When I was seven or eight, I met my childhood hero, the one who pulled me into the 19th century. On a rainy Sunday afternoon, my father took us into Boston to see the 1939 film “The Hound of the Baskervilles”. You may know it, the brittle brilliant Holmes, his dottering Dr. Watson, and 200 pounds of sinew, teeth and fur. Piece by piece, clue by clue, it all came perfectly together; how could I resist? Why should I?
From that afternoon on, Holmes was my number one, over-the-top hero. Comic books, space-operas, they meant nothing to me. Other detectives were mere, dim shadows. Holmes solved crimes on the London street and in country homes in that big costume-drama, the Victorian era, where I dreamt. At night, on the school-bus and during Math lessons, I invented crimes to solve with Holmes by my side.
By the time I was ten and attending the yearly meetings of the Friends of Irene Adler, I had probably heard every story thanks to a public radio station that ran the half-hour radio plays of the Sherlock Holmes stories made by the BBC in the 1940s. My father and I saved each story on an old tape recorder we placed by the speaker. Dad and I liked these better than the movies because they got the whole stories just right and showed Watson the way he really was; as Holmes’ intelligent contemporary. Listening to those plays with Dad was the best part of Sundays.
Every December, Dad put on his tux and escorted me to the dinner-meeting of The Friends of Irene Adler. Here, all members worked our way through a nearly impossible quiz on Holmes and his work before dining on roast goose and sherry trifle. At my first meeting, I got up and proposed a toast to The Baker Street Irregulars. The Irregulars were the street-kids whom Holmes paid shilling to ferret out clues and information. Queen Victoria, Irene Adler, Holmes and Watson had been thusly honoured I didn’t want my boyos to be forgotten. Nobody had thought to toast them before, and that became my yearly responsibility.
I loved Holmes because he proved that being smarter than anyone else really counted for something, Sometimes, it was all you needed.
When I was a kid, I liked Irene Adler just fine. It took me years to fully appeacuate her power. She stopped Holmes in his tracks so completely that he had to admit defeat, even to himself. It’s only after watching men lock themselves into some pretty stupid mistakes because they can’t own up to making mistakes that I realise what an achievement that is.
Another hero from my childhood was Oscar Wilde. He never solved a crime or prevented an innocent woman from being mauled by mastiffs, but Oscar could nail a situation, or an adversary, with a few well-chosen words. Oscar would probably have made a better dinner-companion.
So, did I like the new Sherlock Holmes movie? Oh, yes I did!!! It’s a big concoction of 19th century adventure. This is still the kind of get-away I need.
From that afternoon on, Holmes was my number one, over-the-top hero. Comic books, space-operas, they meant nothing to me. Other detectives were mere, dim shadows. Holmes solved crimes on the London street and in country homes in that big costume-drama, the Victorian era, where I dreamt. At night, on the school-bus and during Math lessons, I invented crimes to solve with Holmes by my side.
By the time I was ten and attending the yearly meetings of the Friends of Irene Adler, I had probably heard every story thanks to a public radio station that ran the half-hour radio plays of the Sherlock Holmes stories made by the BBC in the 1940s. My father and I saved each story on an old tape recorder we placed by the speaker. Dad and I liked these better than the movies because they got the whole stories just right and showed Watson the way he really was; as Holmes’ intelligent contemporary. Listening to those plays with Dad was the best part of Sundays.
Every December, Dad put on his tux and escorted me to the dinner-meeting of The Friends of Irene Adler. Here, all members worked our way through a nearly impossible quiz on Holmes and his work before dining on roast goose and sherry trifle. At my first meeting, I got up and proposed a toast to The Baker Street Irregulars. The Irregulars were the street-kids whom Holmes paid shilling to ferret out clues and information. Queen Victoria, Irene Adler, Holmes and Watson had been thusly honoured I didn’t want my boyos to be forgotten. Nobody had thought to toast them before, and that became my yearly responsibility.
I loved Holmes because he proved that being smarter than anyone else really counted for something, Sometimes, it was all you needed.
When I was a kid, I liked Irene Adler just fine. It took me years to fully appeacuate her power. She stopped Holmes in his tracks so completely that he had to admit defeat, even to himself. It’s only after watching men lock themselves into some pretty stupid mistakes because they can’t own up to making mistakes that I realise what an achievement that is.
Another hero from my childhood was Oscar Wilde. He never solved a crime or prevented an innocent woman from being mauled by mastiffs, but Oscar could nail a situation, or an adversary, with a few well-chosen words. Oscar would probably have made a better dinner-companion.
So, did I like the new Sherlock Holmes movie? Oh, yes I did!!! It’s a big concoction of 19th century adventure. This is still the kind of get-away I need.
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