grep Chelo

When I was about seven or eight years old, a friend of mine and I found a small book in my parents’s study on one of the shelves on top, never to be reached by a child, but easily within the reach of two of them cooperating. It was old, the leather that bound it was cracked, it was covered in dust, and it was very thick and small compared to the others in that bookcase. Yet the pages were mostly intact, as if it had been rarely opened, and always with the utmost care. My first suggestion was that it was a Bible, as the only books I knew back then with those interesting characteristics were all Bibles. However, as my friend quickly pointed out, the cover had a purple-ish tint, and an unusual repeating pattern formed on the sides when all the pages were held together. Our young minds concluded, given the overwhelming evidence, that this was indeed not a Bible, but a book a witchcraft. We wouldn’t dare to open it, as our young souls still had many other sins to carry, and we didn’t care much for the idea of adding wizardry to our list when the time came for our first confession with a priest.

Many times I saw that book; with it’s red, long, cloth bookmark dandling from its side. It was now atop other books, since we couldn’t get it back to its original place due to our short height. I could feel its demonic presence always poking me when I went near it. Little did I know that that book would eventually take my soul, and confine my mind to its pages for the rest of my life.

I grew up, we moved to a new home, and the new bookshelf wasn’t as high anymore. I was around twelve by then; a much braver boy than I had been in my childish youth. So I decided to take a peek into this mystical tome of black magic that my parents had decided to keep for whatever reason. I’d never seen them sacrifice a goat or call on spirits, so it might not be that big of a deal. Maybe magic wasn’t something to be feared at all.

I opened the book for the first time, and I made sure that I wouldn’t be disturbed. The door was locked, my mom and my sister far away, unaware of my sinister intentions. At first, it was very disappointing. I didn’t need to do any extensive searching to realize this wasn’t a book that held the secrets of the dark arts. However, it didn’t take me long to realize it had an immense power within, and cracked, leathery exterior wouldn’t be able to hold all the irradiating beauty in its thin and waxy pages. After the usual copyright and editorial notices, it read:

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

I’ve read many books since then — though not as many as I would’ve liked — yet no other team as that of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson have had an effect on me as strong or everlasting. I’ve read Watson’s accounts of dozens crimes being solved — and some left unsolved — by his adventures with the enigmatic Sherlock Holmes. The quickness of his eyes and mind are something I continue to admire even as I read the stories again as an adult. And thanks to two other Sherlock fans and their incredible ability to bring stories into life, Sherlock Holmes is now a new show on BBC, the British TV channel.

I just watched the first episode, and I must say, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss have totally nailed it. All the old elements are there. The apartment on 221b Barker Street. Mrs. Hudson doing the work of a landlady who is devoted to Holmes’s success. All the weird chemistry equipment in the kitchen. Even the human skull that Sherlock uses to bounce ideas off of. A slightly older Watson, with his military past and undying thirst for action. The same quality that binds him to Sherlock in the books is in the show: he’s te only person who can stand the snotty bastard. The essence of Watson is also preserved: he’s not Sherlock’s best friend because he’s smart or snotty, it’s because he knows the value of silence. But since this is the 21st century, two single man living and spending all their time together is bound to raise suspicion, so the authors didn’t waste any time by inserting funny bits here and there to make both gentlemen uncomfortable of the situation. Nothing like Mrs Hudson suggesting that she’s OK with both of them sharing a room in her house, or Holmes rejecting Watson’s (misunderstood) romantic proposal, to break the ice between both characters.

But it’s not all antique references. This new show is set on the 21st century, and Sherlock makes sure to make good use of the technology around him. He uses text messages to communicate with Watson and annoy the media. To determine where a victim had traveled from, he used his smartphone to look up the weather of the cities within two hours of London to find the one with heavy rain. Instead of his pipe, he slaps a few nicotine patches on his arms to get the brain juices rolling.

There are also nods to old friends and foes. Detective Lestrad is back to request the duo’s help on all weird cases while keeping a close eye on Sherlock. It’s been made obvious –in a rather clever and surprising way that I won’t spoil here– that Professor Moriarty will be a mayor plot point of the story. I look forward to seing an appearance by Irene Adler, and maybe even the Queen herself.

All in all, I was very pleased with this first episode of Sherlock, there was enough of both new and old to go around, and I hope the show lasts a long time. I don’t see how the BBC could pass on a project helmed by these two geniuses who, if the first episode is any indication of what’s to come, are ready to take the crime scene of London and turn it upside down in search for clues and amazing mysteries that only Mr. Sherlock Holmes can solve.