Perhaps we should quit considering Dr. John H. Watson as an ordinary man quite so much.
Yes, ever since Nigel Bruce got his hand stuck in a cookie jar, we've been arguing that Watson wasn't stupid. But in arguing that he wasn't stupid, it seems like we're just raising him up to the level of "normal." He is everyman, one of us, a regular guy . . . only he's not.
John H. Watson is both a doctor and a popular writer, a man with the abilities of a Michael Crichton or any number of other physician-authors -- not exactly "regular Joe" sorts. Left to his own devices, John Watson might have even been someone who wound up described by others as a genius. But, no, Dr. Watson was set up to live alongside Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock Holmes. So near the top of the genius ladder. The very top of his field. The guy that's so damn smart, many a pasticheur thinks he must be dysfunctional. And others have to dumb him down just to pair him up with a woman so there isn't a "dominant male" issue to put off female readers. Yes, Sherlock Holmes, an intellect that doesn't fit well into the lives of normal folk, and the lives of normal folk don't fit in well with him.
Which brings us back to Dr. Watson. Sherlock Holmes liked Dr. Watson. He found Watson pleasant company . . . which says something about Watson. Sure, Holmes also said, "Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it," but think about that for a second. To Sherlock Holmes, genius was something he saw partially in himself, and moreso in his brother Mycroft. Sherlock Holmes's standard of genius was a lot higher than that which the average I.Q. test sets the bar. Of course, Watson didn't seem like a genius to him!
But it doesn't mean that Watson wasn't a genius by anyone else's standard.
And I would argue that it would take a lower-level genius to make an upper-level genius like Sherlock Holmes accessible to those who truly aren't "possessing genius." In literary form, in the sixty chronicles of Sherlock Holmes, it was easy for John Watson to keep the spotlight off of his own intellect. On television and film, many a writer and director feel a need to find roles for Watson to fill the void left by taking away his storyteller role . . . without seeing that the one Watson already has does the job quite nicely.
John H Watson was a genius who was best friend to an even more brilliant genius.
Our gateway genius.
The ongoing investigation of Sherlock Holmes, reported from the Peoria, Illinois outpost of Baker Street's dirtiest half a dozen.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Sunday, January 5, 2014
The Sherlock Holmes Villain Pitch
It has long been a theory of mine that a great actor at playing Sherlock Holmes is also a great actor at playing the villain. Rathbone had his Sir Guy of Gisbourne among others. Cumberbatch had his Khan. Christopher Lee had Dracula, as did Frank Langella. The commanding presence of Sherlock Holmes has a certain similarity to the arch-villain -- both very good a dramatically explaining an evil plan, the villains just doing it before the crime while Holmes tends to do it after.
And then there's that fondness pasticheurs have for pitting Sherlock Holmes against serial killers. Be it classic Jack the Ripper or some original creation, since Doyle was writing before psychotic serial killers were in vogue, his body of work left a void modern writers just love to fill.
With these two Sherlockian tropes in play for so many years, it was kind of fun after wandering late-to-the-party through four seasons of the TV show Dexter, to see Elementary's Jonny Lee Miller pitted against a serial killer.
Of course, as the Dexter fans out there already know, in this particular case, the serial killer is the good guy. And Jonny Lee Miller is a bad, bad guy. A motivational speaker and head of a serial rape gang. Miller doesn't have quite the same villainous presence as a Rathbone or Lee in Dexter . . . and I have to wonder if that lies a lot in the pitch of his voice for me. So many great Holmes/villain actors have those deep resonating tones, and Miller always seems a bit reedy, especially when he's doing an American like Dexter's Jordan Chase.
With all the analytical tech we mere mortals have at our disposal these days, it's probably only a matter of time before some enterprising Sherlockian uses voice analysis comparisons to pick out the perfect Holmes voice. Able to strike terror into the heart of a criminal and soothe a nervous client, with many other abilities in between, the ideal Sherlock Holmes voice is something really special.
Basil Rathbone stands as one of the great Sherlocks of all time because he was successful both as a movie and radio Holmes . . . the latter being the perfect test of whether or not one can evoke Holmes from voice alone. And while Benedict Cumberbatch has done Cabin Pressure, his character Martin Crieff is hard to pull a Holmes out of, and it's even harder to imagine that we'll get a lot of movie/radio Holmes combos in the modern day. (Fun to imagine Martin Freeman hawking Petri Wine with some announcer who strolled in off the street, as Nigel Bruce once did, though.)
Of course, I could be imagining Martin Freeman's Watson getting married as he is on BBC1 this weekend . . . but this being America, I'm still getting Jonny Lee Miller. And pondering villainy and vocals of Sherlock Holmes. (And whining, when I could do the web thing. Yeah. I know.)
And then there's that fondness pasticheurs have for pitting Sherlock Holmes against serial killers. Be it classic Jack the Ripper or some original creation, since Doyle was writing before psychotic serial killers were in vogue, his body of work left a void modern writers just love to fill.
With these two Sherlockian tropes in play for so many years, it was kind of fun after wandering late-to-the-party through four seasons of the TV show Dexter, to see Elementary's Jonny Lee Miller pitted against a serial killer.
Of course, as the Dexter fans out there already know, in this particular case, the serial killer is the good guy. And Jonny Lee Miller is a bad, bad guy. A motivational speaker and head of a serial rape gang. Miller doesn't have quite the same villainous presence as a Rathbone or Lee in Dexter . . . and I have to wonder if that lies a lot in the pitch of his voice for me. So many great Holmes/villain actors have those deep resonating tones, and Miller always seems a bit reedy, especially when he's doing an American like Dexter's Jordan Chase.
With all the analytical tech we mere mortals have at our disposal these days, it's probably only a matter of time before some enterprising Sherlockian uses voice analysis comparisons to pick out the perfect Holmes voice. Able to strike terror into the heart of a criminal and soothe a nervous client, with many other abilities in between, the ideal Sherlock Holmes voice is something really special.
Basil Rathbone stands as one of the great Sherlocks of all time because he was successful both as a movie and radio Holmes . . . the latter being the perfect test of whether or not one can evoke Holmes from voice alone. And while Benedict Cumberbatch has done Cabin Pressure, his character Martin Crieff is hard to pull a Holmes out of, and it's even harder to imagine that we'll get a lot of movie/radio Holmes combos in the modern day. (Fun to imagine Martin Freeman hawking Petri Wine with some announcer who strolled in off the street, as Nigel Bruce once did, though.)
Of course, I could be imagining Martin Freeman's Watson getting married as he is on BBC1 this weekend . . . but this being America, I'm still getting Jonny Lee Miller. And pondering villainy and vocals of Sherlock Holmes. (And whining, when I could do the web thing. Yeah. I know.)
Mystery at both ends.
"I Hear of Sherlock Everywhere" has an interesting little piece today about "the business entity known as the Conan Doyle Estate, Ltd." and its reaction to the ruling on the "Free Sherlock" case. The lawyer for CDE, Ltd. is definitely spinning the case's outcome as a victory and giving up as little ground as possible in his response, almost seeming to imply that nothing has changed whatsoever.
But then, if you've ever visited Conan Doyle Estate, Ltd.'s website and are just a little knowledgeable about Doyle and his legacy, you know that spin has been a big part of their approach for a while.
"Only Conan Doyle Estate Ltd. is associated with the family of Conan Doyle," the site says, and presents many a picture of Conan Doyle and his children, with one entire page of "Conan Doyle Family." Yet none of Conan Doyle's children are still alive, none of them had children that they passed his copyrights down to, and Dame Jean Conan Doyle, his last surviving child, left her rights to those stories involved in the court case to the Royal National Institute for the Blind.
The Royal National Institute for the Blind then "sold the rights back to the Doyle heirs, who transferred them into a family-owned company" as The New York Times once reported giving the Conan Doyle Estate, Ltd. its ability to answer its website's question "Who Are Conan Doyle Estate Ltd?" with "Conan Doyle Estate Ltd is owned by the Arthur Conan Doyle family."
Just what part of his family that is, the website is not at all clear, preferring to focus heavily on Dame Jean, Conan Doyle's last direct descendant, even though she is not a part of Conan Doyle Estate Ltd. and Dame Jean plainly thought the Royal National Institute for the Blind should have had the rights, as her will stated.
Those few Sherlockians you will find supporting the "business entity known as the Conan Doyle Estate, Ltd." these days tend to be friends of its American agent, though they are usually as quiet about bringing that up as the Conan Doyle Estate Ltd. is about which part of the Doyle heirs/family they're connected with.
"I am accustomed to have mystery at one end of my cases, but to have it at both ends is too confusing, I fear," Sherlock Holmes once said in "The Adventure of the Illustrious Client," one of the last stories whose American copyrights are still held by the Conan Doyle Estate Ltd. And on that, we can sympathize with him in this case. Just don't borrow that line for your pastiche.
But then, if you've ever visited Conan Doyle Estate, Ltd.'s website and are just a little knowledgeable about Doyle and his legacy, you know that spin has been a big part of their approach for a while.
"Only Conan Doyle Estate Ltd. is associated with the family of Conan Doyle," the site says, and presents many a picture of Conan Doyle and his children, with one entire page of "Conan Doyle Family." Yet none of Conan Doyle's children are still alive, none of them had children that they passed his copyrights down to, and Dame Jean Conan Doyle, his last surviving child, left her rights to those stories involved in the court case to the Royal National Institute for the Blind.
The Royal National Institute for the Blind then "sold the rights back to the Doyle heirs, who transferred them into a family-owned company" as The New York Times once reported giving the Conan Doyle Estate, Ltd. its ability to answer its website's question "Who Are Conan Doyle Estate Ltd?" with "Conan Doyle Estate Ltd is owned by the Arthur Conan Doyle family."
Just what part of his family that is, the website is not at all clear, preferring to focus heavily on Dame Jean, Conan Doyle's last direct descendant, even though she is not a part of Conan Doyle Estate Ltd. and Dame Jean plainly thought the Royal National Institute for the Blind should have had the rights, as her will stated.
Those few Sherlockians you will find supporting the "business entity known as the Conan Doyle Estate, Ltd." these days tend to be friends of its American agent, though they are usually as quiet about bringing that up as the Conan Doyle Estate Ltd. is about which part of the Doyle heirs/family they're connected with.
"I am accustomed to have mystery at one end of my cases, but to have it at both ends is too confusing, I fear," Sherlock Holmes once said in "The Adventure of the Illustrious Client," one of the last stories whose American copyrights are still held by the Conan Doyle Estate Ltd. And on that, we can sympathize with him in this case. Just don't borrow that line for your pastiche.
Friday, January 3, 2014
Siege mentality.
Assault on Precinct 13. The Dawn of the Dead. Dog Soldiers. The Alamo.
You remember those movies. The handful of souls hiding behind barricaded doors, trying to survive the frenzied attacks coming straight at them.
Welcome to life in Sherlockian America, January 2014, pre-Sherlock season three.
Maybe it's more like a Invasion of the Body Snatchers sort of thing . . . watching your friends and neighbors getting possessed by an alien consciousness that only means us well: "Come join us! True joy awaits within our collective!"
Sure, they start out like you or I. They don't hand you a gun and say, "Promise me you'll put a bullet in my head if I turn!" No, what they say is, "We won't give spoilers! We'll hold true to the convictions we had before we saw it!"
But then they look at that which PBS dictates we must not yet see. And their enthusiasm takes hold. A simple appreciation of a t-shirt with a quote on it. Reviews that are said to be "spoiler free," yet must tell you something about the shows, or else what would be the point?
So eager to give you their reaction, so eager to share, so hungry to put something in your brains.
Braaaiiiinnnnsssssss . . . .
They're trying so hard to fight it. You feel for them, even as you barricade the doors and windows, avoid clicking on the links, and avert your eyes when you see a certain glint in their Facebook posts. All they want is for you to join them in this new state they've discovered. All they want is your happiness.
You'll love it. Of course you will! You're only . . . human. And the links to get there are sooo simple. Here, try our lovely podcast, these alluring young ladies in the basement of Dracula's castle mean you no harm.
"Must . . . watch . . . Elementary," you find yourself gasping, hoping the cold water of procedural television will shock you out of temptation. And it works, for a bit.
Sixteen more days. And with each day passing, you see at least one more friend leaving the life you've shared without S3E1 filling your very soul. Can you make it? Will you be the same once these sixteen days are over? I know readers of this very column who have virtual compounds of pre-Sherlock enthusiasm who might take a person in for a time, if you could talk them into opening their gate after shooting down a few surges of the Cumberbatch fevered. But then you remember the Governor, and what happened on The Walking Dead.
"We should have nuked Britain after 'The Time of the Doctor' was broadcast," you hear an embittered friend say as he pushes his back against the boarded up door as the fingers start to poke through it's broken edges. "Then we'd have been okay . . . then we'd have been . . . okay . . ."
But somehow you know WGBH in Boston was sure to already have a copy in their evil editing labs, and even leaving the mother country a smoking ruin wouldn't have stopped our eventual occupation.
Yet, even knowing we will one day succumb to joining our friends in that seemingly blissful state of the having-watched, we must, for now, fight on to keep it all out . . . to keep our minds whole and untouched until that last moment.
These are days which test us, my friends. Pre-Sherlock S3E1 America.
Sherlockians under siege.
You remember those movies. The handful of souls hiding behind barricaded doors, trying to survive the frenzied attacks coming straight at them.
Welcome to life in Sherlockian America, January 2014, pre-Sherlock season three.
Maybe it's more like a Invasion of the Body Snatchers sort of thing . . . watching your friends and neighbors getting possessed by an alien consciousness that only means us well: "Come join us! True joy awaits within our collective!"
Sure, they start out like you or I. They don't hand you a gun and say, "Promise me you'll put a bullet in my head if I turn!" No, what they say is, "We won't give spoilers! We'll hold true to the convictions we had before we saw it!"
But then they look at that which PBS dictates we must not yet see. And their enthusiasm takes hold. A simple appreciation of a t-shirt with a quote on it. Reviews that are said to be "spoiler free," yet must tell you something about the shows, or else what would be the point?
So eager to give you their reaction, so eager to share, so hungry to put something in your brains.
Braaaiiiinnnnsssssss . . . .
They're trying so hard to fight it. You feel for them, even as you barricade the doors and windows, avoid clicking on the links, and avert your eyes when you see a certain glint in their Facebook posts. All they want is for you to join them in this new state they've discovered. All they want is your happiness.
You'll love it. Of course you will! You're only . . . human. And the links to get there are sooo simple. Here, try our lovely podcast, these alluring young ladies in the basement of Dracula's castle mean you no harm.
"Must . . . watch . . . Elementary," you find yourself gasping, hoping the cold water of procedural television will shock you out of temptation. And it works, for a bit.
Sixteen more days. And with each day passing, you see at least one more friend leaving the life you've shared without S3E1 filling your very soul. Can you make it? Will you be the same once these sixteen days are over? I know readers of this very column who have virtual compounds of pre-Sherlock enthusiasm who might take a person in for a time, if you could talk them into opening their gate after shooting down a few surges of the Cumberbatch fevered. But then you remember the Governor, and what happened on The Walking Dead.
"We should have nuked Britain after 'The Time of the Doctor' was broadcast," you hear an embittered friend say as he pushes his back against the boarded up door as the fingers start to poke through it's broken edges. "Then we'd have been okay . . . then we'd have been . . . okay . . ."
But somehow you know WGBH in Boston was sure to already have a copy in their evil editing labs, and even leaving the mother country a smoking ruin wouldn't have stopped our eventual occupation.
Yet, even knowing we will one day succumb to joining our friends in that seemingly blissful state of the having-watched, we must, for now, fight on to keep it all out . . . to keep our minds whole and untouched until that last moment.
These are days which test us, my friends. Pre-Sherlock S3E1 America.
Sherlockians under siege.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
Elementary lives! Me, maybe not so much.
Faux brainy will never be the new sexy.
With all the crazy excitement across the Atlantic from last night's Sherlock return, I actually got myself slightly worked up about the return of Elementary tonight. Moriarty was coming back, which one could see as Elementary putting its best foot forward. England has had its big moment, so now America can have its, right?
Oh, God. Why? Why do we build up such hopes and dreams? Why do we forget how bad the pain can be, be it childbirth, dentistry, or . . . ?
So here's the spoilers: Mr. Elementary is pen pals with Jamie Moriarty, because he is so adrift in making a connection with another human being that she is the only one who he feels he can discuss his inner workings with. Because he is such a genius. And she is too. Yes, they're so much smarter than you or I that to us, their exchanges sound like poseur teenagers affecting what they think super intelligent people sound like. But that's only because we're not smart enough to truly understand such genius. At all.
Moriarty is being kept in a super-secret abandoned warehouse prison that looks like a street urchin could break out of it, where she gets to paint giant pictures of Watson as her punishment. Ironically, Joan Watson and her partner's nemesis this week is "Faux-riarty," one of Jamie's henchman who went free-lance and decided to kidnap a young girl and play cribbage with her. So, of course, the government (represented by Arnold Vosloo from the Mummy movies) lets Jamie out of prison with some super-science fiction stun bracelets as her only restraints, so she can work with Mr. Elementary. He is as awkward as a super-intelligent teenage boy around her, despite the fact they once had lots of sex, which typically makes said boys a lot less awkward. Not so this time.
With Jamie Moriarty able to walk freely while still "in custody" in super-science fiction magical way, she and Joan Watson can have some alone time. Moriarty uses that alone time to explain how she and Mr. Elementary are pretty much the master race of big-brained humans, and how poor Joan will never understand how they relate to each other.
More painful conversation about how smart these people are and how Mr. Elementary doesn't understand emotions . . . blah, blah, blah . . . itty bitty Jamie chokes Arnold Vosloo out with a towel, when I suspect in real life he'd just toss her into a wall even if she had a full fifteen seconds of choking in first. I want her to be scary, really I do, but it's just not here. And here comes the big twist that anyone with a real life brain saw coming ten minutes ago . . . the kidnapped girl is Jamie Moriarty's daughter. (But not with Mr. Elementary . . . phew, we'd hate to think Nero Wolfe was now a girl, too. He'd hate that!)
This episode was literally nails on a chalkboard to me. A whole lot of people poorly explaining how smart they are instead of demonstrating it, telling how they have a connection rather than showing us something human . . . but then they're so far beyond us, right?
Anderson in Sherlock's "Many Happy Returns" impressed me more with his brains than anything shown in this episode. Seriously. That dude should come to New York and rule the NYPD.
A lot of folks have tried to find excuses for my dislike of this show over the last couple of years. Deciding I didn't like it early and just being unwilling to reassess. Stirring the pot just to get readers. But let me explain it to you in as Elementary would do: I'm just of an intellectual level far too low for a normal CBS viewer's understanding, and I'm writing to my fellow unter-intellectuals in a coded form of English said viewers wouldn't understand to talk about 2 Broke Girls. That's all that's going on here. And I've got space bracelets on that neuronically inflame my positrons between nine and ten Central every Thursday night. I apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused.
Sigh.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
And suddenly, I fear no spoilers.
The faked death. The emotionally straining reunion. The Sherlock season opener.
We have been here before.
Having resigned myself to waiting the eighteen days until the proper American start to the much anticipated season three of Sherlock, I settled in to commemorate the day by at least watching "A Scandal in Belgravia," last season's opener, one more time.
You know, the one that got nominated for all those "outstanding" Emmy awards.
I anticipated an enjoyable 89 minutes of rerun Sherlock, having a few chips and some guacamole, just relaxing a bit on the sort of day where relaxation is king . . . .
And then "A Scandal in Belgravia" began.
Forget spoilers, I've seen the whole damn thing multiple times. I know what happens.
And yet, it drew me in. So many choice details. So many references for the knowledgeable Sherlockian to revel in. Such an emotional impact . . . not just at the climax, but over, and over, again. Everything I love about Sherlock Holmes was captured in that 89 minutes. Much of it, quite beautifully.
I don't think the episode lost a step from the first time I viewed it. "How does Elementary even exist?" I found myself wondering. And remembering how I was stunned to realize they'd combined "A Scandal in Bohemia" with the movie The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes, my favorite Sherlock Holmes movie of all time, I realized something else.
"A Scandal in Belgravia" is my new favorite Sherlock Holmes movie. Of all time.
Sure, not every episode of Sherlock is "A Scandal in Belgravia." But they're closer to it than anything else on film or videotape. And how can the Mona Lisa or the Grand Canyon or Lara Pulver have such a thing as "spoilers?" A true thing of beauty is something you have your own first time seeing through your own eyes no matter what anyone has told you. It's that moment when it becomes yours.
Some things depend completely on their shocking surprises to delight and entertain. But the really good stuff . . . and I mean really, truly, madly good . . . well, it doesn't even matter if you've seen it all before. It's still just that good.
So spoilers . . . pfui! I laugh at spoilers. Sherlock is coming back.
And that's good enough.
We have been here before.
Having resigned myself to waiting the eighteen days until the proper American start to the much anticipated season three of Sherlock, I settled in to commemorate the day by at least watching "A Scandal in Belgravia," last season's opener, one more time.
You know, the one that got nominated for all those "outstanding" Emmy awards.
I anticipated an enjoyable 89 minutes of rerun Sherlock, having a few chips and some guacamole, just relaxing a bit on the sort of day where relaxation is king . . . .
And then "A Scandal in Belgravia" began.
Forget spoilers, I've seen the whole damn thing multiple times. I know what happens.
And yet, it drew me in. So many choice details. So many references for the knowledgeable Sherlockian to revel in. Such an emotional impact . . . not just at the climax, but over, and over, again. Everything I love about Sherlock Holmes was captured in that 89 minutes. Much of it, quite beautifully.
I don't think the episode lost a step from the first time I viewed it. "How does Elementary even exist?" I found myself wondering. And remembering how I was stunned to realize they'd combined "A Scandal in Bohemia" with the movie The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes, my favorite Sherlock Holmes movie of all time, I realized something else.
"A Scandal in Belgravia" is my new favorite Sherlock Holmes movie. Of all time.
Sure, not every episode of Sherlock is "A Scandal in Belgravia." But they're closer to it than anything else on film or videotape. And how can the Mona Lisa or the Grand Canyon or Lara Pulver have such a thing as "spoilers?" A true thing of beauty is something you have your own first time seeing through your own eyes no matter what anyone has told you. It's that moment when it becomes yours.
Some things depend completely on their shocking surprises to delight and entertain. But the really good stuff . . . and I mean really, truly, madly good . . . well, it doesn't even matter if you've seen it all before. It's still just that good.
So spoilers . . . pfui! I laugh at spoilers. Sherlock is coming back.
And that's good enough.
Attempting the appropriate state of non-being.
Today, I must adopt a Zen attitude and find the joy of not-doing.
Having ended 2013 by biting my tongue on several fronts, I've warmed up to today's chore quite nicely. And what will I be not-doing today?
You know. Because if you're so disconnected that you don't know season three of Sherlock premieres today in Britain, you probably aren't reading this.
A number of American Sherlockians and non-Sherlockian friends have already announced they're going to the black market side of the internet to find ways to watch it before the January 19 PBS showing in the U.S. of A. And while I'm not at all pleased with that delay, I'm not quite willing to go to the dark side, with all its little issues. The idea of Sherlock Holmes turning people into criminals, as often happens when the love of one's hobby clashes with minor peccadillos of the legal system, has always had a certain amusing irony, though.
I remember when the original premiere of Sherlock showed up in chunks on YouTube for a time before the BBC pulled it down back in 2010. I started watching the first five minutes, then found it good enough that I didn't want to settle for the lesser quality experience being offered on the YouTube piracy. And when the second season came out, I toyed with the idea of getting a DVD player that was region-free and going that route to ease the ridiculously long wait between the premiere of the first episode and the PBS version (which they chopped, and made us look even more foolish for waiting).
A state of Zen non-being seems the most positive way to spend the next eighteen days this time around, as the enthusiasm about a show we can't properly see bubbles over across the internet. Practicing calm as one prepares for the spoilers that will inevitably happen with more people than ever paying attention to Sherlock than ever these days. Calm, inner peace, a Zen state of non-being . . . sure, I can master all that today. Of course, I can.
And then, tomorrow night, Elementary returns with Moriarty Barbie. So much for that plan.
Enjoy your day, though, British cousins and American Sherlockian underworld! Wish I could be with you for it . . . instead, at 3 p.m. Peoria time, while you're all letting the joy of Sherlock Holmes's return was over you, I'll be playing the soundtrack to the old TV show Kung Fu on vinyl and sitting in a lotus position attempting to achieve enlightenment. But enjoy!
Having ended 2013 by biting my tongue on several fronts, I've warmed up to today's chore quite nicely. And what will I be not-doing today?
You know. Because if you're so disconnected that you don't know season three of Sherlock premieres today in Britain, you probably aren't reading this.
A number of American Sherlockians and non-Sherlockian friends have already announced they're going to the black market side of the internet to find ways to watch it before the January 19 PBS showing in the U.S. of A. And while I'm not at all pleased with that delay, I'm not quite willing to go to the dark side, with all its little issues. The idea of Sherlock Holmes turning people into criminals, as often happens when the love of one's hobby clashes with minor peccadillos of the legal system, has always had a certain amusing irony, though.
I remember when the original premiere of Sherlock showed up in chunks on YouTube for a time before the BBC pulled it down back in 2010. I started watching the first five minutes, then found it good enough that I didn't want to settle for the lesser quality experience being offered on the YouTube piracy. And when the second season came out, I toyed with the idea of getting a DVD player that was region-free and going that route to ease the ridiculously long wait between the premiere of the first episode and the PBS version (which they chopped, and made us look even more foolish for waiting).
A state of Zen non-being seems the most positive way to spend the next eighteen days this time around, as the enthusiasm about a show we can't properly see bubbles over across the internet. Practicing calm as one prepares for the spoilers that will inevitably happen with more people than ever paying attention to Sherlock than ever these days. Calm, inner peace, a Zen state of non-being . . . sure, I can master all that today. Of course, I can.
And then, tomorrow night, Elementary returns with Moriarty Barbie. So much for that plan.
Enjoy your day, though, British cousins and American Sherlockian underworld! Wish I could be with you for it . . . instead, at 3 p.m. Peoria time, while you're all letting the joy of Sherlock Holmes's return was over you, I'll be playing the soundtrack to the old TV show Kung Fu on vinyl and sitting in a lotus position attempting to achieve enlightenment. But enjoy!
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