There’s something irresistibly intriguing about the central
conceit of Sir Ian McKellen playing an aged version of Sherlock Holmes. A beloved actor for both his iconic roles in
geek ephemera and his endearing public persona, McKellen seems uniquely
equipped to tackle the complexities of a character virtually as old as cult
fandom itself. And thankfully, the
results are pretty much on par with McKellen’s abilities, thanks to a
surprisingly gripping screenplay and a plot that serves both the character and
McKellen’s unique spin on playing him.
McKellen’s Sherlock is a 93-year-old man, living in
self-imposed exile with only a housekeeper and her preteen son Roger as his
company. His memory has started to fail
him in recent years, with one particular case bothering him for his inability
to remember it. As Roger begins to
connect with Sherlock over a shared passion for beekeeping (a nice canonical
nod to the original books), Sherlock begins to unravel mysteries of his own
past, coming to realizations of why he feels guilt and failure as a detective
for offenses that he cannot initially remember.
This is mainly revealed through interwoven flashbacks that do a
remarkable job of slowly unraveling the mysteries of both past and present and
creating a parallel character development between past and present Sherlock
that works to emphasize the dramatic tension of both arcs through
juxtaposition. In other words, the film
is masterfully edited.
One point of contention I’ve noticed amongst critics is the
reliance on the intergenerational friendship trope as Sherlock befriends the
young Roger, but honestly, I didn’t have much of a problem with it. It never overshadows Sherlock’s personal
development and the focus is almost always placed on Sherlock, not on the less
interesting dynamics between Roger and his mother. There are enough scenes to establish Roger as
a fairly likeable character in his own right, but not so many as to overshadow
the primary reason people want to see this film in the first place. And McKellan’s Sherlock is a pretty damn
amazing interpretation of the character: a smug erudite who knows precisely how
smart and capable he once was (and still is), but is tortured by the
limitations his age is putting on his mind and body and is not entirely
incapable of making human connections if he determines the effort is worth
making. It’s a complex portrayal that
well serves a complex character.
But aside from the fantastic lead performance and the very
well-executed premise, the screenplay offers a number of delights that I rather
didn’t expect, particularly in how it treats Sherlock as a metafictional
character. I have a soft spot for
stories where the lines between fiction and reality become blurred, and in this
version Dr. Watson and Arthur Conan Doyle are one and the same person, with
Watson’s recollections acting as fictionalized accounts of Sherlock’s actual
cases. To see a curmudgeonly grumbling
Holmes grouse about the inaccuracies of Watson’s accounts and even go to a
cinema to see himself portrayed in a woefully melodramatic adaptation is as
supremely entertaining as it sounds, and the commentary never gets old.
Overall, I greatly enjoyed Mr. Holmes. The minor
quibbles that would have probably bothered me in other films weren’t as much of
a concern here due to very solid writing, a good plot, and an excellent
performance by Sir Ian McKellen. I’m not
the biggest Sherlock Holmes fan, but I am familiar enough with the character to
know when he is being done justice to, and this film not only embraces its
source material, but understands it well enough to provide a proper bookend to
the life of one of fiction’s greatest characters.
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