THE GAME’S AFOOT. EVENTUALLY.
Nick Lane’s adaptation of Conan Doyle’s late, broodingly complicated novel has met many huzzahs from Sherlock Holmes fans, previously here, on tour and streaming. So as a Southwark supporter I thought I should at last have a look now it’s back. Lane’s take on the 221b household is certainly refreshing: both Bobby Bradley’s lanky arrogant Sherlock and the tweedily amiable Watson of Joseph Derrington are more youthful than usual, and Alice Osmanski’s Mrs Hudson un-Victorian in her laid-back confident impertinence. So far, so modern. They double – everyone does, often tripling – and Victoria Spearing’s set, rearranged with choreographic elegance by the cast, admirably serves a three- sided house.
It has to , since the scene changes from Baker St to a Kentish murder scene and repeatedly to 1875 Pennsylvania, on a train and in the headquarters of a freemasonic gangster set, based apparently on the Molly Maguires and their pursuit by a Pinkerton agent.
But there’s the trouble, not really the fault of the adaptor – though he does draw out the Pennsylvania scenes – and certainly not the nimble cast. The Victorian obsession with retro American gansterism can rapidly pall on us today. The first half drags, intricacies getting downright dull sometimes despite spirited performances from Gavin Molloy as a snarling mafioso and – not least – from Osmanski in two of her many quick-change frocks, plus a gun. Blake Kubena in a ponytail is another villain – or is he? How deeply do we care?
The second half picks up, especially when Molloy returns, heavily Brylcreemed, in a flashback as an Irish-accented Moriarty taunting Sherlock in an art gallery (that’s a very good bit) and triggering a temporary breach in his bromance with Watson . So on it winds, with Pennsylvania kicking off with shots and knives while back home Holmes discovers the devilishly cunning solution to the mystery of the missing dumbell, the bicycle in the moat, the yellow overcoat…
Well, it runs at 2 hours 45 minutes, heavy for this material, but those who know the Conan Doyle canon will love it for its faithfulness, and indeed its expansion of the American scenes. And the cast are fine, especially Molloy and Osmanski. Tristan Parkes’ music is perfect, using echoes of old America and thriller moments with a rare sensitive skill. Perhaps it’s just that simpler souls like me ruefully prefer our Sherlock in his more strictly UK adventures: hounds, speckled bands, disguises, rascally lascars in opium dens and the occasional scandalous diamond necklace.
Southwarkplayhouse.co.uk. To. 13 April
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