The Secret of Sherlock Holmes
Some Personal Ramblings About Seeing the Show
The Secret of Sherlock Holmes | |
|
Sherlock Holmes Doctor Watson
Director
Musical Director/Keyboards
Production Manager |
Jeremy Brett Edward Hardwicke
Patrick Garland
David Firman
Will Bowen |
The action takes place in Baker Street, Doctor Watson's surgery, and various other parts of London and Switzerland.
There will be one interval of twenty minutes.
I also have a copy of the script, which was published back in 1989.
ISBN 0-86025-438-0. Ian Henry Publications, Ltd. 20 Park Drive, Romford, Essex RM1 4LM,. UK. ©1989.
Most of the reviews were pretty harsh, but I enjoyed it enough to see it three times (a student work visa, student prices, and a tendency towards fanaticism about the West End helped (it was only one of the 37 productions I saw in those three months).
The Wyndham Theatre is right across
from Leicester Square. It was
built in the late 1880's, and still retains a great
deal of its Victorian flavor. There are gilt mouldings and cherubs
on the
ceiling, box seats on
either side of the stage, and brass railings to hang over. One of the
nights I went some zealous fans flung red roses onto the stage.
Carried away by the atmosphere, I guess.
Just sitting down in the Wyndham puts you in the age of Holmes.
The play starts off where the stories do, so you get all the fun of a description of Holmes and Watson's first meeting from both POVs with some really fun asides (mostly Watson's). Hardwicke seemed to take great relish in being on stage, although it was, of course, Brett who did the most outrageously broad Victorian stage magic. What surprised and delighted me was that Hardwicke's low-keyed, naturalistic style still managed to project itself out past the footlights and his flamboyant partner; he was every bit as effective on stage as on the small screen. Teach me to be ignorant of an actor's stage career! I'd known that Brett had been part of Olivier's National Theatre, but I wasn't aware that Hardwicke was also part of that group [watch the film version of Olivier's Othello if you don't believe me], and that he was Rosencrantz in the original run of Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead. (And as a complete aside, Edward Petherbridge was Guildenstern. You can hear them on the BBC radio version.)
Oh. Right. The Holmes play. My favorite bits were Watson and Holmes getting down to brass tacks about their suitability as flatmates. Holmes did sudden starts, such as musing, "What other bad habits do I have that is MY chair!!" as Watson is just about to sit down. And then when Watson mentions that he hates rows, Holmes asks worriedly if he counts violins. Watson replies that if it's badly played, yes it's a row, but a well-played violin is a treat for the gods. "Well, that's all right then." murmurs Holmes with egotistical unconcern. Then came the bit where Watson lists Holmes's shortcomings. Hardwicke had us in the aisles as he ticked off the points in his notebook: "Philosphy, nil. Astronomy, nil. Politics, feeble. Botany, variable: well up in belladonna, opium and poisons generally."
None of the stories is done in whole, mostly just mentioned as pastiches. But Jeremy Paul was careful to restrain a lot of the dialogue to Conan Doyles's words. The main focus of the play is the relationship between Watson and Holmes. The first act curtain ran down on Holmes returning from the dead, Watson fainting and Holmes exclaiming, "I had no idea you'd be so affected!" Which was a beautiful set up for the second act.
The second act was an "alternate reality" version of Holmes's resurrection scene in "The Empty House". Paul decided that Holmes allowed his best friend to think that he was dead for some three years because he had never truly considered the depth of Watson's feelings, and the scene was written so that the realization of how wrongly Holmes had acted was forcibly borne upon him.
At the point where Holmes is
describing Reichenbach and being left alone, Watson throws out the line,
"YOU were left alone..." and there was an awkward pause
which Holmes skipped over. The scene then peaked when Holmes
said that he feared Watson's affection for him would lead him into
an indiscretion. Watson, wounded to the core, abruptly left the
room, banging the door behind him. There was a very long pause, while
Holmes is left alone in the center of a very quiet room,
and he understands that he's made a monumental misjudgment.
When Watson returns, stony-faced but forgiving, Holmes does his best to apologize with rapid explanations. Watson unbends as the tales of Holmes's travels unfold. When Holmes stops speaking it's then Watson's turn to tell his side of the event. In a delightful and unexpected role reversal, Watson begins to describe the trail of deductions that led him to the conclusion that Holmes had survived Reichenbach.
WATSON: Some weeks before, I found I had mislaid some medical notes. I concluded that I had left them here, among your papers. I called on Mrs. Hudson and learnt that your brother, Mycroft, had instructed her to keep these rooms just as they were and had continued to pay the rent. It was my first intimation that you were alive. ... I went to see Mycroft. He received me, with a certain stiff cordiality, at the Diogenes Club.
HOLMES: (amazed) Mycroft?
WATSON: In the Strangers' Room. A very soothing atmosphere, if a little misanthropic. I put it to him quite bluntly. I said I thought you were alive and he knew of your whereabouts.
HOLMES is now seated in his chair
and WATSON has moved to the front of the desk.HOLMES: And what did he say to that?
WATSON: He twitched.
HOLMES: But he was sworn to secrecy!
WATSON: Oh, he was as good as his word on that point. He explained that he had preserved Baker Street as a memorial to you...on a whim. But your training me in the observation of human behaviour, Holmes, had not been in vain. Didn't you once tell me that human features are faithful servants to their emotions? It was not your brother's face, which showed no human emotion whatever, but a persistent tapping of the fingers of his left hand which drew my attention.
WATSON taps the fingers of his left hand on the desk top lightly. HOLMES: He is right-handed.
WATSON: He had a large brandy and soda in his right hand. That never wavered.
After that, the rest of the play was a let down. The titular secret is that Holmes is Moriarty. Yeah. Don't ask me how but it worked on stage. Reading the play won't give you the sense of it, but somehow, as Holmes is confessing this heinous fact to Watson, Brett managed to transform himself with a shake of the head and a click of the tongue into Moriarty: same pose as the Paget illustration, with the high forehead, and the beady little lizard eyes. His face just melted into Moriarty's expression. Very eery and effective, but outside of that theatre, it doesn't make sense.
The best part was after the curtain came down (to curtain calls, of course) and the theatre emptied. I'd never hung around stage doors before, but my landlady had very kindly informed me that if I wanted to get autographs, I could do so by hanging around the stage door and waiting. So, I did, the third time around. It seemed silly not to.
Edward Hardwicke came out first. I remember that he was shorter than me, and had the kindest eyes of anybody I've ever known. I don't remember much else, because my brains turned instantly into cottage cheese. I suppose I must have endeared myself to him by mentioning that I was working as a typist in order to support my three-times-a-week theatre habit, and this little spark lit in his eye, and we were talking a mile a minute. And just as my heartrate started to settle, Brett walked out the stage door.
I'm afraid I dropped Hardwicke rather abruptly, and he made off too quickly for me to apologize, for which I will never forgive myself. But then I got to meet Jeremy Brett.
He wore a black sweater, a strange sort of woven cap, vaguely Tibetan, and little bells around his neck on a cord (I guess he was getting into the bit about Holmes seeing the Holy Lama). A completely and utterly different personality. He gushed. He was an absolute sweetheart. And he threw out the words "Six more next year!" (this was May 1989), and I suppose my face must have been beaming, and I was saying something about how life just doesn't get much better than this, and he swooped upon me, exclaiming, "Oh, how sweet!", and gave me a peck on the cheek.
Ever had an adrenalin rush of lightening-bolt proportions? Take it from me; never try to find your way home on the Tube after something like that. Just don't. It took me four stops before I realized I'd taken the wrong direction on the Piccadilly line.
I even have a picture of the occasion. No, clicking on it won't get you
a larger version of it. Believe me, larger would not make this any clearer.
You see, I have an old manual SLR camera. Without a flash. Perhaps the worst
thing in the world to hand to a helpful stranger at night in a dark
alley to take your picture with Jeremy Brett. Especially when she feels
that she absolutely has to refocus it, when you told her not to. Ah, well.
At least I've got a picture.
And that's an end to my rambling.
You thought that was a good story? You should read Fijay's!
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