Camera moves real fast. Almost as if it’s competing with the wind that plays such an important part in the entire story. Yes it does. As it makes the overcoat on a chilly dusk flutter, or the hair of a protagonist flow, or in an absolutely Archemedian moment of cinematic effect, a stout screw quietly roll off a cupboard and drop inconspicuously on a kerosene filled tin. Does enough to make a few drops of oil fall on the floor, so that when a cigarette butt is thrown with stylish carelessness, the entire area blows up. And the back draft of that fire, also, is given life and character, by the same wind. Yes, wind, plays such an important part.
No scene is allowed to linger. Succinct. Sharp. Snip, snip, snip. Sudden change in the pace of narration (much like this paragraph). Make the dialogues incomplete, let the audience understand the rest of it. Actually no. Don’t. DON’T let the audience linger on the last scene even a second more than the scene gets over, throw in the next scene, next foul-mouthed-British-slang-showering rusty yet street smart witty man who is really pissed off with the moral system of this cruel cruel society comes in. And oh, the Brits make ‘motherfucker’ sound so deliciously delectably pretty. The Americans can never do that. A few powerful, manipulative and confident women later, build up a story line that should have something to do with heist. Why heist? Because it’s sexy. It’s immoral, yet, not harmful. It gives a scope to be smart, and of course, it gives a scope for a chase sequence.
Rock. Underground. Blues. Throw in a little bit of pop and package it in a way so you are making fun of it. And oh, when there is an explosion, massive bloodshed, hero (if there is/are any, because everything in life is grey and all that) is getting his ass badly kicked (and no, women don’t get raped, it’s too gory and vicious for Anglican packaged noir), then use music that would represent a mood which is exactly the opposite. So Symphonies, and some heartbreakingly romantic opera, and how the contrast works! Beautiful music, that rings in the ears long after the film ceases to. Showing the power of music in visual media. And in oh-so-British way.
Who said Brits are uptight? That they can stop a war in the middle because it’s their tea time and wear suits to dinner table? Welcome to the world of Guy Ritchie, a world that very few people will dislike. And I am no exception. So Robert Downey Jr. (may everything that has the power to bless, bless him and more) plays the king of deductive logic in surrealistic Victorian England. With perhaps, an attempt to shock audience by giving them a Sherlock Holmes that makes a mockery of the subtlety of Doyle. So he shows off his abs, oops, abdomen, and cracks outrageous jokes. No he isn’t tall. And yes, he has no qualms about making out with darn it, snogging, Irene Adler. And there he is, naked and gagged, with a pillow put on a strategic position, nonchalantly asking the house maid to help him out.
So it was the perfect Downey Jr.-meets-Ritchie-to-make-a-movie-adaptation of a dark detective classic that we have grown up reading and loving and has always reminded us of an overcast London with horse carriages and dimly lit lanterns which failed to brighten up the streets. So all those who went to the theatre thinking it would have the same mood as the book, or even the past films or play adaptations, obviously, don’t know much about Guy Ritchie, or for that matter, Robert Downey Jr.
Yet, the core characteristics of Holmes remain the same. Love for chemistry, violin (though comically shown to make fun), obnoxious nature, compulsive loner and stylishly eccentric. They were all there. But in three to four doses more than the original character perhaps. And I loved it. For me, it was such a refreshing way of seeing the world of Baker Street. And other than that crow as a symbol of murder, there was nothing really dumb or obvious in its obviousness. If Ritchie had a world of his own, then Arthur Conan Doyle would have written Sherlock Holmes just like this.
But for some inexplicable reason, I have forgotten most of the film, the minute I came out of a particularly crowded Sterling theatre. But then I realized, that’s exactly what Ritchie movies are like. Forgettable pieces of fun and gore, with razor sharp editing and a storyline that’s written to support the movements of camera. And I say to myself, that thank god it was a different story. Or imagine watching The Hound of Baskervilles, without soul.
And oh, this remains incomplete without a mention of Jude Law. The man gives a heart to even a Ritchie film.
Well, almost.
