Sasha Slater on her passion for Sherlock Holmes.
Sasha Slater on her passion for Sherlock Holmes.
Possessing preternaturally brilliant analytical skills, Holmes has other superhuman powers. He’s a forceful boxer, bends iron bars at will and can gain mastery over animals—well, a mongrel called Toby. His chameleon genius for disguise is such that Dr Watson, his closest—indeed only—friend, can never, ever recognise him. Watson is always satisfyingly astonished when the elderly clergyman, down-at-heel lounger or even bulky woman is revealed as Baker Street’s consulting detective. Holmes can survive alone and unprotected in the most hostile environments (mistshrouded, miry Dartmoor; the opium dens of the Victorian East End). He can fight vampires, deadly snakes, gigantic hell-hounds and criminal masterminds. He can even come back from the dead, as he proved in The Adventure of the Empty House.
And yet, Holmes is no muscled hunk in a stretchy suit. On the contrary, he’s slender, nervous-looking, allegedly sex-less and dressed in tweed. According to the Sidney Paget illustrations from The Strand Magazine that accompanied my childhood edition of Arthur Conan Doyle’s stories, he also had something of a receeding hairline. Ah, that hairline. As a girl, knowing that I would find it a challenge to emulate Holmes’ cold logic or athletic prowess, I did the only thing I could, and copied his coiffeur. That I had a round little face and masses Some children idolise Batman, some Superman, a few Wonder Woman, but my hero was the original and best: Sherlock Holmes. The reasons for this are elementary. As he himself says: “My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other people don’t know.” Is there anything so attractive as justifiable self-confidence? of straggly brown hair didn’t deter me. I simply applied Nair Hair Removal Cream in two rough semicircles to my temples, convinced that after 20 minutes the transformation would be complete. I wasn’t even that upset with the result. My mother, on the other hand… That hair has long grown back, but my affection remains undimmed. You could think that my passion for Holmes might make me proprietorial; resentful of other people’s appropriation of my true love. On the contrary. Holmes is a protean character and can absorb any number of shifting shapes while still remaining himself.
Each new version shines in a satisfying side-light on the stories.
Thus, I revelled in the old Peter Cushing films, though they were silly and cheap and bore almost no relation to the original books.
Jeremy Brett, all nervous twitch, cocaine addiction and keen eye, was a revelation in the Eighties. Even Robert Downey Jr and his Watson, Jude Law, brought a muscular sexiness to the table. But there is one Holmes who has required no leap of faith, despite the fact that he’s been transported some 130 years into the future. And that is Benedict Cumberbatch. Here is a Sherlock with the sharp disdain, the chilly reason, the physical and mental strength—and endearing weakness—of the original: Battling inner demons both inside his own head and on the streets and cyber pathways of London.
And yet, it was with a thrill of delight that I heard of the Sherlock Christmas special, in which the series creators, Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss (who is also its Mycroft), have whisked Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman, his punchy Watson, back to a time of hansom cabs, telegrams, and gas lamps. Back to where but with enough post-modern tales fresh… and keep me and else coming back for more.
