockbuster movies, but Sherlockians have always lagged far behind comic book fans and even Trekkies for sheer numbers. But it's a different world now. The latest evidence?
Sherlock has a Funko figure.
John Watson has a Funko figure. As does Irene Adler, Moriarty, and Mycroft.
If you've wandered through any pop culture convention, or now even a Barnes & Noble, you've probably seen the vast array of licensed characters that Funko makes big-headed vinyl dolls of -- so many that I feel sad for those hoarder/collectors your know are out there filling their basement with these things. And while they haven't hit Beanie-baby-in-a-Happy-Meal status yet, it's probably coming.
Happily for me, the collecting urge can actually lessen with age. Twenty years ago, I'd be snapping these silly things up without a second thought. Now, my first reaction is trying to think specifically where I would put them in our already over-populated-with-action-figures house. Books even have a hard time getting in the door sometimes these days, so these little guys will have to find younger Sherlockians with more available space to adopt them.
Still, it's good to see our hero represented in a pop culture arena like Funko toys. Now if we could just get that Lego Sherlock off the ground.
Sunday, July 26, 2015
Movie day.
The coming of Mr. Holmes to theaters has been a Sherlockian event in many a community. Here in Peoria? Well, since our Sherlockian society organizational skills are somewhat lacking, along with a few other important factors, no such luck. For many a Sherlockian, going to see Mr. Holmes is probably their first time in the theater in quite a while. ("They're charging how much for popcorn!?") But not for me.
For a huge "movies in theaters" buff like me, this latest little Sherlock Holmes release came at a time when I was taking a movie vacation day out of all my normal responsibilities, and had worked out a plan to see it in the center of a rare three-movies-in-one-day event. "What?" one might ask, "You're not giving sole focus to such an important Sherlockian event and allowing time for the consideration it deserves?"
Well, if your mind is Sherlockian enough, they're all Sherlockian movies.
My first stop for the day was Paper Towns, a coming-of-age tale of a young fellow's quest to find a larger-than-life person in a town that only exists on a map. "Been there, done that," I thought as this movie found its footing. Literally. Sherlock, Texas. Except Sherlock, Texas isn't really a paper town, it's more of a digital town, appearing on Mapquest, but not so much in reality.
And as in both Paper Towns and driving to Sherlock, Texas, it's really about the journey and the travel companions than the actual destination. The movie was very nostalgic for me, on several levels.
My second stop for the day, as I mentioned, was the big summer Sherlock Holmes event movie.
(And then the blog accidentally got posted, half-finished. Come back later for the rest.)
Well, that's done. Now, if you're the sort that doesn't like people to criticize those things you happily enthuse over, you might want to bail on this particular blog now. Right now.
Now I remember why I didn't like the book Mr. Holmes is based on. Not enough Holmes, too much melodrama. And a horrible final message. (Lie to people. They can't deal with the truth.)
There was a moment in Mr. Holmes where Sherlock Holmes is in a theater watching a Sherlock Holmes movie and commenting upon how over-done it is. At some point late in the movie, I found myself kicked out of the movie's world as the movie still went on, sitting in a theater having the same thought's as the Ian McKellen's Holmes did earlier in the film -- t'was very meta.
I didn't buy the reason Sherlock Holmes quit being a detective, as though years of dealing with crime and horror had not prepared him for one woman's suicide. The Japanese subplot seemed mainly there so nuclear devastation could add more drama.
(And then it became time for a third movie . . . and this prematurely posted post gets updated again before finished. Stay tuned.)
Now comes the part where I hand a handy ad hominum argument to those who don't understand it's a logical fallacy and won't allow that any reasonable human being could seriously dislike Mr. Holmes.
Here's my final rating scorecard for my movie day, which, it turns out, goes exactly opposite of Rotten Tomatoes percentage order.
Worst film I saw today: Mr. Holmes (88% critical favorite on RT).
Enjoyed a lot, but second in fun: Paper Towns (58% critically acclaimed on RT).
And my most enjoyed movie of the day, despite possibly the worst presidential casting in history:
Pixels (disliked by all but 19% of RT critics).
Yeah, I just gave Adam Sandler higher marks than Ian McKellen. I love me some Sherlock Holmes, but that name gets no one a free pass . . . especially on movie day!
P.S. One last minute thought: The alternate universe that Mr. Holmes existed in did intrigue me. His world's Canon had more books in it, and I wondered what the title of the glass harmonica story was.
For a huge "movies in theaters" buff like me, this latest little Sherlock Holmes release came at a time when I was taking a movie vacation day out of all my normal responsibilities, and had worked out a plan to see it in the center of a rare three-movies-in-one-day event. "What?" one might ask, "You're not giving sole focus to such an important Sherlockian event and allowing time for the consideration it deserves?"
Well, if your mind is Sherlockian enough, they're all Sherlockian movies.
My first stop for the day was Paper Towns, a coming-of-age tale of a young fellow's quest to find a larger-than-life person in a town that only exists on a map. "Been there, done that," I thought as this movie found its footing. Literally. Sherlock, Texas. Except Sherlock, Texas isn't really a paper town, it's more of a digital town, appearing on Mapquest, but not so much in reality.
And as in both Paper Towns and driving to Sherlock, Texas, it's really about the journey and the travel companions than the actual destination. The movie was very nostalgic for me, on several levels.
My second stop for the day, as I mentioned, was the big summer Sherlock Holmes event movie.
(And then the blog accidentally got posted, half-finished. Come back later for the rest.)
Well, that's done. Now, if you're the sort that doesn't like people to criticize those things you happily enthuse over, you might want to bail on this particular blog now. Right now.
Now I remember why I didn't like the book Mr. Holmes is based on. Not enough Holmes, too much melodrama. And a horrible final message. (Lie to people. They can't deal with the truth.)
There was a moment in Mr. Holmes where Sherlock Holmes is in a theater watching a Sherlock Holmes movie and commenting upon how over-done it is. At some point late in the movie, I found myself kicked out of the movie's world as the movie still went on, sitting in a theater having the same thought's as the Ian McKellen's Holmes did earlier in the film -- t'was very meta.
I didn't buy the reason Sherlock Holmes quit being a detective, as though years of dealing with crime and horror had not prepared him for one woman's suicide. The Japanese subplot seemed mainly there so nuclear devastation could add more drama.
(And then it became time for a third movie . . . and this prematurely posted post gets updated again before finished. Stay tuned.)
Now comes the part where I hand a handy ad hominum argument to those who don't understand it's a logical fallacy and won't allow that any reasonable human being could seriously dislike Mr. Holmes.
Here's my final rating scorecard for my movie day, which, it turns out, goes exactly opposite of Rotten Tomatoes percentage order.
Worst film I saw today: Mr. Holmes (88% critical favorite on RT).
Enjoyed a lot, but second in fun: Paper Towns (58% critically acclaimed on RT).
And my most enjoyed movie of the day, despite possibly the worst presidential casting in history:
Pixels (disliked by all but 19% of RT critics).
Yeah, I just gave Adam Sandler higher marks than Ian McKellen. I love me some Sherlock Holmes, but that name gets no one a free pass . . . especially on movie day!
P.S. One last minute thought: The alternate universe that Mr. Holmes existed in did intrigue me. His world's Canon had more books in it, and I wondered what the title of the glass harmonica story was.
Saturday, July 25, 2015
Just another flower laid on Sherlock's empty grave.
Re-watching BBC Sherlock this summer has been a lot of fun.
So much has been written about the TV series, which is really more of a set of movies than a standard television trudge, that I never feel the urge to jump in and add my thoughts to the pile, unlike lesser quality productions that no one seems to write about. Similarly, I'm still questioning whether or not to even blog-chronicle after finally seeing Mr. Holmes this weekend. So many thoughts out there already.
But that show.
Such a lovely entertainment. Re-watching a magician perform the same tricks over and over again is usually a mistake -- the eye wanders to places the performer would rather it not go. Mystery Science Theater 3000 made it's name redirecting the eye during films so dull no one would re-watch them without added commentary. But BBC Sherlock (and I will forever call it "BBC Sherlock," as the first name alone might be confused with anything Sherlock-y) has charms even in its places one shouldn't look.
The over-the-top Moffat moments. The odd little behavioural moments. All that meta.
I never begrudge a newer fan of Sherlock Holmes their use of the word "Canon" in reference to this show, because it's as rich in detail as the original written Canon, with that mix of our real London and that higher plane London where 221B Baker Street and the Diogenes Club exist. So many lovely little points worth exploring. So many quotes worth pulling out for fun use.
While Guy Ritchie's movie Sherlock Holmes was a fine entertainment-of-the-moment, BBC Sherlock brought us a new ongoing standard for Sherlock Holmes. It has become our Holmes to start the new millennium, a bookend to the Holmes that closed the last millennium, the Granada Sherlock Holmes. I don't think BBC Sherlock could exist without Granada Sherlock Holmes having definitively wrapped up Victorian Sherlock Holmes on film.
And then there's Molly Hooper. The one person we might have once thought didn't matter at all, who really does matter the most in considering the place of BBC Sherlock in our world.
Molly Hooper is probably the first break-out character in the world of Sherlock Holmes who wasn't created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. You can throw around names like Anderson or Bell, or any other random coppers thrown into Holmes mysteries, but Molly is something else entirely . . . a character that literally could not have existed in the social climate of Victorian 221B London, but fits so perfectly in the world of a modern Sherlock Holmes.
If Molly wasn't enough, Andrew Scott's Moriarty is now my Moriarty, having overtaken Conan Doyle's under-used professor of mathematics as the perfect foil for Sherlock Holmes. How the hell does that even happen? Original-Canon has been my Sherlockian core my entire life. How does another Moriarty sneak into that?
Ten years ago, twenty years ago, I would never have seen this day coming. I knew it was possible, believed with all my heart that Sherlock Holmes on film could be this good, but given all the lackluster attempts in the past, I had become a bit jaded, a bit pessimistic. Granada was lovely, but it wasn't new. It's charm for me was entirely in that it recreated the originals. I still craved new Sherlock. And then it came.
Not everyone's cuppa tea, yes, but I hope everyone else gets one good treat in their lives that means as much as BBC Sherlock has meant to me.
Even during a summer re-watch.
So much has been written about the TV series, which is really more of a set of movies than a standard television trudge, that I never feel the urge to jump in and add my thoughts to the pile, unlike lesser quality productions that no one seems to write about. Similarly, I'm still questioning whether or not to even blog-chronicle after finally seeing Mr. Holmes this weekend. So many thoughts out there already.
But that show.
Such a lovely entertainment. Re-watching a magician perform the same tricks over and over again is usually a mistake -- the eye wanders to places the performer would rather it not go. Mystery Science Theater 3000 made it's name redirecting the eye during films so dull no one would re-watch them without added commentary. But BBC Sherlock (and I will forever call it "BBC Sherlock," as the first name alone might be confused with anything Sherlock-y) has charms even in its places one shouldn't look.
The over-the-top Moffat moments. The odd little behavioural moments. All that meta.
I never begrudge a newer fan of Sherlock Holmes their use of the word "Canon" in reference to this show, because it's as rich in detail as the original written Canon, with that mix of our real London and that higher plane London where 221B Baker Street and the Diogenes Club exist. So many lovely little points worth exploring. So many quotes worth pulling out for fun use.
While Guy Ritchie's movie Sherlock Holmes was a fine entertainment-of-the-moment, BBC Sherlock brought us a new ongoing standard for Sherlock Holmes. It has become our Holmes to start the new millennium, a bookend to the Holmes that closed the last millennium, the Granada Sherlock Holmes. I don't think BBC Sherlock could exist without Granada Sherlock Holmes having definitively wrapped up Victorian Sherlock Holmes on film.
And then there's Molly Hooper. The one person we might have once thought didn't matter at all, who really does matter the most in considering the place of BBC Sherlock in our world.
Molly Hooper is probably the first break-out character in the world of Sherlock Holmes who wasn't created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. You can throw around names like Anderson or Bell, or any other random coppers thrown into Holmes mysteries, but Molly is something else entirely . . . a character that literally could not have existed in the social climate of Victorian 221B London, but fits so perfectly in the world of a modern Sherlock Holmes.
If Molly wasn't enough, Andrew Scott's Moriarty is now my Moriarty, having overtaken Conan Doyle's under-used professor of mathematics as the perfect foil for Sherlock Holmes. How the hell does that even happen? Original-Canon has been my Sherlockian core my entire life. How does another Moriarty sneak into that?
Ten years ago, twenty years ago, I would never have seen this day coming. I knew it was possible, believed with all my heart that Sherlock Holmes on film could be this good, but given all the lackluster attempts in the past, I had become a bit jaded, a bit pessimistic. Granada was lovely, but it wasn't new. It's charm for me was entirely in that it recreated the originals. I still craved new Sherlock. And then it came.
Not everyone's cuppa tea, yes, but I hope everyone else gets one good treat in their lives that means as much as BBC Sherlock has meant to me.
Even during a summer re-watch.
Thursday, July 23, 2015
Genre shift.
Earlier this week, a friend and I were walking the mall for a little lunchtime exercise, and I started getting nostalgic for a day long past when B. Dalton and Waldenbooks were my reason for regular mall visits. My first encounters with such Sherlockian treasures as The Encyclopaedia Sherlockiana and Baring-Gould's two-volume boxed Annotated Sherlock Holmes happened in those stores, along with so many other pieces that remain in my library to this day.
Barnes & Noble came along and killed those two smaller booksellers, of course.
And even in this day of Amazon's two-day shipping, I still like to wander among the books there, just to see what chance might turn up. The new Sherlock Holmes and Henry James team-up was out, though still a little more than I wanted to spend this week. I spotted that in the new fiction section, and, even though I was there looking for a particular biography, I thought I'd wander back to the mystery corner as is my habit.
Only the mystery corner was gone.
Like the sci-fi/fantasy section before it, which gave way to "teen fantasy," the mystery section had been moved to smaller, less prominent digs. It its place?
Graphic novels and manga.
Now, I like graphic novels, a.k.a. comic books collected into trade paperback editions. And they still involve reading, so I wouldn't despair at the illiteracy of future generations. In fact, quite the opposite -- teen fantasy and manga both show that book-buying by younger consumers is stronger than ever.
But seeing both of the two genres, genres that I spent so much of my reading life in, starting to dwindle . . . especially that one Sherlock Holmes lives in, even at a time when he's more popular than ever . . . well, it's still a little . . .
I can't say "sad." Watching the world change with generations is fascinating. Bittersweet? Nostalgia-inducing? I don't know.
And the mystery section is still there. Just a whole lot smaller. Maybe it will make a comeback, once all those teen readers grow up. (Unless those shelves exist due to large numbers of adults with a tweener reading level. If that's the case, get off your lazy-reading butts, tweener-adults!)
And when it does make that comeback, maybe it will be a literary equivalent of BBC Sherlock leading that charge to take back the shelves.
Barnes & Noble came along and killed those two smaller booksellers, of course.
And even in this day of Amazon's two-day shipping, I still like to wander among the books there, just to see what chance might turn up. The new Sherlock Holmes and Henry James team-up was out, though still a little more than I wanted to spend this week. I spotted that in the new fiction section, and, even though I was there looking for a particular biography, I thought I'd wander back to the mystery corner as is my habit.
Only the mystery corner was gone.
Like the sci-fi/fantasy section before it, which gave way to "teen fantasy," the mystery section had been moved to smaller, less prominent digs. It its place?
Graphic novels and manga.
Now, I like graphic novels, a.k.a. comic books collected into trade paperback editions. And they still involve reading, so I wouldn't despair at the illiteracy of future generations. In fact, quite the opposite -- teen fantasy and manga both show that book-buying by younger consumers is stronger than ever.
But seeing both of the two genres, genres that I spent so much of my reading life in, starting to dwindle . . . especially that one Sherlock Holmes lives in, even at a time when he's more popular than ever . . . well, it's still a little . . .
I can't say "sad." Watching the world change with generations is fascinating. Bittersweet? Nostalgia-inducing? I don't know.
And the mystery section is still there. Just a whole lot smaller. Maybe it will make a comeback, once all those teen readers grow up. (Unless those shelves exist due to large numbers of adults with a tweener reading level. If that's the case, get off your lazy-reading butts, tweener-adults!)
And when it does make that comeback, maybe it will be a literary equivalent of BBC Sherlock leading that charge to take back the shelves.
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