The screenplay by John Hopkins isn't especially gripping, innovative, or convincing. How could it be? The records of Jack the Ripper have been neglected, pilfered by souvenir hunters for more than a century, until nothing is left of the man but the mythos -- and Sherlock Holmes never existed in the first place. The plot has red herrings and lots of disparate threads only pulled together when Holmes confronts the Prime Minister at the end. Something about the royal family, Freemasons, and a lost child.
But I found the film fairly impressive for a number of reasons. One is Christopher Plummer's take on Sherlock Holmes. He doesn't give us the quick and commanding presence of Basil Rathbone or the shambling "by-the-way" demeanor of Arthur Wontner or the tic-ridden quirkiness of Jeremy Brett. Plummer is gentlemanly and thoughtful. He's held in awe by no one, least of all Lestrade. He gets into scraps -- and loses. He fails in his attempt to save the life of the last victim. At one point he's moved to tears. In other words he's like the rest of us, only better at what he does.
James Mason is comfortable in the role of Dr. Watson but he was getting on and seems a little muffled. Still, what levity there is comes from Mason's character. He gets felt up by a whore in a louche pub. Earlier he tries to spear the last pea on his dinner plate with his fork. The clinking annoys Plummer, who squashes the pea. Mason gazes ruefully at the remains and mutters something about how he doesn't like a pea to be smashed. He likes the way a pea entire feels when it pops in his mouth.
The rest of the cast is up to its usual professional standards and, wow, how did they happen on so many Canadians -- Sutherland, Bujold, Clark, Moore, Plummer? Medals should go to production design, art direction, and set decoration. It's a believable London in the 1880s. Not just the cobblestone, crooked, spectral streets, the veil of smog, or the board gates that open onto ominous brick-lined alleys, but the specific feel of the place. I mean things like the evenly spaced hitching posts along the sidewalks. Who remembered such a necessary detail? The direction by Bob Clark is functional and lacking in self-indulgent display and unnecessary gore. He should get a medal too, just for keeping out of the way of the story and for not shoving our faces into Mary Kelly's intestines. Clark's career at least included this little gem and another terrifying story of a Vietnam veteran, often classed as an old-fashioned horror movie, "Dead of Night." These two can be found among a bevy of commercial potboilers, such as "From the Hip," which is distinguished only by my own magnificent performance in the key role of a courtroom artist who, in his few minutes of screen time, is always out of focus in the background. "Porky's" I won't even mention. Well, I see I HAVE mentioned it -- but stet.
But I found the film fairly impressive for a number of reasons. One is Christopher Plummer's take on Sherlock Holmes. He doesn't give us the quick and commanding presence of Basil Rathbone or the shambling "by-the-way" demeanor of Arthur Wontner or the tic-ridden quirkiness of Jeremy Brett. Plummer is gentlemanly and thoughtful. He's held in awe by no one, least of all Lestrade. He gets into scraps -- and loses. He fails in his attempt to save the life of the last victim. At one point he's moved to tears. In other words he's like the rest of us, only better at what he does.
James Mason is comfortable in the role of Dr. Watson but he was getting on and seems a little muffled. Still, what levity there is comes from Mason's character. He gets felt up by a whore in a louche pub. Earlier he tries to spear the last pea on his dinner plate with his fork. The clinking annoys Plummer, who squashes the pea. Mason gazes ruefully at the remains and mutters something about how he doesn't like a pea to be smashed. He likes the way a pea entire feels when it pops in his mouth.
The rest of the cast is up to its usual professional standards and, wow, how did they happen on so many Canadians -- Sutherland, Bujold, Clark, Moore, Plummer? Medals should go to production design, art direction, and set decoration. It's a believable London in the 1880s. Not just the cobblestone, crooked, spectral streets, the veil of smog, or the board gates that open onto ominous brick-lined alleys, but the specific feel of the place. I mean things like the evenly spaced hitching posts along the sidewalks. Who remembered such a necessary detail? The direction by Bob Clark is functional and lacking in self-indulgent display and unnecessary gore. He should get a medal too, just for keeping out of the way of the story and for not shoving our faces into Mary Kelly's intestines. Clark's career at least included this little gem and another terrifying story of a Vietnam veteran, often classed as an old-fashioned horror movie, "Dead of Night." These two can be found among a bevy of commercial potboilers, such as "From the Hip," which is distinguished only by my own magnificent performance in the key role of a courtroom artist who, in his few minutes of screen time, is always out of focus in the background. "Porky's" I won't even mention. Well, I see I HAVE mentioned it -- but stet.