Thanks to my Saturday co-worker Amber, who snagged it for me, I was finally able to check out the first season of the BBC’s new(ish) Sherlock series, which sets the consulting detective and his friend, Dr. John Watson, in twenty-first century London.
Sherlock Holmes with a cell phone. John Watson with a blog.
I am in love.
I’m in love with the dynamic and the story and all the translated details of the re-interpretations of my beloved stories as imagined by the superlatively talented Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.*
Not to mention Benedict Cumberbatch’s Sherlock —those eyes, those cheekbones. That voice. There’s just something about a tall, dark, high-functioning sociopath, isn’t there? Did I mention the cheekbones? But there’s more to this Sherlock than looks . . . there’s a grating brilliance and an almost pathological aversion to being bored. And there’s fallibility, too—this Sherlock is missing pieces, inside, and knows it.
I can’t fault the new interpretation of John Watson, either. He’s finally an equal partner, rather than the bumbling, naive foil we’re used to—like Jude Law’s version in the recent Hollywood movie, you can imagine Martin Freeman’s Watson as a real soldier, maybe even a bit of an adrenaline addict in his own right. Anyone who can call Sherlock Holmes an idiot, and mean it, and make Sherlock laugh about it, is okay in my book.
And I truly love the friendship between Holmes and Watson—it’s believable that these two men are partners and, in many ways, the saving of each other.
I’m going to watch the first episode again tonight, or at least watch my husband watch it . . . no, I won’t lie—I’ll pretty much be watching Benedict Cumberbatch all the way through.
*Who are two of the geniuses behind the successful re-launch of Dr. Who and half of my favorite BBC offerings. If a show is from the UK and I love it, one or both of these gentlemen is usually involved.