Elementary? Far from it (film review)

When looking at the success of previous adaptations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s well-known detective, it could hardly be said that Warner Brothers took a risk with this masterfully reconstructed world that has been imitated countless times in literature, television, and over two hundred films.  Sherlock Holmes remains Britain’s, if not the world’s, most famous detective of all time, with the original works having been reprinted so many times, the number of copies sold is unknown.

This gloriously dark thriller opens with Holmes (Robert Downey Jr) and Dr Watson (Jude Law)’s gatecrashing of an occult ritual, setting the scene for the intricate plot which is faithful to Conan Doyle’s interest in the supernatural, most notably in The Hound of the Baskervilles. While conventional detective stories focus on answering the question who, the 2009 Holmes film directly introduces a deliciously villainous antagonist, Lord Blackwood (played to spine-tingling perfection by Mark Strong) and the focus of Holmes’ investigation is on the how, which proves to be equally challenging.

Blackwood is arrested at the beginning of the film, turning the detective structure completely on its head, and subsequently hanged – only to have been apparently resurrected three days later: “What a busy afterlife you’re having”. This not exactly being the police’s area of expertise, the great consulting detective is called back in. The characters are not divided completely into black and white, though – Holmes’ past flame, Irene Adler (Rachel McAdams)’s motivations remain enigmatic through to the end.
Holmes’ observations are as perceptive and surprising as ever: “As to where I am, I was, admittedly, lost for a moment between Charing Cross and Holborn, but I was saved by the bread shop on Saffron Hill. The only bakery to use a certain French glaze on their loaves ... The only mystery is why you bothered to blindfold me at all.”

As expected for a contemporary audience, Holmes keeps up a fast pace that nonetheless retains a chilling tension, most suspenseful in the build-up to the murders. The film makes good use of classic, if not clichéd, symbolism, for example the ravens that omen Blackwood’s movements. The timeline is creatively flexible, featuring stylistic flashbacks, slow-motion and fast-motion shots, keeping the audience on their toes. Other special effects include the sound, which in several sequences is partially muted, giving the effect of ringing ears. Hans Zimmer’s score merges an eclectic orchestra and synthesisers with a powerful, dramatic theme and Irish vocals, bringing a new atmosphere to a eminent, well-loved world.

Holmes is not a film to watch only once. A downside of the film’s pace is the impossible task of absorbing everything in one sitting; the dialogue is delivered too quickly sometimes to catch, particularly Downey Jr’s, and while the flashbacks engage the audience with details they missed the first time, it can feel like making a mockery of minds not as perceptive as Holmes’. However, the silver lining is that the lavish set and the beautifully crafted script display something new to every audience member in the second, fifth, tenth viewing.

The portrayal of Sherlock Holmes focuses more on his character flaws, including his disorganised living and lack of exercising social skills that cause a rift between himself and Watson: “When do I ever complain about you practising the violin at three in the morning, or your mess, your general lack of hygiene, or the fact that you steal my clothes?”, and earns himself a drink in his face from Watson’s fiancée Mary (Kelly Reilly).

The convoluted plot unfolds in more twists and turns than a labyrinth, as Holmes and Watson get embroiled in escapade after escapade, from the giant Frenchman wielding a mallet to the tense slaughterhouse scene, sprinkled liberally with humour all the way through the film: “I wonder if they’d let Watson and me dissect your brain. After you hang, of course. I’d wager there would be some deformity that would be scientifically significant”. The grand finale takes place high above Victorian London, on the half-completed Tower Bridge, amid a stormy sky and falling scaffolding.

Like all good films, the ending leaves some loose ends; that of the faceless Professor Moriarty, and leaves the way open for the sequel, Sherlock Homes 2, due for release later this year.

If at First You Don’t Succeed …

1 - Eat chocolate and try again.

2 - Watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer and try again.

3 - Read a Charles Dickens novel and try again.

4 - Win Monopoly and try again.

5 - Beat the world high score on Runescape and try again.

6 - Order four-course Chinese and try again.

7 - Go to see the Lion King on stage and try again.

8 - Change your mobile phone and spend all your credit on it and try again.

9 - Visit Disneyland Florida and try again.

10 - Write a novel and try again.

11 - Win a chess championship and try again.

12 - Spring-clean the whole of London and try again.

13 - Ask Santa for the twelve days of Christmas’ gifts, one at a time, for twelve years in a row and try again.

14 - Travel the world and try again.

15 - Mope about it till you’re 99 and 364 days old and try again.

UNLESS what you’re trying to do was to save the world in a 60-second deadline, in which case you’d better skip all the above and get a move on!

Ivy's Diary (Fiction Piece)

Slightly late for Christmas, I apologise, but hopefully still an enjoyable read.

-

December 24^th, Number Fifteen.

Dear diary,

Christmas Eve feels different this year. NJ  has suddenly decided he’s too old to believe in Father Christmas. He announced it this morning as Holly and Joe argued over the red stocking.

It rather stunned the rest of us. My dear hubby certainly found it amusing. Well, he has that sense of humour. I personally found Nick’s face funnier. NJ didn’t seem to understand why we were both laughing so hard.

I told him to choose a stocking anyway, and later I asked Nick what he thought. He just smiled that infuriating smile at me, the one which makes me simultaneously want to kiss him and slap him.

“Ivy, he’s twelve. Every other child in the world stops believing in Santa long before his age.”

“When did you stop?” I asked.

“My dear, I never stopped, as you well know.”

“Well, NJ has. Are you going to talk to him? The last thing we want is him ruining Christmas for the little ones.”

Nick assured me he would, but of course, he won’t. I know him too well. He will be up to eyes in work, as usual, and then the kids will go to bed and that will leave me to fill the stockings with the presents I chose and I wrapped.

The fact that I am the one carrying out this tradition every year never fails to strike me as ironic. My dearest mother-in-law of course makes it her business to point out that when she was married to Nick’s father, he always took care of all the Christmas preparations. But then, considering the family business almost went bankrupt when he was in charge, I suppose he can’t have put in all the time and effort that my husband does.

Of course, I would never say this to her face. There are a lot of things I would love to say to her face but could never dare, not even after three glasses of mulled wine. One of them is currently sidling into the bedroom, giving me a mournful look. I suppose Nick must have chased him out of his study.

It’s harder to write now Rudolph has settled down on my lap. He was a present to the children last year from aforementioned mother-in-law. While they continue to adore him, Nick and I quickly grew tired of the holes being chewed in everything – slippers, sofa, curtains … I swear the damn dog even had a go at the Christmas tree yesterday, it looked lop-sided near the bottom and he had pine needles stuck in his fur.

I know I am far from being the only person in the world who cannot stand the run-up to Christmas. That does not mean that I am cold-hearted, just married to a man who is unavailable for most of December. And November and October and September as well, come to that.

Still, tomorrow is Christmas Day. I look forward to it in the ever-optimistic hope that NJ will forget his age and enjoy himself, Nick won’t be too exhausted to help with the turkey, and his mother will have lost her voice.

Well, a woman can dream, can’t she?

- I. Clause

NaNoWriMo Winner! Novel Excerpt

Samuel’s words echoed in Casey’s head that night as she tossed and turned, unable to sleep. The phrase “believing in something beyond what we can see and hear” rang alongside the images of her parent’s deaths, rapidly swapping still pictures as if a slideshow was playing in her mind. Casey kept sitting up and checking on Erri to make sure he was still breathing.

This is nuts, she told herself after the clock had chimed three. Why am I allowing that stuck-up historian to bring all this stuff back?

She slid out of bed, pulled on her dressing-gown and opened up her laptop, intending to do some homework to distract her, but almost dropped it as something moved in the corner of the room.

Casey slapped the light on, and for the split second before it reached full brightness she thought she saw a figure vanish into the wall. But there was nobody there.

Her heart racing, Casey turned the main light back off so as not to disturb her brother, and instead turned on the lamp. She was just over-reacting, she would just get on with her work till daylight and then do the day as normal. But searching the web for information on Salvador Dali was not as distracting as she had hoped. In every image she saw a shadow, in every sentence she read the past.

What Do YOU Think About Sex Ed?

Written in response to article in Metro this morning.


I strongly disagree with the FPA’s view that in order to stamp out teenagers having sex too early when they are unprepared for the consequences, teenagers need to be told about sex earlier. Can’t they see that it makes no sense?


Teenage pregnancies, abortions and sexually transmitted illnesses are on the increase at least partly because teenagers are becoming more sexually aware – why? Because they’re being bombarded with sexual messages on a more and more regular basis. Whether it’s sex education in primary schools, condom adverts on television or pop stars prancing around naked in pop videos, it’s a part of the culture that is becoming near impossible to shield children from.


I have never met a teenager who did not know what a condom was, yet so much teen sex is obviously unprotected. Drumming it in further and earlier that it exists is not going to solve the problem. It is also going to contradict the law: “You’re not allowed to do this until you are sixteen, but here’s the information several years in advance”.


Rather than forcing more sex education down children’s throats, facts of life should be taught later and children allowed to be children, rather than sexualised mini-adults. Let’s be honest, how many parents would want their children taught all about sex and condoms at the age of five? Because this is how far it could get before those in control of sex education realise they’re doing the opposite of what they should be.

NaNoWriMo: Novel Excerpt

Casey wished she had brought her sketchbook down with her as she watched her brother race up and down the pool. There were very few guests swimming, so he had most of the pool to himself. Every now and then he would swim up to the side and playfully splash her, and she would do the same back. It was a good quality pool, large and clean, and the room was fairly well lit from a vast glass window in the wall by the deep end. The walls were decorated with Victorian tiles, and Casey kept staring at them, imagining copying the patterns. She was not too bothered about the swimming, although she was quite enjoying the water swirling around her ankles that she was dangling over the side.

“Look, Erri, I’m going to go and get dressed now,” she called to her brother. “I’ve got homework to do.”

“Okay,” he replied, and Casey forced herself to stand up and leave the pool. As she dried her hair, she turned her mind to her English essay. She was having trouble finding sources to quote; her lecturer had suggested browsing a library for anything that took her fancy. Casey had not had an opportunity t sign up for the local library yet, and besides she didn’t want to leave the hotel with Erri still here; she would look at the hotel’s library. From what she had seen of it, the only books in it were decades old, which should at least make her work unique to her classmates’ whose sole source was Google.

As Casey entered the library, she saw that it was not empty. Searching shelves was a young man, several years older than her, who turned and smiled at her. “Afternoon.”

“Hi,” Casey replied, not wanting to be rude. “Sorry, am I disturbing you?”

“By no means. Go ahead.”

She began browsing the shelves, but could feel his eye on her. After a few minutes she turned round and, seeing that she was looking at him, he quickly diverted his gaze.

“Can I help you?” Casey asked.

“I’m fine, thank you,” was the reply. Casey continued to study him. There was a distinct blush creeping over his cheeks and he was now carefully looking anywhere but at her. Seemingly to grab it as n excuse, he removed his glasses and started to polish them on his jacket sleeve.

Casey put her mind back on her work. He was kind of cute, she admitted, but she knew the rules.

Another few minutes passed, and Casey began flicking through the books, before there was another interruption. “Ms Tyrrims?”

Casey looked up, and out of the corner of her eye she saw the man beside her react violently, dropping the books and papers he was holding at his feet. “Yes?”

“Call for you at reception,” her boss answered. Casey stifled a sigh. She desperately needed to change her mobile, the reception here was awful. “Okay, thanks.” She replaced her book on the shelf and made to leave, but a hand grabbed at her arm.

“Your name’s Tyrrims?”

Startled, Casey stared at the man. “Yes – I – Let me go.”

He dropped her arm. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to – I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“Not much.” Casey sent him a glare “Who are you?”

“Samuel Willoughby.” He held out his hand, but Casey didn’t take it, and he let it fall to his side again. “I’m sorry – could I -”

“Excuse me, I’ve got a call waiting,” Casey said, and hurried out of the library.

Umbrella Care Label

I am your new umbrella.

Caution: I have a mind of my own. While I keep gentle showers from messing up your hairdo, I am not designed to enjoy the kinds of weather you really want me for and will snap my prongs or turn inside-out in protest.


I double as weather controlling tool. Take me out and about with you to guarantee a spotless sky, no matter what the weather reporter says. If you desire it to rain, prepare to take me out and then at the last minute change your mind or forget. Will gather the clouds every time.


Rain wash only. Not suitable for use in conjunction with sleet, hail, thunder, lightning, slush, snow, tornadoes, twisters, tempests or tumble dryers.


The End