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.
Directed 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. 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. Somebodytellthesedirectorsthattalkingfastdoesnotmakeyousoundsmart.
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.
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.
A 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.
For Holmes to be Holmes, he has to figure out solutions, not kick them in the teeth. 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?
Watson, a problem character — a straight man, a whiteboard for the answer to be sketched upon — here loses his (limited) everyman appeal and becomes a sort of knockoff Holmes, occasionally beating the master to the answer while equaling him in fisticuffery and woefulness of badinage: “Relax, I’m a doctor.”
They argue about whether a little fellow is a dwarf or a midget, swap hoary one-liners (“they never miss an opportunity to miss an opportunity”) and discuss whether Sherlock’s “depravity know[s] no bounds.” They agree that it does, and are proved correct when Sherlock finds himself lashed, naked and contented, to a bed.
Rachel McAdams, as Sherlock’s canny but devious ex, adds no spark as she asks for help with a case that involves a shadowy professor who is trying to trap Holmes. If you’re going to cast waify little sparrows like McAdams, don’t expect us to buy it when she clocks a trained assassin and he collapses as if he’s been Michael Strahan’d. (If Kathy Bates turned up, though, the average hired killer would put in for a hardship bonus, or maybe just call in sick.)
The best parts are in the third act, during a semi-satisfying decoding of Lord Blackwood’s nefarious schemes, but the rush to disentangle everything (together with an equally crazed bit of place-setting for the sequel — invariably a sign that even the filmmakers know they didn’t get it right this time) arrived after I’d lost interest.
Anyway, the payoff is the one section of the script that is too Victorian — reeking of far-fetched potions and antidotes. The rest of the movie could scarcely have been more off-base if Sherlock had worn a backwards Yankee cap instead of a deerstalker and Watson had inquired of him, “What up, Holmes?”
kyle.smith@nypost.com