What American film makers have done to Sherlock Holmes from the 1970's onwards amounts to celluloid crime. They have inflicted upon us the risible 'Seven per cent solution' and the infantile 'Sherlock Holmes' Smarter Brother' to name but two. We have also had to endure portrayals of the Baker Street sleuth by George C. Scott, Charlton Heston, Robert Downey Jnr. Will Ferrel, Roger Moore, Michael Caine and more recently Ian McKellen as a Holmes with dementia. If that weren't enough we have had the animated 'Sherlock Gnomes' and now heaven help us, Sherlock Holmes' sister!
All of the above are too hideous to contemplate and it is with great relief that I come to Billy Wilder's 'satirical homage' to Conan Doyle's great creation.
Editor Ernest Walter was assigned the unenviable task of reducing the running time by more than half. The question is, did the loss of two stories make it less of a film? Judging by the extracts of 'missing scenes' on You Tube, I think 'not' but will no doubt be shot down in flames for saying so. The inclusion of those scenes would certainly have made it far more of a parody than is the surviving footage but what remains is parody enough in my opinion.
It is the strange mixture of irreverence and homage, satire and sadness that tends to hamper my enjoyment of it.
It begins very well and the scenes involving Imperial Ballet director Rogozhin, superbly played by Clive Revill, the Prima Ballerina Madame Petrova of Tamara Toumanova and the Holmes of Robert Stephens are masterful. We are then introduced to the enigmatic and fascinating Gabrielle Valladon played by the equally enigmatic and fascinating Genevieve Page. After that the film somehow loses focus and momentum and the later scenes in Inverness are distinctly lame and rather childish.
It is only since his death that we have learned how troubled a soul was actor Robert Stephens who reportedly attempted suicide during the making of this. His demeanor suits admirably the director's concept of Holmes as not just an analytical thinking machine but as a mere mortal with the same flaws and hang ups as the rest of us. Wilder's concept of Dr. Watson as an overgrown schoolboy is not really to my taste but Colin Blakely does well enough.
Certainly not to my taste is Christopher Lee as Mycroft. He has the unique distinction of having played Mycroft and Sherlock on film and both portrayals highlight his limitations as an actor. Apparently he was a last minute replacement for the inimitable George Sanders. What a pity.
Actress Mollie Maureen, through no fault of her own, is a grotesque caricature of Queen Victoria whilst the Scottish accent of Stanley Holloway as the gravedigger needs to be heard to be abhorred.
The melancholic, bitter sweet nature of the film is underlined by the music of maestro Miklos Rozsa. He has the taken the more lyrical elements of the Violin Concerto he wrote for Jascha Heifetz in 1956 and incorporated them into one of his greatest scores. Alexandre Trauner's production design is, as always, exemplary.
As one would expect from this director, the verbal takes precedence over the visual and textually reveals Wilder's undeniable respect for and knowledge of Conan Doyle's world.
This material was close to Wilder's heart and he could not fail to be wounded by the critical mauling it received and the total disinterest of cinema goers.
One is inclined to treat it kindly because it comes from Billy Wilder but despite its merits it must alas be considered a 'near miss' as indeed were his subsequent films.
Old directors never die, it is said. They just lose their sense of direction!
All of the above are too hideous to contemplate and it is with great relief that I come to Billy Wilder's 'satirical homage' to Conan Doyle's great creation.
Editor Ernest Walter was assigned the unenviable task of reducing the running time by more than half. The question is, did the loss of two stories make it less of a film? Judging by the extracts of 'missing scenes' on You Tube, I think 'not' but will no doubt be shot down in flames for saying so. The inclusion of those scenes would certainly have made it far more of a parody than is the surviving footage but what remains is parody enough in my opinion.
It is the strange mixture of irreverence and homage, satire and sadness that tends to hamper my enjoyment of it.
It begins very well and the scenes involving Imperial Ballet director Rogozhin, superbly played by Clive Revill, the Prima Ballerina Madame Petrova of Tamara Toumanova and the Holmes of Robert Stephens are masterful. We are then introduced to the enigmatic and fascinating Gabrielle Valladon played by the equally enigmatic and fascinating Genevieve Page. After that the film somehow loses focus and momentum and the later scenes in Inverness are distinctly lame and rather childish.
It is only since his death that we have learned how troubled a soul was actor Robert Stephens who reportedly attempted suicide during the making of this. His demeanor suits admirably the director's concept of Holmes as not just an analytical thinking machine but as a mere mortal with the same flaws and hang ups as the rest of us. Wilder's concept of Dr. Watson as an overgrown schoolboy is not really to my taste but Colin Blakely does well enough.
Certainly not to my taste is Christopher Lee as Mycroft. He has the unique distinction of having played Mycroft and Sherlock on film and both portrayals highlight his limitations as an actor. Apparently he was a last minute replacement for the inimitable George Sanders. What a pity.
Actress Mollie Maureen, through no fault of her own, is a grotesque caricature of Queen Victoria whilst the Scottish accent of Stanley Holloway as the gravedigger needs to be heard to be abhorred.
The melancholic, bitter sweet nature of the film is underlined by the music of maestro Miklos Rozsa. He has the taken the more lyrical elements of the Violin Concerto he wrote for Jascha Heifetz in 1956 and incorporated them into one of his greatest scores. Alexandre Trauner's production design is, as always, exemplary.
As one would expect from this director, the verbal takes precedence over the visual and textually reveals Wilder's undeniable respect for and knowledge of Conan Doyle's world.
This material was close to Wilder's heart and he could not fail to be wounded by the critical mauling it received and the total disinterest of cinema goers.
One is inclined to treat it kindly because it comes from Billy Wilder but despite its merits it must alas be considered a 'near miss' as indeed were his subsequent films.
Old directors never die, it is said. They just lose their sense of direction!