Mr. Holmes
(2015)
(SPOILERS) Ian
McKellen’s prominent proboscis needs no adornment – after all, no one spurned Robert
Downey Jr’s Sherlock over his decidedly non-Roman nasal fixture – but one can
at least appreciate that his Mr. Holmes
prosthetic honk is a seamless, if superfluous, special effect. Much like the
mystery at the heart of Jeffrey Hatcher’s adaptation of Mitch Cullin’s novel A Slight Trick of the Mind. The key to
this nonagenarian incarnation of Holmes is his much caricatured emotional
dimension (or rather lack thereof, as divested of all merit in Steven Moffat’s
fatuously overplayed Sherlock version)
and, as antithetical to the character as it sounds, the resulting film is a
warm-hearted investigation of the processes of loss and regret.
As such, the
actual trappings and regalia of Sherlock Holmes aren’t exactly irrelevant, but
this would be as affecting a tale without such encumbrances. Numerous doodlings
regarding the differences between the literary Sherlock and the real article
are, semi-pertinently, included (I appreciated the “for aficionados” presence
of Nicholas Rowe, Young Sherlock Holmes,
as a big screen Sherlock, a nice little homage to a film that explored the
polar end of the great detective’s life), as this Holmes is suffering the early
stages of dementia and thus beginning to losing his certainty over which were facts
and which mere literary inventions of his past.
Hatcher/Cullin
(the latter also wrote Tideland, made
into a film by Terry Gilliam) pick up on Holmes’ Sussex retirement as presented
in The Last Bow and The Lion’s Mane (the BBC Radio 4
adaptation of which inserted Watson into the proceedings), although they don’t
quite mesh with the idea here that Holmes retired after World War I; Holmes announces that if, he had brought the
Kelmot case to a successful conclusion, he wouldn’t have left Baker Street (noting
that he and Watson parted on frosty terms).
Some of the
elements feel a little clumsy, signposting the passing eras (Holmes visiting Hiroshima).
Although, in fairness, tying this into a quest for a retreat of his encroaching
mental decline is reasonably sketched (the prized prickly ash). There isn’t
really a puzzle to solve as such, however, and this isn’t ultimately quite as satisfying
as the best Holmes fan fictions that take in his personal life (The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes, The Seven Per Cent Solution).
So too,
Holmes deductive faculties lack any real dazzle; I feared the worst when
precocious child Roger (Milo Parker, a ringer for a young Thomas Brodie-Sangster),
son of housekeeper Mrs Munro (Laura Linney), intrudes on the aging sleuth’s
routines. It turns out to be a surprisingly winning cross-generational friendship,
though, McKellen modulating the gruff-kind-dotty characterisation expertly, and
truly convincingly inhabiting a body entering decrepitude (and, thirty years
earlier, one in relative vigour).
The signs of Holmes’ rudeness are in evidence even as he discovers the emotional ruin at his core (“Exceptional children are often the product
of unremarkable people” he informs Roger’s mother), and there’s a rather
stately, elegant race against time aspect to his desire to get to the heart of,
and document, his last case before his faculties burn out completely (this imminent
ruin appears to be dropped once the case is brought to a satisfactory
conclusion). But the minor present mystery (what is killing the bees?), and its
conflagration and pay-off, work much more effectively than the tortured trip
down memory lane, simply because there isn’t enough substance apportioned to
the lot of Ann Kelmot (Hattie Morahan) and her burdened existence.
We haven’t
become invested in her case, merely informed of the full circumstances on a
park bench, and – despite some notable distractions such the armonica as a
means of contacting the spirit world, and Frances de la Tour’s cameo as Madame
Schirmer, with an accent almost as ludicrous as the one she employed in the
recent Survivor – so Holmes momentary
culpability in her demise lacks resonance. The occasional line invokes Conan
Doyle’s own later fascinations (“He
doesn’t understand. The dead are no so very far away. They’re just, on the
other side of the wall”), but Mr. Holmes
is really most effective dealing with the emotional stakes of the here and now.
And on that
level, Bill Condon’s film is a resounding success. This is his first reteaming
with McKellen since his previously most acclaimed picture, Gods and Monsters, and they share a reflective tone in their aging,
isolated protagonists. Condon has a patchy relationship with material,
elevating The Twilight Saga (well,
relatively) but coming unstuck with The
Fifth Estate. He’s clearly not averse to big screen spectacle (His next is Beauty and the Beast for Disney), but
this type of smaller, more invested affair feels like a better fit. Mostly,
though, it’s just a great showcase for McKellen, who draws on a touch of Gandalf-ian
wisdom in his compelling portrait of sorrow and decline.
There’s lovely
summery scenery from cinematographer Tobias A Schliessler (this does seem like a beatific spot to
retire, an apt conjuring of Conan Doyle fate for Holmes) and a gentle yet
insistent score from Carter Burwell setting the picture off nicely. Mr. Holmes isn’t by any means
remarkable, but provides an emotionally satisfying rumination on the heart of a
man who professed to be all mind.
