Sherlock Holmes is one of the most abiding detective characters in literary history. Along with his sycophantic companion, Dr John Watson, the amateur consulting detective uses his powers of deduction to solve the most fiendishly cryptic cases in Victorian London amazing one and all with his capacity for lateral thinking and disguise as he does so.
Conan Doyle’s books have been adapted for television, radio and film on many occasions and every iteration of the classic stories brings its own idea of how the Holmes/Watson dynamic works. Just look at ‘Sherlock’, the BBC’s surprisingly enjoyable updating of the series which began with a reimagining of A Study In Scarlet and you can see that the world of Sherlock Holmes is as relevant to today’s audiences as those half a century ago.
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The riots in London have seen unprecedented horseshit. People are randomly saying place names and everyone is getting really jumpy, wishing they’d built nuclear bunkers filled with sausages and beans in a tin, where they’ll hide until armageddon comes.
Today has seen Londoners going out in force with brooms and bin bags, attempting to tidy up the mess caused by the fires and looting. Some of them will no doubt find a load of iPads under a hedge and trouser them.
But where are our celebrities? Well, they’re hiding in their gated communities, tweeting about it all like they give two hoots, condemning the rioters and ordering everyone to tidy up because, let’s face it, they’re certainly not going to do it.
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This week hasn’t proved too kindly for females has it? To hecklerspray, all women are wonderful creations that make our lives better on a daily basis. Even though you need an instruction manual the thickness of a washing machine to work out how they work. Unless you’re a gay man it seems.
Some of the fascinating facts about women will never be discovered. But we won’t make fun of Stephen Fry. We don’t want him to cry and threaten to leave Twitter.
Now men have come in for a ticking off. Not off a lesbian like Claire Balding, but a shaggy haired motoring bloke, James May. You know, the fourth most popular presenter after Clarkson, the one that does the terrible Morrison’s adverts and the recently ousted Stig.
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Stephen Fry- author, presenter, actor, and Britain’s most popular choice of dinner party guest has confirmed that he is to play Mycroft Holmes, older brother to Sherlock in the planned sequel to last year’s surprise hit film. We say ‘surprise’ because the film’s director Guy Ritchie spectacularly wrong-footed everyone in 2009 by making a competent blockbuster about the 19th century smug-bastard detective.
After a heroically terrible run of films, Ritchie has had something of a renaissance over the last few years.
First there was the marriage split. Whereas in 2000 us Brits were quite proud to have Madonna over ‘ere, buyin’ our mansions and shaggin’ our mockneys, in 2008 the dream has gone a bit sour. We were quite content with her being a humourless career disco-cyborg but then she pretended to be English.
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This week in good and bad.
Folded:
Creased:
- Eminem (currently has eight songs in the charts, all from 2002)
- Mad Men spoilers on Twitter (what is it about this show that causes everyone in the U.S. to hashtag ruin it for the rest of us?)
- That cringy bit at the end of The X-Factor where the judges make out an obviously talented singer won’t be put through to ‘boot camp’ (“You raise me up”, “This is my perfect moment” – take your pick)
- It’s so cold out (yes, pillock in t-shirt, we’re talking to you)
- Passport office (ever been to one of these places? They’re staffed by the entire cast of The League of Gentlemen)
Stephen Fry is the Dad we wished we all had here at Hecklerspray, mainly because he’s less drinky-drinky-touchy-feely than our real Dads, but also because he’s so loveable and he loves technology.
Fry has always showcased his love for technology and yesterday conducted the first ever newspaper interview via twitter, in which he used the popular but ultimately pointless and constantly broken social network to talk to the only man in the UK with a name more ridiculous than (the sparkly new editor of Hecklerspray) Mof Gimmers. The impossibly smug Johann Hari. Read More >>>
Stephen Fry isn’t what you’d call the most obstreperous of inhabitants of Celebrity World.
Apart from when he got a mighty huff on when some puny worm dared to go onto Twitter and call him a “tedious monolith” (or whatever), he tends to keep his own counsel and keep his slagging to a minimum, preferring instead to work on being the affable gay uncle of the whole of Britain. In fact, getting a sharp word against you from Fry would be rather like a flamboyantly-waistcoated, bespectacled and gently avuncular Beatrix Potter bear abruptly giving you the finger.
But his recent speech at BAFTA seemed to bring out his big old bitch side, as he bemoaned the infantilism of British television, dismissing such gleaming jewels in the Beeb’s programming crown as Doctor Who and Merlin as “children’s programmes” and comparing their pappy charms to evil, delicious junk food.
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Tim Burton drags us down the rabbit-hole kicking and screaming in this adaptation of the children’s book Alice In Wonderland, managing to take away any of the wonderment that many may have felt for this beloved tale.
You would think that the pairing of Burton with Lewis Carroll‘s famous series would be a film of visual splendour, but Burton’s approach here is to suck any life out of this Wonderland, and many of its inhabitants too. Visually, its reliance on special effects makes this world seem artificial and Burton’s unique aesthetics look uninspired. You never feel that you are walking around this world with Alice and her chums.
Alice (Mia Wasikowska) could do with a lick of life herself, with the standard Burton turn-on for making his leads look like they have an iron deficiency – but Alice matches this with a lack of personality as well. She coasts through the film with this mystical absentness, attributing much of her surroundings to a bad dream and constantly never reacting to the situation with any real conviction. Much of this film rests on her shoulders and it isn’t long before the weight has crushed poor Wasikowska.
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