The New Sherlock

I’m a big fan of the Sherlock Holmes stories and an even bigger fan of the Granada television series produced in the 1980s and 90s. Starring Jeremy Brett as Holmes, this series was lavishly produced, well-scripted, and smartly acted. It was hard to imagine watching a version I’d like more. Still, when I heard that a new series was airing on MASTERPIECE this fall, I couldn’t wait. On the night of its premiere, I made popcorn, poured wine, and-- to coin a phrase from Holmes himself--waited for the “game” to begin.

And what a game it is! This series is as far afield from the Granada one as possible—and so far, I like it just as much, if not better. The Granada series had a warm bath feel to it. Shot in sepia colors, it relished in period details and unfolded its plot slowly—as if matching its metabolism to that of its middle-aged audience. Set in the 21st century, this new version is relentlessly cold and hard-edged; it has all the snuggability of a cell phone. Aimed at young viewers, it moves very, very fast. Get up to make a cup of tea, and you might as well go to bed.

The new incarnations of Holmes, his faithful friend Dr. Watson, and the hopelessly befuddled Inspector Lestrade are all wonderful. I’m especially impressed with what the series has done with Watson (played by Martin Freeman, The Office). In the famous Basil Rathbone series of the 1930s, Watson is a comic buffoon. In the Granada version, he’s smarter but dully middle-aged and bourgeois. In this new version, he’s funny, sexy, and much angstier. In the opening scene of the first episode, called “A Study in Pink,” Watson is lying in a London hotel room having nightmares about his experience as a war doctor in Afghanistan. He gets up, limps around the room with a cane, and stares at an empty computer screen. Cut to the next scene, where we see him sitting with his therapist, who, upon hearing that he hasn’t written a word, advises him that “writing a blog about everything that happens to you will help you.” “Nothing happens to me,” he retorts. And that’s when the credits begin to roll, for what will happen to him--as to us--is Sherlock Holmes.


In an interview with MASTERPIECE, Benedict Cumberbatch, who plays Holmes, explained that he didn’t spend a lot of time watching other performances by previous actors. Instead, he focused his energy on making his version of Holmes as different and up-to-date as possible. What he has had to work on most, he says, is all the memorization required by the several monologues he delivers per show. In these monologues, Holmes recounts his deductive processes with Watson and, sometimes, Inspector Lestrade (Rupert Graves). Designed to fill readers and viewers in, this recounting is a standard trope in the original stories and in most Holmes adaptations. Plotwise, it’s necessary but tends to clog up the stories with too much talk. Here, however, Cumberbatch’s talking is such a tour-de-force—full of so much brio and invention—that these monologues are the highlights of each episode. They draw attention to the power of Holmes’ mind, to the sheer bravado of Cumberbatch’s acting, and to the talent of the screenwriters.

Any version of Sherlock Holmes requires that the chemistry between him and Watson be just right—affectionate, witty, even a little flirtatious. By the end of episode one, the angst-ridden Watson is merrily chasing a serial killer around the streets of London, forgetting his cane and at least some of his angst, having a good laugh with Holmes about the “ridiculousness” of their chase. Rupert Graves (who keeps making appearances on crime shows) rounds out the chemistry between the two men. Unlike almost all other versions, which tend to portray Lestrade as an arrogant buffoon, Grave’s Lestrade is a likeable guy, his intelligence on par with Watson’s.

The series isn’t an “adaptation” of the Doyle stories but what critic Julian Sanders calls an “appropriation.” An appropriation doesn’t follow the plot of an original text but instead borrows elements from it. Thus, several characters from the original series appear in this new version, including Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s brother; Jim Moriarty, Holmes’ arch-enemy; and Mrs. Hudson, Holmes’ eccentric landlady. As in the original stories, Cumberbatch’s Holmes is filled with a dangerous ennui unless he’s working on a case, and he’s an absolute genius of forensic science (there are lots of moments of him looking through a microscope or magnifying glass). But as a 21st century incarnation, his main instruments of detection are his laptop and cell phone. He texts constantly. And the criminals he pursues text back.

In the third episode, which is darker than the others, he meets Moriarty in a spine-tingling scene. The end is shocking, so absolute a cliffhanger that if MASTERPIECE doesn’t air the second season of the series, I’m moving to England.

The series premiered on October 25th with “A Study in Pink.” “The Blind Banker” aired the next week and “The Great Game” aired on November 6th. Two of the series are available on MASTERPIECE’s website until December 7th. WATCH THEM NOW!

Foyle's War, My New Addiction

Foyle’s War, My New Addiction

Although Masterpiece has been broadcasting it since 2003, I only began watching Foyle’s War last Sunday night. What a dope I am to have joined the party so late.

Featured on Masterpiece’s Mystery! series, which launched two weeks ago, Foyle’s War was originally commissioned by the ITV network to fill the void left by the departure of Inspector Morse. Christopher Foyle (played by Michael Kitchen) is a near-retirement detective who works for the British government and, much to his disappointment, has been ordered to solve local crimes in the small, sleepy town of Hastings (he keeps petitioning his superiors to release him to the armed forces). The series was supposed to have ended in 2008, but British fans would have none of that. They love Christopher Foyle. And so Anthony Horowitz, the series’s creator, has kept the old chap out of retirement for the sake of his British fan club, much like Arthur Conan Doyle did with Sherlock Holmes back in 1903.

Foyle’s character is sketched extremely well; he is tough, clear-sighted, quiet, formal, and aloof (if he has a flaw, this is it). In his own way, he is sexy, too. I remember seeing Michael Kitchen for the first time in the film Enchanted April, where he plays a much more nervous, much less confident man. Even then, I thought those blue eyes and voice of his were dreamy. I also like his understated acting style, which gives the whole show an air of refinement and restraint; Foyle’s War is a little like watching Law and Order without all the yelling. But what really makes this detective so sexy is his high moral standards; I’m drawn to male characters like Christopher Foyle because, after all, there are so few of them in the world.

Last week’s episode was from Series VI. World War II is now over, and the cold war has begun. The disillusioned British are asking themselves: “What was this war all about?” I’m told this episode was tougher than most in that the murder victim, a single mother named Mandy Dean (Charlotte Riley), is someone for whom we feel tremendous sympathy. Socially ostracized, she has difficulty even finding a place for her and her baby to live—until Foyle’s sidekick, Samantha Stewart (Honeysuckle Weeks) takes her in. Adding to the drama is the fact that Mandy’s lover, Gabe Kelly, is a black GI (Obi Abili). Thus, the episode focuses on a local crime to explore the global issue of racism and its various manifestations in postwar Britain.

Like other shows featured on Masterpiece, Foyle’s War is exacting in its period details (I just love Honeysuckle Week’s jackets and trousers!). But the human drama is what makes this episode do darn good. One of the first scenes in the series has to do with the town council deciding to segregate the town, not only at the behest of the U.S. Army, but because the burghers are racist, too. Naturally, Foyle isn’t digging it. The Empire, as both he and we know, is dead. It makes no sense that matters should continue as they did before, which means that racism can’t be upheld either. It’s a hard lesson for both the Army and the townspeople to learn.
Another memorable scene is the one where Gabe enters an all-white dance hall with two of his black GI friends. Seeing the hostile stares of those in attendance, the two friends leave. But Gabe stays. He walks straight up to Mandy and asks her to dance. As this scene vivifies, much of the racism in wartime Britain was about sexual rivalry and competition. For many white Englishwomen, Black American Yanks were more exotic than their white counterparts. For Mandy, however, Gabe was far more than a romantic or sexual thrill; he was the father of her child, and her hope for a better life.
Judging from this one episode, it seems that Foyle and his colleagues must wage their own personal war amidst the tumult of a larger one. Steadfast and loyal to each other, they strive to uphold the values for which they and their countrymen have fought and died. The moral conundrum, however, is that very few people seem to care about the local crimes they investigate when the country is in such ravages. It’s a fascinating, troubling premise; I think I may be hooked.

Watching Anne Frank

I’ve never read The Diary of Anne Frank. Somehow, it didn’t make my 8th grade reading list. Nor do I remember being required to read it in high school, although it’s entirely possible that I may have blown off reading Anne Frank to moon over some boy. So, like Catcher in the Rye and On the Road, it has remained one of those books I keep saying I’ll read but never do, probably because, at 46, it seems the time for me to have done so has long passed.


On one level, the BBC and Masterpiece’s Anne Frank is clearly intended for an audience much younger than I, a new generation of viewers who want a fresh approach to the story. Young audiences will certainly identify with this Anne Frank, played brilliantly by the radiant Ellie Kendrick. They’ll recognize in her their own youthful restlessness and anger, their own lust, their own ardent desire to shape an identity for themselves. And, given the series’ deliberate downplaying of historical specifics, they may see her story as representative of countless other young men and women—whether in the past, or right now, in Iraq or Afghanistan—whose lives have been brutally snuffed by war.

But the real marvel of this adaptation is how it allows viewers of all ages to find sources of identification. Even as it keeps its attention on Anne,
the series manages to stayed tuned to the feelings of the eight people who shared an attic with her for two years. In one riveting scene, a petulant Anne provokes a fight with Mrs. Frank, claiming that she and her sister will not make the “same stupid mistakes” made by her mother’s generation. “We’ll grow up and have careers, we’ll lead interesting lives,” she says. All the while, the camera remains on the mother’s painstricken face. And we know that her pain stems not from hurt feelings but from fear that the words of her daughter will never come true.

The film also devotes a surprising amount of time to Albert Dussel, the fussy, fifty-year-old dentist who shares a room with Anne. Having left his fiancée, Lotte, behind--a fiancée much younger than he--he appears to be so desperately in love that he can’t bear the separation. He writes letters to Lotte constantly, despite the group’s general agreement not to make any contact with the outside world. In one of several scenes, we see Dussel weeping inconsolably. And we’re left to wonder what the true source of his weeping may be. Is it love? loneliness? Or is it panic, a wholly reasonable fear that his beloved might grow tired of waiting and abandon him for another, younger man?

These scenes remind us that those two years in captivity contained other stories besides Anne’s. Like all good adaptations, then, Masterpiece's and the BBC's new version of The Diary of Anne Frank invites us to think beyond the borders of both its source material and its own interpretation of that material. And, it makes me want to read the book. Even now, especially now, at 46.

Goodbye, Dear Emma

Masterpiece’s airing of Emma ended last Sunday night, and all seven of us felt a little sad and aimless afterwards. “Now, what do we do?” asked Ruth. I wish the show and its co-producers would begin airing longer series, for I love the masochistic pleasure of being strung along, week by week. When I teach serialization, I tell students about how novels were woven into the fabric of the Victorians’ daily lives. And though we can never experience serialization in the same ways as they did, television series like those on Masterpiece do provide us with a modicum of that pleasure. Having said that, though, I’ll also note that one disappointment I had with this particular series was its structuring; I’d have preferred Emma to be divided into two rather than three episodes because one hour simply isn’t enough time to settle in. It’s like taking a ten-minute bath. What’s more, the ending of episode two felt abrupt, unsatisfying.

Among the highlights, however, was Emma and Knightley’s dance at the ball. I vividly recall the close-up of their gloved hands before they began, the nervousness on her face, the sheer pleasure they showed in being with each other. We were all delighted with the series’ conclusion, too, applauding the decision not to show us their wedding. At first, we thought this rather curious. But as we chatted, we began talking about how refreshing it felt not to see yet another Austen couple coming out of a church and going into a carriage. Instead, this series’ ending allowed Emma and Knightley a brief reprieve from the sweet but stifling world of Highbury. Here, the series concludes by showing Emma’s delight at seeing the ocean for the first time. It thus ends by moving her outward, beyond her father, beyond the confines of her gilded cage, suggesting that this may be the beginning of a less provincial Emma.

I also liked the quiet way in which the series handled her departure from her father, preparing us for that departure with a poignant scene wherein Mr. Woodhouse admits that perhaps he is a “foolish old man.” In his most recent book, film scholar Thomas Leitch argues that one way to approach an adaptation is to consider how it “improves” or “corrects” its source material. If Austen’s flaw as a novelist principally resides in her treatment of male characters, this series’ characterization of both Knightley and Mr. Woodhouse—and the two actors’ impressive performances—go a long way toward correcting that flaw.

What I didn’t like was the series’ treatment of Jane Fairfax and Frank Churchill. She was bland as unbuttered toast, and he was drawn much too broadly as a cad. Let me say at the outset that I don’t think Austen handles their characterization all that well either, but some of the best adaptations of Austen—Ang Lee’s Sense and Sensibility (1995) comes readily to mind—recognize Austen’s mistakes and strive to correct them. This series just compounds whatever dissatisfaction we might feel with both those characters. I was especially grumpy with them during the Boxhill episode, for I was so distracted by Churchill’s behavior—much of it way too audacious for the time period-- that the cut of Emma’s insult to Miss Bates, and the heartbreaking, gradual awareness registered in the other woman’s response—just slipped by me. Miss Bates’ response to Emma’s insult is one of the most powerful moments in the book—and the most powerful moment in the 1996 version, thanks to Sophie Thompson’s performance. Here, it just gets buried.

One last thing: we adore Laura Linney, but we feel she is being wasted on the show. Let her move, give her a setting, and for God’s sake, take her out of that black dress. She’s a smart woman speaking to a smart audience; why not give her introductions substance?

Loving Emma

I can’t say I’ve ever been a big fan of Austen’s Emma. It’s wonderful to teach, but on a personal level it leaves me cold--or it did until last night, when some friends and I sat down to watch the most recent adaptation of Emma on Masterpiece.

Quite simply, I loved it.

Emma is played by Romola Garai, who starred in the BBC version of Daniel Deronda as Gwendolyn Harleth, another nineteenth-century heroine in need of a good spanking. Garai was a brilliant casting choice. As in her portrayal of Gwendolyn, she plays Emma’s faults with relish while also making her endlessly fascinating. Garai’s Emma possesses just as much selfishness and snobbery as Austen’s heroine, but she, too, has her moments of grace and vulnerability. I was especially moved by how the filmmakers depict Emma walking forlornly through her home once her sister and Miss Taylor are married, each empty room—and all its vast space-- reminding her of the consequences of her successful matchmaking. Best of all, this Emma has lots of spunk. Her arguments with Knightley are simply glorious, the best part of the series thus far.

Mr. Knightley, as played by Jonny Lee Miller, is divine. Despite his early marriage to Angelina Jolie, Miller has the look and air of a man with good judgment, clarity of thought, and wisdom. And in his scenes with Emma—whether the two of them are arguing, reconciling, or holding their infant niece, we can see what a natural, inevitable couple they make. Miller and Garai may not look sixteen years apart in age (because they’re not), but who cares?

In contrast to the earthy hues of Cranford and its sequel Return to Cranford, this new Emma has a palette of soft greens, reds, and pinks: the colors of life and romance. It’s extraordinarily beautiful to watch, as if the world of Emma were a series of moving watercolors. Often, costume dramas can feel overwhelming, antique-shoppy, in their opulent beauty, but here—thanks to a delicate color scheme, uncluttered sets, and simple costuming—the film’s beauty seems as fresh as its heroine. This, indeed, is no country for old men (or women), and the airing of this new Emma on the heels of Cranford seems intentional.

Emma is replete with other, lovely touches too. The series begins with a montage of sequences showing little Emma, Jane Fairfax, and Frank Weston all losing their mothers to an untimely death. I liked this immediate yoking together of three rather disparate characters via backstory-- a backstory which also allows us to see Mr. Woodhouse’s brokenhearted response to his wife’s death, hauntingly registered in Michael Gambon’s face. In portraying this response, the film allows us to understand Woodhouse’s over-protectiveness and thus rescues him from caricature, something Austen herself didn’t do.

Rating: A!