Assuming Edwardian London was crawling with personal trainers and fully equipped with Nautilus machines, how would the world’s most devoted bookworm acquire stone-slab abs? Are there steroids in his Darjeeling?
Holmes - a slovenly fly-catching weirdo instead of a detached don - charges through several fight scenes that are more Stallone than Sherlock, and the frenzied chop of the editing blurs the brawls.Ī megabudget franchise movie has to have more action than a public-TV mystery, but in seeking a big American audience, Ritchie is like one of those Londoners who, when imitating a Yank, affects an exaggerated drawl supposed to connote “Texan” that lands closer to “lobotomy ward.” And what’s with his never-been-to-London staging? One minute the characters are tumbling out of the Houses of Parliament, the next they’re miles away, at the under-construction Tower Bridge.įor Holmes to be Holmes, he has to figure out solutions, not kick them in the teeth. Holmes (Downey) and Watson (Law) are on the trail of Lord Blackwood (an unremarkable Mark Strong), a satanic serial killer who, just before getting his neck stretched on the gallows, warns Sherlock that from beyond the grave the mayhem will continue, with three further deaths to be laid at the door of 221b Baker St. Somebodytellthesedirectorsthattalkingfastdoesnotmakeyousoundsmart.
and Jude Law compete rather than complement, each spewing his deductions like “Rain Man” meets “Good Will Hunting” instead of leading the audience through the elegant process of solving a mystery.
Who the deuce decided to filter Sherlock Holmes through “Batman & Robin”? “Sherlock Holmes” dumbs down a century-old synonym for intelligence with S&M gags, witless sarcasm, murky bombast and twirling action-hero moves that belong in a ninja flick.ĭirected to do frantic American-buddy-movie shtick by Guy Ritchie, who has never before ruled a big-budget production, the normally brainy Robert Downey Jr.