by Marvin Kaye
Making a mystery more visually engaging on the screen by including such sequences is typical; for example, the Granada adaptation of “Charles Augustus Milverton,” The Master Blackmailer expands on the Canon to include a fistfight between a disguised Holmes and his jealous rival. Rathbone’s Holmes’s first encounter with Moriarty in 1939’s The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes ended in a wrestling match, obviously paralleling Doyle’s own portrayal of their encounter at the Reichenbach Falls. And there’s nothing inherently wrong with scenes of violent action—stories of armchair deduction such as “The Gloria Scott,” or “The Veiled Lodger,” are not the Canonical norm.
A Study In Terror also stands out with its superior ensemble cast, rivaled only by that of Murder By Decree, with whom it shares two members. Neville, best-known to modern audiences as The Well-Manicured Man of The X-Files, is one of my favorite Holmes—incisive, resourceful, and a sophisticated observer of human nature. His Holmes is capable of outrage and strong emotion, but he is more in control of himself than in Christopher Plummer’s portrayal. He knows how to use his reputation to his benefit; his name alone is enough to intimidate witnesses. Unfortunately, he only played the part again as one of the successors to John Wood in the 1970s revival of the William Gillette play, and in an obscure CBC radio play, The Incredible Murder of Cardinal Tosca, whose script did not match his acting talent. We can only wonder what might have been had Neville not declined to succeed Douglas Wilmer in the 1960s BBC series that was eventually filmed with Peter Cushing in the part.
As noted, Houston continued in the footsteps of Andre Morrell as a serious Watson, foreshadowing similar approaches to the role by Robert Duvall, James Mason, David Burke and Edward Hardwicke. Inspector Lestrade, who in the Rathbone films managed the improbable feat of making Bruce’s Watson look smart in comparison, finally got his due, thanks to Frank Finlay, who reprised the role in Murder By Decree. The movie also featured Dame Judi Dench in one of her first roles, as a young idealist running a mission in the East End, along with her uncle, portrayed by Anthony Quayle. And the movie’s grimness, inherent in its subject-matter—the Ripper’s gory assaults are not for the squeamish, even if the horrific mutilations are only alluded to—and its frank portrayal of mortuaries and the plight of the London underclass, is lightened intermittently by Robert Morley, whose delightful and charming portrayal of Mycroft Holmes was the first in an English-language talking picture.
My regard for the movie is not a blinkered one. The Ripper’s reason for killing is not fully-developed. In contrast to Murder By Decree, Watson is, illogically, relegated to the sidelines for the unmasking of the killer, and the writers place Holmes in a deathtrap that they are not able to write their way out of. The soundtrack, perhaps the first ever released on record from a Holmes film, is uneven and sometimes jarring, and the real victims of the Ripper were not as healthy and well-nourished as portrayed in the movie, which does not concern itself overmuch with historical accuracy. But these are quibbles, at best. Neville and Houston deserved more outings in their roles, and forty-five years later, their performances, both individually and jointly, rank among the best in the history of Holmes on the screen. And the Fords and director Herman Cohen (also responsible for the giant gorilla movie, Konga) proved that an in-period Holmes movie not derived from the Canon could be done well.
By keeping Holmes the man of action in proper proportion to the thinker who could sit for hours, if not days, on end, developing and testing theories, Ritchie and Wigram could go a long way, in their next film, to allaying the qualms of many of their critics. A Study In Terror shows how to do just that.
A closing warning: A Study In Terror was subsequently novelized by Ellery Queen and Paul Fairman; its conceit was having Queen being sent Watson’s manuscript and applying his own detecting gifts to ascertaining whether Holmes correctly identified the Ripper. The sections from Watson’s journal have their moments, but I’d strongly recommend that the novel, which has been periodically reprinted in Ripper anthologies, be read only after seeing the movie.
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Lenny Picker, whose experience of things Sherlockian extends over four decades and three continents, stayed up until 4:00 a.m. while a teenager to catch A Study In Terror on The Late Late Show, in the days before VCRs and DVRs.
He can be reached at
ASK MRS HUDSON, by (Mrs) Martha Hudson
Mrs Hudson,
The comings and going of our children at all hours, when they were in college, was exceedingly annoying. How do you deal with the peculiar, middle-of-the-night arrivals of desperate help-seekers wanting assistance from Mr Holmes? Are the renters of 221-A or 221-C upset? Do they protest? Or is that immaterial given the status of your most celebrated tenant?
John Jakes
* * * *
Dear Mr Jakes,
First of all, thank you so much for your kind concern and realisation of my delicate and unusual position. A woman such as myself, raised in gentility and comfort, is not by nature accustomed to the odd array of rough trade, ragamuffins and ruffians who appear at our doorway all hours of the day and night.
In fact, I have lost a number of other tenants due to the professional activities of my most famous lodger. A certain Mrs Moynihan in 221-C was most disturbed by the series of random gunshots Mr Holmes was given to discharging whenever he felt like it. Dr Watson mentions this in his stories, but what he fails to mention is that the elderly widow living upstairs, already faint of heart and given to nervous palpitations, was driven to distraction by the unpredictable and unexpected blasts of gun powder from 221-B.
She complained to me, and Mr Holmes was persuaded to curtail his explosive enthusiasms. Dr Watson prescribed her valerian roots to help her sleep, but her nerves were quite frayed by that time, and she could not be persuaded that Mr Holmes had agreed to give up his odd habit. It seems the gunshots brought her unpleasant memories of her days in Ulster, also known as Northern Ireland, after the famine, during the “Troubles.”
Dr Watson was kind enough to help her secure a very satisfactory set of rooms in Kensington, and Mr Holmes insisted on paying her first year’s rent. So in the end, I felt she came away well enough, though I daresay she would have preferred not to move.
Then there was Mr Grieves in 221-A. He was a mild-mannered little man, a bookkeeper by trade, and kept very much to himself. He had a thin little mustache and kept a budgie in his bedroom in a gold cage, which he fed walnuts and raisin bread. He never said a word to me about Mr Holmes’ odd parade of visitors until the day he ran into the baron in the hallway. It seems Mr Grieves didn’t move out of the way fast enough, and the baron challenged him to a duel to satisfy his injured honour. He gave him a choice of pistols or rapiers, as I recall, and told Mr Grieves that his second would call on him at dawn the following Saturday.
Mr Grieves was gone by Thursday, and left no forwarding address. When the baron’s second arrived on Saturday, he was surprised to be greeted by my newest tenant, a spinster schoolteacher from Tewkesbury. Needless to say, she did not accept his offer to defend Mr Grieves’ honour—though I’m not convinced the second believed her assertion that she had never set eyes upon the unfortunate bookkeeper.
But even with all of this, I wouldn’t trade my years with Mr Holmes and Dr Watson for anything. Dr Watson is the kindest and most considerate of men, and Mr Holmes, God bless him, has his ways of endearing himself to a woman such as myself. He can be brusque, of course, but when he takes the time to think about it, he is the most charming of men. And of course he is never late with his rent, pays in advance, and insists on giving me a “little extra” for groceries and the like from time to time.
I consider myself lucky to call both of these gentlemen not only my tenants, but—I flatter myself to think—also my friends.
Yrs Truly,
Mrs Hudson
* * * *
/> Dear Mrs Hudson,
I am a landlady myself, and usually I have no trouble with my tenants. For the most part, they are a reliable and trustworthy lot, paying on time and doing their best not to damage my property.
However, about a year ago I had a dreadful woman—Kristin Halvorsen by name—who claimed to be an artist from Paris. She gave me a cheque which later bounced, and to top it off, she left the faucet on, creating a leak in the ceiling which I had to have repaired at my own expense. She left in the middle of the night, leaving me with an unpaid bill and an expensive ceiling repair.
Should I try to hunt her down or write her off as a bad experience?
Any advice you have for me is much appreciated.
Sincerely,
Concerned in Cranleigh
* * * *
Dear Concerned,
Write her off. If you believe in Fate, then this horrid woman will some day get what is coming to her. She may find herself confronted by a landlord someday who will recognize her for what she is, and, with any luck, end up in a gaol cell. It is my experience that people such as her trip up sooner or later.
Until then, don’t waste any more time thinking about her. My dear sister used to say that everyone gets what they deserve in the end. I am not so confident in the divine justice of Providence, but I do believe in living for the joys in life. It is far too short to do otherwise.
Go out and buy yourself a new hat, some heavy cream, and make trifle tonight for pudding. It will make you happy, and your lodgers will love you for it. I have listed my own recipe for trifle at the end of this column.
Sincerely yours,
Mrs Hudson
* * * *
Dear Mrs Hudson,
Ever since I was a child I have had a delicate constitution, and I am given to fainting spells, especially when attractive men are present. My sister claims I am pretending to faint, but I swear to you that is not the case.
It is very embarrassing—last week I fainted during Mrs Boyle’s annual Christmas ball, and when I came to, I was in Mr Apthorp’s arms. I was so mortified I pretended to swoon again, and begged to go home, just so I wouldn’t have to face Mrs Apthorp on the dance floor. What can I do? I am already nineteen and my sister says I will never find a husband if I don’t cure myself of this unwelcome affliction. I would be grateful for any advice you can give me.
Swooning in Swansea
* * * *
Dear Swooning,
Loosen your corset two notches. And do not attend parties where there are handsome married men who are waiting to catch young girls who faint in front of them. Confine your swooning to places where only single young men are present, and you will find a husband within the year.
Yours,
Mrs Hudson
* * * *
Dear Mrs Hudson,
I have a nervous stomach. I notice it is much worse when my husband is around, but since we’re living in his mother’s house, I don’t imagine I’ll be getting rid of the source of my stomach trouble anytime soon.
I would appreciate any advice you can give me.
Sincerely,
Bilious in Bathgate
* * * *
Dear Bilious,
The most helpful advice I could give would be to replace either your husband or his mother, but since that is unlikely, here are the treatments for colic passed down to me from my Scottish grandmother:
In mild attacks, place hot cloths or a light mustard plaster upon the abdomen. Take a little Jamaica ginger in a tablespoonful of brandy or whisky, by the mouth. Chloroform may be administered, either by inhalation or twenty drops of it may be given in a little brandy. In most cases it will be desirable that the patient take some opium, not only to secure immediate relief from the spasm, but also to promote the evacuation of the bowels, which must happen before the patient will be entirely safe from a recurrence of the pain. Twenty drops of laudanum may be given, or if the patient be constantly vomiting, a teaspoonful of laudanum mixed with a little starch may be injected into the rectum. If the pain does not subside within an hour, this dose may be repeated.
A note about the opium: be very chary of this drug, as Dr Watson informs me that it is highly addictive in nature.
If there is no vomiting present, and the colic is the result of indigestion, an emetic should be administered in order to empty the stomach. The quickest, though not the most certain, way of securing vomiting, is to tickle the throat with the finger or with a feather; if this measure be not successful, half a tablespoonful of common salt or mustard may be dissolved in a glass of warm water and swallowed. This may be repeated in ten minutes if the vomiting be not induced within that time.
I hope you feel better soon.
Best wishes,
Mrs Hudson
* * * *
And now, readers, as promised, here is my recipe for Scotch eggs, a favourite of Dr Waton’s, as well as my grandmother’s recipe for trifle.
* * * *
Mrs Hudson’s Scotch Eggs
Ingredients:
6 hard-cooked eggs, well chilled
1 pound breakfast sausage
1/2 cup flour
2 eggs, beaten
3/4 cup fine bread crumbs
Vegetable oil for frying
Method:
Peel eggs and set aside. Divide sausage into 6 portions. Roll each egg in flour and with hands press a portion of the sausage around each egg.
Dip sausage-wrapped eggs into beaten eggs and roll in bread crumbs. Heat vegetable oil until just beginning to smoke.
Cook each egg in oil about 4-5 minutes or until sausage is cooked and browned. Drain on paper toweling. Serve warm. Serves six.
* * * *
Grandmother McLaren’s Trusty Trifle
Ingredients:
8 ounces fresh heavy cream, whipped
8 ounces container sour cream
1 (9 inch) angel food cake or sponge cake or lady fingers
1 cup vanilla pudding, homemade from fresh egg yolks
8 ounces sweet cherries, peeled and sliced
1 pint fresh strawberries, sliced
3 bananas, peeled and sliced
10 ounces crushed pineapple, drained
1 sprig fresh mint
4 ounces rum
Method:
In a medium bowl, fold sour cream and pudding into the whipped cream.
Cut the cake into thirds, horizontally.
Line a large trifle or other glass serving bowl with cherries and strawberry slices. Place one layer of cake or lady fingers in bottom of bowl, top with 1/3 of bananas and pineapple, and 1/3 of whipped topping mixture. Repeat layering until all ingredients are used.
Make fan garnishes of whole strawberries by slicing from just below the stem. Garnish assembled trifle with fanned strawberries, and a sprig of mint. Refrigerate until serving. Drizzle with rum just before serving.
THE BITTER HALF, by Stan Trybulski
1
Mike Shanahan’s predilection for publicity was a legend in the law enforcement business. He wore it with undisguised pride, as if it were a cluster of battle ribbons instead of just a fat collection of news articles hung on the walls of his office, only waiting for the next visitor to goggle over. During his twenty-three years with the New York City Police Department he had never been shy about promoting his collars, so that when he was selected to become the new Special Commissioner for Investigations of the New York City Board of Education, he carried a vast network of personal press contacts with him.
Now, ensconced in a large corner office on the twenty-second floor of a downtown office building, Shanahan could take breaks from the tedious rigors of his position by gazing out of his large windows at Manhatta
n and the City—his City.
A receptionist with close-cropped blonde hair that allowed her to display a pair of diamond-studs in her ear lobes was well-protected by a thick layer of architectural safety glass. She looked up from her computer and buzzed me in as soon as I stepped out of the elevator. I was expected, so it seemed. She offered me a seat on one of the plush leather chairs in the outer office and remarking on the August heat, asked if I would like some water. I told her no and she picked up the phone on her desk and spoke softly into it. Then she turned her attention back to the computer screen in front of her and began playing with the electronic mouse. I looked down at the plush beige carpeting and listened to the quiet hum of the central air conditioning. Having my fill of the carpet, I looked out past the architectural safety glass at the elevator foyer with its rich, mahogany stained paneling and recessed soft lighting. Then I listened some more to the hum of the air conditioning. After a while, I looked at the wall behind the receptionist. There was a large color photograph of Shanahan and the mayor, smiling and shaking hands. I guessed he wanted visitors to know right off the bat where he stood—and they stood. I am power.
