There’s been a lot of talk about how rare it is now nowadays to have television that’s genuinely ‘shared’ by the nation – where everyone’s all watching at the same time, reluctant to catch up on iPlayer. Sherlock is absolutely at the forefront of changing that opinion.
If Series 1 was all about introducing us to what was, at the time, a very tough sell – a modern adaptation of our most iconic detective into a world where there was no gaslight or smog, but iPhones and GPS, then Series 2 is mostly about fun.
It’s bold, audacious, confident enough to be downright cocky, and has a great sense of mischief and brashness, while still allowing the deeper story developments to mature in the background. This, essentially, is Sherlock’s greatest success: modern audiences generally demand character development and story arcs over a series.
This series gives us exactly what we want, but absolutely on its own terms – hell, even on the terms of Conan Doyle himself: Sherlock’s burgeoning humanity (his consideration to Molly, his confusion with Irene Adler) is all rooted in the original character: it’s not that he’s uninterested in relationships, it’s just that he recognises that his brilliant mind cannot be fettered by such things as romance.
The masterstroke of The Reichenbach Fall was to allow us to (seemingly) see Sherlock’s body slam up against the concrete. If Gatiss, Moffatt and co are half as clever as they seem to think they are (and let’s face it, they probably are), then a good deal of the clues that have been dangled in front of us are mostly red herrings: the final conversation with Molly, Watson’s vantage point, the cyclist, and even something that happens in The Hounds of Baskerville.
It’s also a clever choice to almost immediately spoil the joke by revealing that Sherlock is actually alive – not only does it keep the Twitterati happy, but it means that Series 3 doesn’t have to waste time with leading up to a reveal that we already know to be the case. It’s good to see Jim Moriarty definitely dead, too. It supports both theories – the one that he actually would commit suicide in order to infuriate his nemesis (yes, he is that insane – ‘what, you’ve only just worked that out?’), or the possibility that we haven’t even met the real Moriarty yet.
A Scandal in Belgariva is a great, sexy opener, with a great Irene Adler; not, as some have suggested, a weakened woman simply because of the industry she works in or the fact that she becomes ‘Sher-locked’ (there’s a T-shirt waiting to happen). Obviously, the dominatrix thing is just, ironically, a ‘cover’ for her real work, since she ‘knows what (people) want’, and her final smile reveals a great deal more about the series than just joy that she’s about to survive.
The Hounds of Baskerville is placed in the middle section, where the ‘difficult’ episodes seem – already – to be positioned, simply because, despite the mythic weight placed on it from countless adaptations, it’s actually one of the weakest stories in Conan Doyle’s canon. By this point, the author was finding his creation so tedious that he has him disappear from the narrative for a good part of the story, something that Gattiss subtly flirts with in the opening scenes. He’s very successful in modernising a story that’s pretty much custom built to resist such things, and has a playful lack of respect for the source material he loves so much – the reveal behind the mysterious Morse code being particularly neat.
And then, of course, The Reichbach Fall – the singular drawing our eye to the fall of the man, not the location – providing one of the most thrilling and complex series finales to any show we’ve seen recently, full of smoke and mirrors and deception. It’s a breathless and exciting meeting of minds that easily stamps on the admittedly fun Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows that was doing the cinema rounds at the time.
There are so many lovely and pleasing aspects to this show, not least of course, Cumberbatch’s central role, at once both focused, and the magnetic point of focus. Una Stubbs’ turn as Miss Hudson transports the part from fusty and bumbling housekeeper to something a great deal more energetic and interesting.
Co-creator Mark Gattis is quietly extraordinary as a Whitehall official forced to be the bad guy for the greater good: he is the ‘blunt instrument’ that utilises his brother’s precision engineering. Andrew Scott’s Moriarty is inspired: seemingly overblown and over-acted, it’s actually a great riposte to Sherlock’s icy logic – his grinning and eye-rolling gives nothing for the great detective’s methods to latch on to.
And, of course, Watson. You’ve been told this many times before, but we make no apology for repeating it here: the real heart of this show is Martin Freeman’s Doctor. His befuddled lack of comprehension at his best friend’s death – both stumbling around his corpse, and standing by his graveside – is hugely compelling and moving.
It’s their relationship that – vitally – is the core of this programme; his undisguised respect and admiration for Sherlock, without being tempered by motive or agenda, makes him the most honest man in the detective’s life. It’s why the joke of their ‘bromance’ works so well: there’s clearly no sexual frisson there, but they have an unabashed respect and admiration for one another, with no need to use the armour that they’ve built up for themselves over the past few years.
That humanity – particularly for Sherlock – is now the centerpiece of why we watch. It was clear in the first series and made implicit in this year’s opening episode. Of course, much of Irene Adler’s smile at the end of the episode is relief that she’s not about to have her head cut off – but this doesn’t make her a ‘weakened’ character in comparison to her original counterpart – at least part of that smile is ours, with the realisation that the main person being saved is Sherlock himself.
The only problem is, if he becomes more of a friend and a human, will he be less of a Great Detective?
Released on DVD and Blu-ray on Monday 23rd January 2012 by 2entertain.
Watch the Series 2 trailer…