Holmes Sweet Holmes

I’ve just watched the first episode of the BBC series Sherlock, a modern reimagination of the classic detective stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I’m hooked.

First, the dialogue is fantastic. Say what you will about the British, but they can write dialogue that far surpasses 80% of stuff you find across the pond. At one point, in reference to being a sounding board for Holmes, Watson remarks, “So I’m replacing a skull.” “Oh, don’t worry, you’re doing fine,” Holmes replies. I was in stitches. Why are the British so good at writing witty remarks that just roll off the tongue? If I had to hazard a guess (and by gum I do; it’s my blog), I’d reference the stereotype of the stoic repressed nature of Brits, who find it necessary to express themselves with words rather than facial expressions and wild gesticulations, the way Americans tend to. When Anthony Hopkins loses his temper and barks, it’s much more impactful given the quiet and controlled nature of the characters he invariably depicts. Contrast that with the likes of Tom Cruise or Al Pacino, who seem incapable of conveying great depths of emotion and intensity without raising their voices a few hundred decibels or so. When everything’s exaggerated and loud, the occasional outburst packs much less of a dramatic punch. So in lieu of relying on very expressive body language and vocal modulations, the British convey their inner thoughts through words. How droll.

Quite apart from the actual storyline, which was brilliant and literally had me on the edge of my seat, I find myself irresistibly drawn to Sherlock Holmes and his faithful cohort Dr. John Watson. I’ve read the stories many times; in fact, I once wrote a paper for an Agriculture class using a Sherlock Holmes story as the illustration, so deep were the tales permeating my psyche. I’ve seen several film adaptations; my favorite, of course, being the spoof Without  A Clue with Michael Caine and Sir Ben Kingsley, which cleverly inverts the classic tale by portraying Holmes as a stumblebum drunk womanizer incapable of the slightest deduction, and Watson as the longsuffering criminologist who endures Holmes due to public demand. I thoroughly enjoyed the recent film Sherlock Holmes with Robert Downy Jr. as the detective, and Jude Law as Watson; the film portrayed Holmes as a borderline autistic savant full of bohemian frivolity and Watson as the straight-backed foil who cannot resist the thrill of the hunt.

Perhaps the best recent adaptation of the original stories’ dynamic is found in the medical show House, in which the title character is a brilliant yet caustic doctor who diagnoses mysterious diseases that have baffled every other medical mind. Wilson is his only friend and acts as the counter to House’s misanthropy, providing that all-important banter. After seven seasons, the show has evolved away from the original concept of a new medical mystery each week to focus more on the interpersonal relationships that revolve around the center character and his team of doctors who work with him. A medical drama, it has nonetheless provided me with more hilarity than any comedy this side of Seinfeld or Arrested Development, as House levels his sarcasm and bile at ordinary people and their quirks.

This show promises (dare I say) to surpass even the transcendence of House, if the pilot is any indication. It helps that it’s being written by Brits (he is, after all, an Englishman originally), and transpires in the original context of solving crimes in the bustling metropolis of London. Holmes is once again a manic-depressive social recluse who mocks the police and pierces through the ordinary to notice the seemingly mundane yet essential details that lead to the mystery’s unraveling. And Watson is a war veteran who craves something out of the ordinary, seeking adventure and the unusual. The actors acquit themselves excellently, delivering dialogue and action with distinction and realism. I could rave on, but you really should see for yourself.

What prompted this entry, however, is something that I’ve recognized in my tastes for a while now: some really good banter. My favorite scenes in House are when House and someone (usually Wilson) are going at it hammer and tongs. Another of my favorite movies is Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang, a somewhat recent movie with the aforementioned Downy and Val Kilmer, two men trying to solve a mystery that falls into the pulp noire genre. They bicker and discuss the ins and outs of the case, among other things, with great relish; Downy thrives with biting exchanges, as seen in his own take on Holmes. Other examples include Lethal Weapon, written by the same screenwriter as KK,BB. Even The Princess Bride features some smashing good banter, as well as other of Bill Goldman’s movies like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid or Maverick. It’s the wordsmith in me that delights in a great comeback or a clever turn of the phrase. Heck, to complete my anglophile profile, I admit that my most beloved passages of the Harry Potter series are when Ron and Hermione are going back and forth; Ron in particular has some riotous one-liners that are sadly lacking from the film adaptations.

One theme that resonates with me deeply is the notion of a loner, misunderstood and despised by most, who finds a companion who can understand him or at least appreciate him (or her, I suppose, though I can’t think off-hand of female characters that fit this bill). Holmes has perennially been such a one, the genius at deduction and observation impatient with those who fail to see and grasp the revelations hidden within minutiae. Most of us have come across such a one sometime in our lives; a person who offers a different perspective on life than virtually everyone else, and who consequently suffers because of it. One of my favorite moments on House occurs when a prolific musician confronts House, noting that most people don’t have that “one thing” that elevates their hearts and minds to great heights, at the cost of being “normal” and enjoying the everyday elements of life. The very thing that distinguishes them from the masses isolates them from the masses; they cannot participate in life as we do. So when they can find someone who will put up with or appreciate their genius, it makes it that much sweeter than if they had lots of friends and raised a pint at the local pub regularly. When you don’t have very much of something, you appreciate what little you do have more than if you enjoyed bounty in that area.

I am no genius, but I am abnormal. (And don’t start on that vein of “what is normal?”; I know it’s mostly a social construct, but the reality is that the vast majority of people in a society behave in similar ways). I have always fancied, during bouts of self-pity, that I am actually in a worse state than those tortured geniuses who produce greatness at a high price, since I don’t even have the consolation of being a great artist or athlete or arithmetician to go along with my loneliness. I just find it difficult to make friends, to find people who appreciate me. Which means that when I do, I tend to be overeager to spend time with them, like a thirsty man in the desert gulping water at the first oasis he happens upon. The Lord has been working on that with me, and I am leagues beyond where I was 8 years ago in this area, but it’s still a struggle not to call up my few friends on a daily basis to hang out with them. Man is a social beast; one of the first conclusions God drew from His observation of Adam was that it wasn’t good from him to be on his own. We need companionship; not just in the physical sense, but even more so the friendships, the relationships that are built not upon common need and desire, but upon common interest and enthusiasm. (I merely repeat what C. S. Lewis posited in The Four Loves, but we all mostly repeat Jack when we discuss a practical truth about humans).

It is, in essence, the greatest testament of genuine affection found on earth, the true friend. For a lover, spouse, parent, or child all love and are loved with ulterior motives. The lover craves physical satisfaction, the experience of ecstasy and affection for themselves as well as the beloved. The spouse wants the same, as well as companionship and stability, a fellow traveler on the road of life and a helper in domestic matters. The parent and child are two sides of the same coin; the parent loves the child, but also takes solace in the continuation of the human race and the satisfaction of creation from their offspring. The child appreciates parents for providing affection and protection during early childhood, as well as guidance and counsel throughout their lives. There is no disinterested affection in life, save the Friend.

The Friend does not appreciate you for anything you can provide to them. I am referring to the ideal of a Friend, as Plato would have it. If two people are friends because one has money or access to luxuries and the other appreciates that access, then they are not true Friends; their friendship is contingent. An ideal Friend does not care what the other person has to offer, but rather that the other person is willing to offer it to them. I enjoy golf, and when I was friends with Johnny Vines, it didn’t matter what golf course we played at or whether he paid for my round or I for his; we enjoyed each other’s company and the common interest that united our hearts and minds. Gloriously, we shared many common interests, and as our friendship deepened, it expanded to encompass these other things. But I wasn’t friends with him because he had cable TV, which I would take advantage of; were that the case, we would not have been true friends.

If you have never had a true Friend who asks nothing from you and from whom you hope to gain nothing, then you are truly missing out. For a friend like that will truly stick closer than a brother; brothers and sisters, after all, are accidents of birth. We don’t choose our family; we do choose our friends, and our friends choose us.

And by the way, what a Friend we have in Jesus.