The Adventure of the Dying Defective?

 Last month, our local story discussion hit "The Adventure of the Dying Detective," and just a week later, I find a friend or two, as well as one documentary film-maker, suspect someone they think is very clever is pulling the Sherlock Holmes maneuver from that story.

If you recall, as surely you do, Sherlock faked an illness that has been fatal to others in order to inspire a confession from one Culverton Smith, who had been letting that disease kill people on purpose.

In our discussion of the story, we came to the conclusion that Sherlock Holmes's clever ploy was actually quite flawed, depending upon a whole lot of other people behaving exactly as they needed to, and a whole lot of things just had to work out perfectly.

And that is exactly the flaw with so many conspiracy theories. For the proposed theory to be true, a whole lot of things would have to work perfectly and a whole lot of people would have to cooperate in perfect harmony . . . which people don't often do. It's the plain truth that hits me in the face every time I watch one of the National Treasure movies: The heroes find some immense repository of treasures that took hundreds of people to build, and we're expected to believe those hundreds of people all managed to do the required work in complete secrecy, with all of them being entirely competent in a crazy level of engineering and not keeping a map or any of the treasure for themselves.

Perhaps it's my view of humanity's general level of ability en masse that might affect my lack of belief in most conspiracy theories. The real conspiracies out there are usually by an established group working together, like a business or other enterprise operating in the open with nobody paying that much attention, often something we eventually know is happening, like gerrymandering, but are unable to stop.

And one of the most common conspiracy theories of late has been that we have a Moriarty-level mastermind manipulating everything around him while having problems reading, judging what a basic human response to a question might be, and generally seeming like a windbag with nothing to offer and no one close to him willing to even point out the toilet paper is stuck to his shoe.

Ah, but that toilet paper stuck to his shoe was the detail that proves his true genius, wasn't it? Staging minor goof after minor goof takes a truely disciplined actor beyond even Sherlock Holmes's level, and, wow, isn't it amazing that he's thinking that many steps ahead.

Even Sherlock Holmes in "The Dying Detective" couldn't get Mrs. Hudson, Dr. Watson, Billy the page, and Inspector Lestrade to all fake having the same deadly disease along with him, just to throw his rivals off the scent. What a genius someone must be to pull that off!

But, as we all know, even if we knowingly pretend not know it, Sherlock Holmes was fictional. Not a real human being, which is actually how he accomplishes a lot of what he does -- his author bends reality to make his schemes work. Because in a fictional reality, there is an order to the universe that was placed there by the hand of a single being.

There's a certain faith behind conspiracy theories, a faith that the universe is an ordered place, where improbable things are happening through someone's plan. It's almost like that need for an ordered and plotted universe transcends the need for belief in a higher power, or that the higher power behind the order in the universe is this person or group. Even when one wants to deny the actual, perfectly logical ordering of the universe.

Sometimes, people who don't do the common sense things get sick. It's the way the world works. Sometimes, "a cigar is just a cigar." And somebody out there is is more clever than Sherlock Holmes himself?

Pshaw.

Dwelling in one's own past for a bit, instead of Sherlock's

This evening seemed like a good time to absent one's self from the vexations of the world, leave social media and the thousand channels a-streaming behind, and visit an old friend in a year long past.

I remember when e-mail started killing off the letter, before social media started killing off the e-mail. It suddenly struck me that I was never going to get a six pages of single-spaced thoughts from an engaged Sherlockian mind written just for me. And I was not going to respond with same.

Knowing that you couldn't pass your written thoughts along with a trip to the post office meant you spent a little more time on said thoughts -- you could always drop off a letter on the way to work the next morning, so why not spend an evening on it? An essay for an audience of one.

There were years back in the eighties when a single year of letters from one Sherlockian friend could be as thick as a paperback novel. And I was lucky enough to have a few of those friends, probably because we had thoughts to exchange about Mr. Sherlock Holmes and the people who love him. "The Sherlockians I know seem to share a love of five things, in varying order," one friend wrote, "Holmes, drink, food, books, and gossip." Personally I might have gone, "Food, Holmes, gossip, books, and drink," but there was plenty of letter-writing material to be found in that list. And with a whole evening to write, you didn't have to just stop at the first or second.

I was sorting through some boxes and taking a few notes when I decided to just spend the evening in the company of one friend's thoughts from a single year -- a very important year in my Sherlockian life, when important decisions were being made. But it wasn't anything about me that made this evening worthwhile. No, it was all the other people we wrote about, the lives we were all leading then.

So many names of much-loved Sherlockians long gone, and even one recently gone, wander into the paragraphs, with little stories of their words and deeds that make one smile and feel their loss. Friends you've lost touch with, for reasons you simply cannot remember. And even parts of yourself you'd let slip away.

The daily mail delivery was like a little Christmas morning every day on a good week, during parts of my correspondence years. And really, I could probably tie the waning of a few friendships to the rise of e-mail and fall of the letter --  we just didn't all adapt to the new tech at the same rate. I have to wonder what life would be like today, had not the internet age happened? 

Ah, but that's the nostalgia kicking in, isn't it? Or maybe just the weariness at the current state of things.

Perhaps I'll pick up that book that came in the mail today, rather than getting close enough to Facebook or Twitter to post a link to any of this. Finding any excuse to step away from the current vexations for a while is not exactly a bad thing these days.

If you're paying attention, you usually know when a winter storm is coming. Wrapping yourself in a blanket to get through the night is nothing to be ashamed of, and can be kind of nice. Because when the morning comes, you'll be ready to get out and shovel the snow.

Because there's a lot of a four-letter word that begins with "s" to shovel off the world's driveway right now. And all the things that an eight-letter name that begins with "S" has brought to our lives are there to help.

Shersneetchiana

 There's an aspect of many a hobby that we don't like to talk about too much.

We're attracted to a thing for the joy it brings, we do a thing because there is pleasure in it. And then, at some point, it can take a turn, and we start wanting it to fill other needs. other gaps in our lives. It can give us purpose and meaning that our primary occupation might be lacking. It can give us a hope that we will be remembered when we're gone. It can give us power, or at least the perception of power, that we might crave.

That last one is a bit of a trouble spot. In every fan cult, there are always a few who want to be cult leaders. That doesn't usually happen, of course, as Sherlock Holmes fans tend to have an independent streak. Every time somebody starts trying to hand out awards, degrees, black belts, etc. in Sherlock, though, I start giving them the ol' squinty eye. 

Perhaps I was overly influenced by Dr. Seuss's story of "The Sneetches."

But, because they had stars, all the Star-Belly Sneetches
Would brag, "We're the best kind of Sneetch on the beaches.
With their snoots in the air, they would sniff and they'd snort
"We'll have nothing to do with the Plain-Belly sort!"

I can think of a few Sherlockians who surely never had that book as a child, so I don't think that was a bad thing. 

"We're afficionados," they'd sniff and they'd snort.
"We're nothing like that regular fan sort!"

Yes, definitely never read Dr. Seuss.

And in that tale, along comes Sylvester McMonkey MacBean to cash in on that desire to be a special, star-bellied sneetch. Because like we have our fancier sneetches in Sherlockiana, we also have our Sylvester McMonkey MacBeans, who want to stroll in and sell us a machine to attach stars to our bellies. They may not be asking for cash in payment for their machine, just simple acceptance that they have the power to attach those stars.

We have a lot of clubs and such where you get a free nickname with membership, which is open to all. We did that with our local Sherlock Holmes society for its run, but there's a big difference between a whimsical practice that's open to all and any mechanism that declares this Sherlockian better than that Sherlockian. We all know who the better Sherlockians in our lives are because of their words and deeds, words and deeds that can be their own reward. We're not Hollywood stars who need an Oscar to boost the ticket sales of our next picture. The Sherlockian community is not so large that good work can go unseen. The word gets out.

As a result, almost all newer attempts by Sylvester McMonkey MacBeans to work across the Sherlockian world don't go on for all that long. Some fade out with the loss of interest of their founder, some become increasingly insular as the outside world moves on without giving them traction. Only one has ever had real success, but I'll let that one lie for the moment.

Shersneetchiana is just something we have to deal with every now and then, as someone comes along thinking it's an idea worth trying, people being people. Dr. Seuss was a good one with certain timeless truths in his kids books.

The one we never saw coming

 Enola Holmes is sitting at a "Certified Fresh" of 92% positive reviews on Rotten Tomatoes. It's number two in popularity on Netflix in the U.S., and number one elsewhere. And it has its own fans, at least one of who suggested basing a new religion on the movie, which is a very cult-Sherlockian thing to say.

So far, Enola seems to be the most successful Holmes since BBC Sherlock in the English-speaking side of the world. And here's the big kicker . . .

Enola Holmes is the most successful Holmes besides Sherlock, ever.

Think about that. Mycroft has had a few books, but no movies or television of his own (and don't say "Mr. Mycroft," as that was pseudonym-Sherlock, and just TV at that). Basil of Baker Street had a movie, but c'mon, he was a mouse and a mouse who copied Sherlock, which puts him in the category of Mr. Data and Solar Pons. 

Enola Holmes isn't just "girl Sherlock," a little sister carbon copy of her brother. She's an original who was influenced by not only Sherlock, but the household that grew Sherlock as well. You could call her a spin-off, but spin-offs that do this well are far and few between.

Did any of us in the Sherlockian world see this coming at all? Our eyes constantly focused on new Sherlocks, maybe enjoying the myriad Holmes-related books out there . . . Nancy Springer's six novels might have gotten lost in for most of us, if not for Millie Bobby Brown. It's a very crowded field, with Brittany Cavallaro's Charlotte Holmes having caught my readership long before Enola.

But Enola dared to go Watsonless (unless you hold to my theory of the audience-Watson for the movie). She doesn't have that drug issue. She makes a definite statement about a point in history, and I'm not talking Victorian times here. Despite her origins in the Holmes family, Enola now seems to have sprung forth as an original character, worthy of her own franchise, and showed that Sherlock Holmes can be a mere supporting cast member if you make the main character engaging enough.

Think about that one for a second. How many times have we seen a creator try to steal the spotlight from the legendary Sherlock, only to see it gravitate straight back to him?

Irene Adler, Mary Russell, Shadwell Rafferty . . . they all made it to several novels, but none escaped Holmes's gravity enough to become the titular character of a movie. Sure, Enola benefited from her brother as a booster rocket, but, you know what? I'd watch a movie with Enola Holmes and no Sherlock. at this point. And the books certainly dodge him as much as possible.

Enola Holmes is something special, and a next-level moment for Sherlock Holmes in our culture. That's something to take a moment and appreciate.

Diagnosis: Murrrr . . . errrrr . . . .

 Perhaps it was the zoombombing of our latest Sherlock Holmes Story Society discussion that put me in a rather persnickety mood with "Dying Detective." Or perhaps I was just thinking too much this time, and the story is like one of those movies that entertains while you're watching it, but the minute you leave the theater and have time for your own thoughts, it falls apart.

The zoombombing was probably due to the library posting the Zoom details on Facebook and it's website. The movie comparison, I think, was the thought of Amanda in our group, after four of us made the leap over to a private Zoom meeting. It was a very good point about "The Dying Detective," however, as it is one of those stories that you just have to go along with.

I mean, that "hide behind the headboard" thing. I mean, really. Been in any bedrooms lately?

But the more I thought about the whole disease this story centers around, now that we're in the Covid era of disease awareness, the more it falls apart.

Holmes calls in Watson, a doctor, and goes, "I, a detective, have somehow diagnosed myself with a very rare disease that I picked up at random on the docks." Watson, a doctor, goes, "Okay."

Doctors are more familiar than anyone with hypochondriacs who self-diagnose. And Holmes, who is also demonstrating signs of being out of his head with random info dumps on oysters and coins, has no real reason to know how he could have a specific fever from a specific place just from catching something at the docks. Has Holmes beat Watson down so much over the years that he just gives into anything?

And how did Sherlock Holmes, great detective that he is, wind up trying to solve the mystery of a young man who got sick and died? Young men get sick and die occasionally, and probably a lot more often in Victorian London with all the polluted fogs. Who was his client, and how did that person known enough about Culverton Smith's favorite disease to know Victor Savage died from it?

"The Dying Detective" is an easy-in, easy-out, BOOM-it's-over story. We're so charmed by Mrs. Hudson's appearance, Holmes's antics, and the fact he has tricked Watson yet again that we just take it at face value and don't delve . . . unless we're trying to proving his bogus Tapanuli fever or Black Formosa corruption were more real than that swamp adder.

It's a very weird story, anyway, with disease-based crime, which is basically germ warfare ahead of its time -- remember how Culverton Smith had a whole array of deadly germs on his shelf. The tale is also ahead of its time with Holmes basically using Watson as a tape recorder to catch the killer's confession. And very much like a movie or TV show, which makes one wonder why Doyle went with "The Mazarin Stone" to do a short play and not this one.

It's almost fan fiction, as it the whole mystery is about Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, with no client, no victim that we really get to know, no murder scene, just Holmes and Watson in what's almost a goldfish bowl of a Baker Street tale. Almost.

I'm still glad "The Dying Detective" is in the Canon, but tonight . . . I was just feeling a little persnickety about it.

Enola Holmes's Watson

 As the host of a podcast called "The Watsonian Weekly" and editor of a journal called The Watsonian, I find myself of late being rather Watson focused. And today, with Enola Holmes arriving on Netflix, one might think, "How sad, no Watson for a Watsonian to fuss over in this Watson-less film!"

But after two viewings of that very delightful film, I have decided it has one of the most remarkable Watsons any movie has ever given us.

And, no, it's not Tewkesbury. Come on, now. Tewkesbury. Pshaw.

No, the movie Enola Holmes gives her a Watson that embodies exactly what John H. Watson has often been at his best, what Conan Doyle gave us with the original John H., and what many a Sherlockian has seen Watson as over the years: an everyperson.

Watson is us, finding Holmes remarkable, hearing his thoughts that no others hear.

And in the case of Enola Holmes, her Watson is, very literally, us.

I was delighted to see her fourth-wall breaks in the previews, so much like Deadpool and with Millie Bobbie Brown showing all the charm of a Ryan Reynolds in talking straight to the camera. But what I didn't realize then was that the movie was going to use that technique to make us her Watson.

Enola Holmes lets us accompany her throughout the adventure as your silent companion, giving us her side comments and sometimes just a look. The audience was entirely meant to be her Watson, and I'm amazed that no one has tried it before. Or maybe not, because John Watson is so fitted for Sherlock. But a new kind of Holmes deserves a new kind of Watson, and director Harry Bradbeer made a brilliant choice in using the fourth-wall breaks to give Enola that Watson.

There is a lot to love about this new Holmes film, and what more could any Watsonian want than to get to be a Watson for an adventure like this?  Bravo to everyone involved.

It's Enola Holmes Day!

 "It's a jolly holiday -- Enola!
"Enola makes the world so bright.
"None of us still own a Victrola,
"But Enola entertains just right!"
                  -- Re-lyricized Mary Poppins song

No spoilers, no review, just a few words to celebrate the best September holiday of 2020, Enola Holmes Day! 

Didn't you get the day off work where you are? Well, did you ask for the day off? These holidays gotta start somewhere, chums! 9/23/2020! Enola Holmes Day! Hurrah!

And like my typical Christmas morning look at Santa's gifts under the tree as a child, I was up at 4 AM watching Netflix. And, after hitting the store to get the ingredients for tonight's Enola Holmes Day feast, I went for an envigorating constituional, followed by this bit, cleaning up, and then heading out to deliver the Enola presents to all the good little Sherlockians. (Or at least those I needed to take some duplicate Sherlockian books to anyway, and, hey, I got the day off!) (Also, sorry, Rob, you live just too far away to fit into my Enola day. Maybe I'll pay you compliments of the season two days from now . . . oh, but that's Friday, I have to work . . . sorry.)

Can you tell I'm just filled with the Enola Holmes Day spirit?

Still working my way through the book series, but today I'm also reading the IDW's Euro Comics adaptations today . . . which means I now have three versions of Enola Holmes in my head.

There's so much I want to say about that character and her supporting cast of characters, but the day is still young and at least one more viewing awaits. So in any case . . . .

HAPPY ENOLA HOLMES DAY, EVERYBODY!