The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (1939)
This "site" can have a more serious side at times, so I'm going to force you all to sit through a precocious selection of film reviews. Try and have a Merry Christmas - I've made it as interesting a snapshot as possible.
Made on the back of the hugely successful but fairly austere The Hound of the Baskervilles (also 1939), Adventures was the second and last excursion into Conan Doyle for Twentieth Century Fox, and the second of fourteen adventures for Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce, the definitive Holmes and Watson. This ranks as the best of that formidable repertoire for a number of reasons - the always fascinating George Zucco's reptilian Moriarty; the stunning production values as Fox recreates a good chunk of Victorian London, including the Bloody Tower; the dynamic musical score (especially considering its vintage) by David Buttolph; the sly undercurrent of black humour, excellently handled by Bruce and Zucco; Leon Shamroy's glittering black-and-white cinematography; and the stable directing of Alfred Werker, who hit a career peak with this film. This neat set-up has "classic movie" written all over it, a title that Adventures has rightly earned. Special praise must go to an unrecognizable Rathbone's cockney dance hall routine, which is entertaining, amusing, and weirdly compelling on so many levels. Then there's that classic line he delivers to Professor Moriarty, world ambassador of villainy: "You have a magnificent brain, Moriarty. I admire it. I admire it so much I'd like to present it pickled in alcohol to the London Medical Society."
There are a few detractors, too, but they're kind of fun in that dated fashion. The romantic lead (Alan Marshal) comes off as more of a psychopathic child snatcher than a comfort to the leading lady, and is unfairly saddled with the script's worst lines. (To paraphrase: "You think I'm going to hurt you? I sometimes wonder why I don't!"). Much has been made of Ida Lupino, other half of the love interest, but she makes very little impression here. True, her career was one of missed chances and forgotten promises, but perhaps it's not so much of a surprise that she never rose to bonafide stardom. The mystery is convoluted, complicated, and utterly incomprehensible, chunks clearly chopped from the script to speed up the proceedings. But overall, it's a very slick job.
As mentioned, George Zucco is the standout here. He had plenty of experience in the horror trade, and it clearly reflects in each bulbous, glowing eye. Whether cackling, "I'll give him a toy to delight his heart," eccentrically staring up at his plant collection with sardonic glee, softly threatening his petrified butler with a boiling in oil, or sadly announcing his intentions to retire to the abstract sciences, Zucco is the cold, cruel, calculating embodiment of malice, a dark reflection of the serpent in the Garden of Eden. There isn't a false note in his electric performance, and it certainly towers above his more conventional series rivals. Zucco again proves himself to be an unfortunately underused character player, and one who richly deserved the stardom and exposure of a Karloff or Lugosi.
The Holmes series moved to Universal Pictures for the next entry, 1942's Sherlock Holmes and the Voice of Terror, but the series rapidly deteriorated into repetition and lethargy. The next twelve were not without a great sense of nostalgia, including some minor classics, 1944's The Scarlet Claw and The Pearl of Death, but lacked the lavish studio mounting of the first two installments. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes embodies all the best traits of these classic detective thrillers - complex mystery, cunning disguises, fog and shadows aplenty, pompous British stereotypes, genuinely funny comedy, a truly menacing antagonist, and the irreplacable Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce, on top form as always. It has yet to be topped in the genre.
Stay tuned for another dull review - the bizarre 1962 horror anthology, Tales of Terror, again with Rathbone - as well as the next installment of those potty Potter adventures. And if you would rather watch Van Helsing, Saw, or that tepid House of Wax remake, kindly dunk your head in a toilet. I could pull better horror out of my posterior with a deadened Game Boy Camera, a crummy bedroom lamp, and several buckets of horse manure. And should you still persist, the collective ghosts of Bela Lugosi, Boris Karloff, Vincent Price, and Peter Cushing will get you while you sleep.
Heh. You've got to sleep sometime.
Made on the back of the hugely successful but fairly austere The Hound of the Baskervilles (also 1939), Adventures was the second and last excursion into Conan Doyle for Twentieth Century Fox, and the second of fourteen adventures for Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce, the definitive Holmes and Watson. This ranks as the best of that formidable repertoire for a number of reasons - the always fascinating George Zucco's reptilian Moriarty; the stunning production values as Fox recreates a good chunk of Victorian London, including the Bloody Tower; the dynamic musical score (especially considering its vintage) by David Buttolph; the sly undercurrent of black humour, excellently handled by Bruce and Zucco; Leon Shamroy's glittering black-and-white cinematography; and the stable directing of Alfred Werker, who hit a career peak with this film. This neat set-up has "classic movie" written all over it, a title that Adventures has rightly earned. Special praise must go to an unrecognizable Rathbone's cockney dance hall routine, which is entertaining, amusing, and weirdly compelling on so many levels. Then there's that classic line he delivers to Professor Moriarty, world ambassador of villainy: "You have a magnificent brain, Moriarty. I admire it. I admire it so much I'd like to present it pickled in alcohol to the London Medical Society."
There are a few detractors, too, but they're kind of fun in that dated fashion. The romantic lead (Alan Marshal) comes off as more of a psychopathic child snatcher than a comfort to the leading lady, and is unfairly saddled with the script's worst lines. (To paraphrase: "You think I'm going to hurt you? I sometimes wonder why I don't!"). Much has been made of Ida Lupino, other half of the love interest, but she makes very little impression here. True, her career was one of missed chances and forgotten promises, but perhaps it's not so much of a surprise that she never rose to bonafide stardom. The mystery is convoluted, complicated, and utterly incomprehensible, chunks clearly chopped from the script to speed up the proceedings. But overall, it's a very slick job.
As mentioned, George Zucco is the standout here. He had plenty of experience in the horror trade, and it clearly reflects in each bulbous, glowing eye. Whether cackling, "I'll give him a toy to delight his heart," eccentrically staring up at his plant collection with sardonic glee, softly threatening his petrified butler with a boiling in oil, or sadly announcing his intentions to retire to the abstract sciences, Zucco is the cold, cruel, calculating embodiment of malice, a dark reflection of the serpent in the Garden of Eden. There isn't a false note in his electric performance, and it certainly towers above his more conventional series rivals. Zucco again proves himself to be an unfortunately underused character player, and one who richly deserved the stardom and exposure of a Karloff or Lugosi.
The Holmes series moved to Universal Pictures for the next entry, 1942's Sherlock Holmes and the Voice of Terror, but the series rapidly deteriorated into repetition and lethargy. The next twelve were not without a great sense of nostalgia, including some minor classics, 1944's The Scarlet Claw and The Pearl of Death, but lacked the lavish studio mounting of the first two installments. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes embodies all the best traits of these classic detective thrillers - complex mystery, cunning disguises, fog and shadows aplenty, pompous British stereotypes, genuinely funny comedy, a truly menacing antagonist, and the irreplacable Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce, on top form as always. It has yet to be topped in the genre.
Stay tuned for another dull review - the bizarre 1962 horror anthology, Tales of Terror, again with Rathbone - as well as the next installment of those potty Potter adventures. And if you would rather watch Van Helsing, Saw, or that tepid House of Wax remake, kindly dunk your head in a toilet. I could pull better horror out of my posterior with a deadened Game Boy Camera, a crummy bedroom lamp, and several buckets of horse manure. And should you still persist, the collective ghosts of Bela Lugosi, Boris Karloff, Vincent Price, and Peter Cushing will get you while you sleep.
Heh. You've got to sleep sometime.
posted by James C. Swanton at 2:08 PM
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