"It was 'The
Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.' I opened the book with no realization that I
stood, or rather sat, on the brink of my fate. I had no inkling, no
premonition, that in another minute my life's work, such as it is, would be
born... I finished 'The Adventures' that night... As I closed the book, I knew
that I had read one of the greatest books ever written. And today I realize
with amazement how true and tempered was my twelve-year-old critical sense. For
in the mature smugness of my present literary judgment, I still feel
unalterably that 'The Adventures' is one of the world's masterworks."
(Frederic Dannay)
"The best
literary work is that which leaves the reader better for having read it. Now
nobody can possibly be the better – in the high sense in which I mean it – for
reading Sherlock Holmes, although he may have passed a pleasant hour in doing
so. It was not to my mind high work, and no detective work ever can be, apart
from the fact that all work dealing with criminal matters is a cheap way of rousing
the interest of the reader." (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)
Sherlock Holmes ruined my life. But he also saved it. Because
of Sherlock Holmes, I now know more about the world, the people in it, and
myself. Previously a curious and avid student, Sherlock Holmes has made me
compulsive about learning to an obsessive degree. I think differently, and more
often, but to be fair, I’m usually thinking about a particular subject. And the
things I know aren’t always something everyone would find particularly
interesting, useful or necessary to everyday life. Some people would call it
superfluous knowledge. These aren’t always scholarly or erudite facts, either. But
some of them are. Nor has it always been a lofty or cerebral education. But
some of it has been. And now as I stand at the precipice of 100 blog posts
(well… sit, really, as Frederic Dannay was sitting… I’m sitting at my
computer), I’m prepared to admit to the dichotomy. I’m here with hat in hand
(not a deerstalker, rather more like a homburg, as we all know) and confess
that the Great Detective is both the best and worst thing that ever happened to
me.
I’m sure that some of Sherlock Holmes’s canonical clients
would say much the same thing. While Holmes might have been able to solve
whatever mystery they first approached him with, the explanation may have
ultimately exposed something that they would rather the world have not known, something
that they would never have willingly revealed to others, or simply something
that they would rather have not realized about themselves. In “The ‘Gloria Scott’”, one of Holmes’s very first cases, Victor Trevor undoubtedly felt
relief that Holmes was able to explain what happened to his father – the real
identity of Hudson and the reason for the shadow he cast over the elder Trevor’s
life – and the reason for his father’s fatal reaction to a seemingly innocuous letter. But
ultimately Holmes’s explanation revealed uncomfortable facts about his father’s
past – things that would be even more unsettling and disturbing now that
Victor’s father was no longer alive to discuss them. There may been a solution
for Victor Trevor, but there would never be any closure. Likewise Violet de Merville of “The Adventure of the Illustrious Client” probably felt no joy that
her fiancé, the villainous Baron Gruner, was unquestionably revealed as an
utter blackguard by Sherlock Holmes – but eventually there must have been
relief at the disastrous future that she so narrowly avoided.
And no one was more versed in the disparity of life and human
nature than Sherlock Holmes. As he said to Dr. Watson: “I assure you that the
most winning woman I ever knew was hanged for poisoning three little children
for their insurance-money, and the most repellent man of my acquaintance is a
philanthropist who has spent nearly a quarter of a million upon the London poor”
(SIGN). But being aware of that disparity doesn’t mean he was always able to
correctly assess it. In “The Yellow Face,” the Detective is quite convinced of
his own theory: that Mrs. Munro’s first husband is the occupant of the mysterious
cottage and he is an unscrupulous blackmailer. The climax of the story reveals
both Sherlock Holmes’s failings, and that the occupant of the cottage is Mrs.
Munro’s daughter from her first marriage. The Detective had assumed the worst,
and Mr. Munro neatly assesses the situation in saying: “I am not a very good
man, Effie, but I think that I am a better one than you have given me credit
for being.”
The Detective himself is a study in contradictions. Who
among Sherlockians doesn’t know that “…although in his methods of thought he
was the neatest and most methodical of mankind, and although also he affected a
certain quiet primness of dress, he was none the less in his personal habits
one of the most untidy men that ever drove a fellow-lodger to distraction”
(MUSG)? The actors who have portrayed Sherlock Holmes over the years have
usually been rather adept at capturing both sides of the Detective’s
personality. Most recently in his turn as the Great Detective, Benedict Cumberbatch sports immaculately tailored suits and coats (and, for some reason,
shirts that that appear expensive, if a size too small) – but keeps severed
heads and other assorted body parts in the refrigerator. And who can forget the
incomparable Jeremy Brett crawling through an ever-growing sea of papers in the
Baker Street sitting room – his hair sleeked back into a sharp widow’s peak,
his cuffs and collars spotlessly white, his suit somehow inexplicably remaining
wrinkle-free despite his exertions?
In addition, Holmes was ever inconsistent when it came to
personal relationships. In “A Scandal in Bohemia,” Watson says, “Grit in a
sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not
be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his.” And in “The Five Orange Pips,” Holmes pronounces that he has no friends, except for Dr.
Watson. All of this proves to be profoundly untrue. During 56 short stories and
4 novels, the reader learns of the Detective’s other friends, such as Victor
Trevor (GLOR), a companion from Holmes’s university days. Even more
significantly, over the course of the Canon, the Detective’s relationship with
Inspector Lestrade evolves and eventually he comes to refer to the Scotland
Yard inspector as “Friend Lestrade” (NOBL, CARD, EMPT, NORW, 3GAR). And of
course, all readers remember how in “The Adventure of the Three Garridebs,” Watson
sees all his “years of humble but single-minded service culminated” in a grand
moment of revelation.
As such, I’ve found many Sherlockians to be the same – not
inconsistent, but definitely contradictory. I include myself in that lot, of
course. We pursue endlessly obscure topics, isolate ourselves during our researches,
and hold fast to our theories when we believe ourselves to be right. We wait
for our grand moment of revelation, a sign that all of our efforts have not
been in vain. But in the end, we seek each other out. And such relationships are
unique unto Sherlockiana, and often profound, because as C.S. Lewis said, “Friendship
is born at that moment when one person says to another: What! You too? I
thought I was the only one.”
I say that Sherlock Holmes is both the best and worst thing
that ever happened to me, because he’s revealed the best and worst things about
me. Surely my husband, who no longer remembers the color of our carpet, so
covered in books it has become, would tell you that the Great Detective has
revealed my slightly more compulsive and obsessive tendencies (and for the
record, the carpet is grey… no, beige… taupe?). But I have also learned the
most spectacular things, met some of the best and wisest people, and my life
has been profoundly changed. I’m not the person I was before I met Sherlock
Holmes, but I am the person I was meant to be. Such as I am.
oOo
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Martin Powell, Jamie
Chase, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; Publisher: Dark Horse (February 2013)
"Watson won't
allow that I know anything of art, but that is mere jealousy, because our views
upon the subject differ. Now, these are a really very fine series of
portraits." (HOUN)
I come by my uniquely passionate personality honestly – at
least, that’s what I like to tell myself. When I was growing up, my mother was
(and still is, actually) an ardent devotee of all things Arthurian. My
childhood home was resplendent with reproductions of medieval tapestries and
framed prints of dragons. The shelves of my mother’s not insignificant library
overflowed with a wide and unique array of literature in her chosen field,
including a rather beautifully illustrated children’s edition of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, which
she had to keep on her own shelves because the vivid sketches of the beheaded
green knight (complete with bloody stump – trust me, I remember) made my sister and I scream in unholy terror. I myself
am now the owner of two of her favorite Arthurian swords, which she had to give
up when she moved into a smaller living space (her immense library was also one
of the casualties of the move). And while she would never admit it outright, I
imagine she must have felt a speck of disappointment that neither of children
ever shared her interest.
But what she must have recognized in her children was
elements of her own personality – and all of its obsessive, ardent nuances – and
she was good at planting seeds. I remember vividly being a teenager – my
discovery of Sherlock Holmes and his world still fresh and new – and being
excited to learn that the 1959 version of The Hound of the Baskervilles (starring Peter Cushing) was going to be on
television that afternoon. “No,” my mother said, taking the remote from my
hand. “You can’t watch that one. It’s too scary. It gave me nightmares as
a child.” Well, saying something like that
to a teenager is essentially like waving red at a bull, and my mother must have
known it. She only put up the most cursory of arguments when I protested. I
didn’t find the movie even remotely
frightening – heaven knows that I had seen infinitely more gruesome things by
the time I was a teenager – but watching that film with my mother has always
been a very sweet memory.
As such, it was a thrill to open Martin Powell’s and Jamie Chase’s new graphic novel adaptation of The Hound of the Baskervilles and be instantly reminded of that time. There’s
more than a little bit of Hammer Horror’s Hugo Baskerville about Chases’s
rendition. The iconic blood-red riding jacket and distinctive eighteenth
century hairstyle of the famous villain are immediate visual cues. Suddenly, I’m
watching David Oxley chase an unfortunate young woman across the moor, with the
moon highlighting his silhouette as he lays eyes on the Hound for the very
first time. And a few pages on, with the slope of his brow and the curve of his
hawk-like nose, it is Peter Cushing ensconced in the Baker Street sitting room,
draped in the famous purple dressing gown and wielding his eyebrow like a
weapon. However, it’s not just the Hammer Horror version of HOUN that leaps
from the pages of this novel. There is also a Dr. Mortimer whose thin mustache
and distinctive, round spectacles are more reminiscent of the Mortimer seen in
the 1939 film version of HOUN starring Basil Rathbone, Nigel Bruce and Lionel Atwill (as the late Sir Charles’s closet friend). In the strikingly
handsome features of Chase’s Sir Henry, there is more than a little of Richard Greene’s face and all his classic, movie star qualities. And in the single
panel in which Sherlock Holmes answers Dr. Watson’s question about the
existence of the Hound, (saying simply, “It does.”) it is difficult for the
reader not to hear Jeremy Brett’s delivery of that iconic line, complete with
his sonorous timbre.
Chase’s illustrations are atmospheric and impressive, but
not just for the way in which they harken back to some of the most famous
cinematic adaptations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s most famous novel. The color
palette is striking and mesmerizing. Dominated by a dark, sometimes harsh,
selection of hues, the occasional pinpoints of color have just that much more impact: the rosy blush of
sunlight coming through a window, the golden glow of a single candle, or – as
mentioned previously – the ominously, maliciously red jacket on Sir Hugo. In
his illustrations, Chase uses color with a stunningly magnificent expertise,
and to the fullest, most profound impact.
For his part, Martin Powell has managed to craft a gorgeous
adaptation of Doyle’s original novel. As an adaptation, not a duplication,
there are elements of the story that are missing. For instance, readers who
tend to skip over Dr. Watson’s lengthy, sometimes tedious, descriptions of
landscape and setting will be pleased; there is none of that present – the
drawings certainly give voice to those elements on their own. As another reviewer has pointed out, the famous phrenological exchange between Sherlock
Holmes and Dr. Mortimer is also missing. The story is streamlined, with much of
the exposition and introspection omitted. What remains, however, practically
vibrates with intensity. Many of Watson’s reports to Holmes (whom he believes
is back at Baker Street) are written across the background of a panel, while
the action plays out in the foreground. It’s a powerful and evocative way of
showing the complexity of Watson’s role, and the depth and intricacy of the
story that Doyle wove together.
Powell wields his chosen dialogue for
maximum emotional effect. When Watson speaks to a shadowy figure off-panel,
saying simply: “You! I thought you were still in London!” There is a frisson of
fear, even if readers already know that they will turn the page to find the
Great Detective as the man being addressed. When Holmes tells his friend: “Your
reports did it justice, Watson. The house does, indeed, have a menacing
personality all its own” – that personality is practically tangible, as the
reader sees Sherlock Holmes as a small, isolated figure standing in the grand
hall of the Baskerville estate. Martin Powell’s story and Jamie Chase’s artwork are
symbiotic, and they likewise do more than justice to a story that is more than
a classic – Doyle’s HOUN is as immortal as the Hound itself.
Occasionally I’m asked by someone new to the Canon about
where they should start – what short story or novel is a great introduction the
Great Detective? Invariably, they wonder if it shouldn’t be The Hound of the Baskervilles – it is
the most recognizable, after all, and the one that most people seem to have on
their bookshelves, even if they have never read it. I usually shy away from
that suggestion – explaining that Sherlock Holmes is actually absent for the
majority of the story and that the lengthy and frequent descriptive passages
are often tiresome. Powell and Chase’s adaptation of HOUN alleviates both of
those issues. With Powell moving Dr. Watson’s activities and the related action
into the foreground, Holmes’s absence really seems secondary. And Chase’s
artful illustrations mitigate the need for prolonged descriptions and
soliloquies on landscape. The resulting work is the version of HOUN that
readers visualize when they pick-up the original novel, that they take away
with them with they watch one of the many film or television adaptations. It is,
in many ways, the best possible version of HOUN and does justice to the story's
enduring nature.
oOo
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