Since Christmas 2008, I have had the complete set of Sherlock Holmes stories in my pile of books to read. However, given the size of it I have always kept it as the crowning glory at the end of my tottering literary heap. However, as my book pile is far from a static object, I have been distracted and many other books have queue-jumped, leaving my Complete Sherlock Holmes by Arthur Conan Doyle gathering dust at the bottom. Ironic then that such was my anticipation to read such a fantastic work (one of my principal aims in life is to read as many of the classic novels as possible), I neglected it so that I could enjoy it without the hanging-on of another upcoming book…

But now, reliving my A-Level English Literature days, I have seen the film rather than read the book (I know it’s not a direct adaptation of any story, allow me a cheap metaphor!).

However, though I am going to write about the film, which I loved, I feel unqualified (having yet to read the books) to speak with authority on it as an adaptation, not that that has ever stopped me, I am going to flex my cynicism muscles and resolve simply to take the piss out of it. This is mainly because I have been reading Screen Burn by Charlie Brooker, one of my main writing influences, and what to test his style. I did, despite the uncharacteristic callousness I am about to adopt, enjoy this film immensely. Right, and scene……

Did you know that Arthur Conan Doyle had meant for his two characters, the best literary double-act since Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, Detective Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, to be men of around mid-thirties? Clearly Guy Ritchie did (aren’t you a little ashamed that you didn’t know something that Guy Ritchie did? My advice: kill yourself) and the Downey/Law pairing brought precisely the correct amount of brotherly love, exasperation and faint homoeroticism that made them believable as lifelong friends.

In yet another adaptation of a much-loved literary character, Robert Downey Junior, a man for whom I have an inexplicable urge to suffocate with a toilet brush made of his own stupid stubble usually, actually pulls off a decent performance in the title role. He’s no Basil Rathbone, even Jeremy Brett (who, to me, is as much the “definitive Holmes” as Lorraine Kelly is the definitive celebrity paedophile) would make Downey shit himself and then tell Jude Law precisely what the condition of his lower intestine is like based on the smell.

In many ways, Downey has the easy job, playing Holmes as a smirking ejaculation of wit and charisma. Though Holmes only drops the smugness (making me want to choke Downey all the more) for one brief moment to assume Downey’s only other facial expression, contemplative. The only reason he was chosen for Iron Man is that he could convincingly pull off the enigmatic Tony Stark with his face smirk before they realised and put in many more scenes behind the mask, so nobody would notice that his face has the emotive range of much harder role is that of Watson, played here by Dane-playing/Aftershave-promoting Jude Law. The good doctor is put in a previously unseen number of different positions, he is in love and balancing his future marriage (and unequivocal boredom, let’s be honest) and his clear knowledge that Holmes needs him, having to choose between helping his friend and what he wants. Law gives  a flawless performance and, combined with credit to the script writing, you can sympathise and understand why Watson still helps the smarmy bastard and comprehend their mismatched friendship.

The love-interest, Irene Adler, is played by the offputtingly-young Rachel McAdams. They needed to have a young, sexy femme fatalé of course, but could they really not find someone else who didn’t make Holmes look like he’s a dirty old man. Downey’s stupid tiny-beard didn’t help the sense that he was about to flash her, or negate, when they kissed, the awkward and slightly sickened feeling that you get from something like watching the Chuckle Brothers host a kids game show. Then again, Jude Law did have the moustache to match!

Visually, this film somehow manages to make Industrial-Revolution-era London seem remarkably vibrant and innovative, while still retaining the characteristic smog and grime that we come to expect. This is all down to the detail, simply by the poster you can tell that both Holmes and Watson wear very detailed clothing, and the interior scenes, such as the duo’s apartment, is so finely decorated that I’d wager we only saw half the set in shot and could spend a good few days exploring all the objects left. It combines the steam-power of Victorian Britain with the steam-punk of modern culture (coats circa Matrix et al) and makes a compelling and visually delicious setting.

The villain is Lord Blackwood, a walking and talking advert for the multiple applications of engine oil, including hair styling and making coats look extra shiny, who couldn’t be more quintessential villain if he tried. The villain that we REALLY wanted to see, Professor Moriarty (for the geeks, The Master to Holmes’ Doctor), remains in the shadows, seen twice and his identity finally revealed in a manner so bleeding obvious it doesn’t even warrant a spoiler alert. The conclusion of the film, that is: the foiling of Blackwood’s plot, is over incredibly quickly – but then it’s not really the action sequences  that the Baker Street Irregulars are there for, it’s the scene where Holmes details how he unravelled the mystery that here fleshed the film’s two-hour running time well and has made Holmes such an icon – the deerstalker probably helped too.

The setup of a sequel is so obvious that I half expected Downey to sit down with a pipe (no opium use by Holmes for a 12A rating I guess) and a magnifying glass and speculate aloud about the release date of the sequel and who would play Moriarty – really get the feel of interactivity. As I mentioned, Moriarty was heard but not seen, hiding in the shadows simply because they haven’t case him yet – rumours of Brad Pitt will only escape my scorn if he can pull off a British accent properly; if Downey can do it, anyone can.

My main concern in this film was the worry that they turned Holmes from a logical, observant and deductive genius into an action hero, which wasn’t helped by the trailer consisting of mostly explosions, gun-fire, stunts and, worse of all, magic. These fears were intermittent throughout, for a “modern audience” (in other words the people you see bellowing at pigeons outside clubs at 3 in the morning) and a Guy Ritchie film, you’d expect a lot of stunts and action sequences, which where there (though notably not exactly absent from the books either). I could forgive this as long as the original character traits are retained, a few more added I could handle, and I wasn’t disappointed. The best scene in the movie is when Downey puts his constantly arrogant face to good use as Holmes recounts the clues littered throughout the film that helped him reveal Blackwood’s fraudulence, but it wasn’t as delightfully subtle as the books. The whole fun of reading mystery novels is that the author is giving you clues in the text, in the way it’s written, minor details and subtle nuances that allow the reader to try and deduce the mystery themselves. Of course, this format cannot be emulated quite so well in motion picture, but this is done about as well as it could’ve been.

A valiant effort, making as much use of the format as possible to emulate the feel of the original. As a film it’s spectacular, as an adaptation of the characters it’s very good and true to the text, Ritchie has (by degrees) achieved what many would struggle with, combining classic literature with modern film goer expectations without betraying the original – kudos.

Now where’s my deerstalker gone?