Ooh, I stumbled upon a Sherlock Holmes movie
that had remained hidden from me all these years. Perhaps a plot by Moriarty
to keep me in the dark. Anyways, that is always cause for a small celebration,
perhaps a wrestle with my giant hound or a puff from my pipe that I keep
in my slipper. It begins promisingly enough with Watson writing down the
facts of a case and telling us that he will never be able to publish it thus
it is for posterity. Ooh again - an original Holmes story I dare hope. At
least it will not be another telling of the Baskervilles. He writes, it began
years before in Agra during the Mutiny. Oh hell. The Sign of the Four. Published
and too often a subject of films. But no, it is the Sign of the Three! Still
the basics are here - three British soldiers steal the jewels of the Maharajah
and promise to split it equally. They don't. And now all these years later
revenge is in the air. A knock on the door and a lovely sad eyed lady of
the low-lands enters and tells her woeful story. My father is an opium addict
and has disappeared - his life is in danger. The same story that no doubt
many of us have suffered from as well.
Holmes nearly creams in his pants at a new case - and involving opium as
well - while Watson nearly does the same with one look at this much younger
woman. Watson - look in the mirror please. You are not old enough to be her
father but her grandfather. Neither Holmes nor Watson will be running a marathon
any time soon. Or a 100 yard dash. They creak when they stand up. I feel
sorry for them when they have to climb the steps to their room. To be fair,
the filmmakers change enough to make this slightly intriguing though not
significantly. It is after all a TV movie - so Watson never gets to do the
boogie-woogie with her which would have made me immediately turn off my TV
and spray it down. I actually figured this one out long before Holmes did
and I think Watson is still confused. What might make this appealing to some
is the cast.
The Omega Man plays Holmes without even bothering to sound British. Or human.
Even I felt sorry for Charlton Heston for the dialogue he is stuck with and
I can't stand the man. When he is cornered by the villain, I thought it a
bit odd that he told this person "You can have my gun when you pry it from
my cold, dead fingers" since he wasn't the one holding a gun. Of course,
he is brilliant when he puts on a Yellow-Face mask and speaks pidgin English
as the disguised owner of an opium den. How could the Emmys have overlooked
that? Watson is Richard Johnson of Bulldog Drummond fame for his two spy
films in the 1960s. He is 64 in this one. Heston is 68. I am not ageist -
hard to be at my age - but isn't Holmes supposed to be tending to bees in
Sussex by now. Edward Fox and John Castle are two of the three, Watson's
palpitating heart belongs to Susannah Harker and Simon Callow plays Lestrade
as if he belongs in a rubber room. 105 minutes. Directed by Heston's son.
He must have hated his old man.
