Behind every great Sherlock Holmes is the caretaking, ass-kicking, sidekick Dr. Watson. At least, that’s the character I look to when judging a Sherlock Holmes mystery.
That’s who my eyes kept wandering to during the Alley Theatre’s current production of Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Suicide Club, which runs through June 23.
Sherlock Holmes has been the deducing giant whose influence has cast a long shadow over mystery fiction since Arthur Conan Doyle created him in 1887. Yet, at the beginning of the 21st century he seems to have had an accident while attempting to solve an experimental cloning case, because everywhere we look is a myriad of Sherlocks invading every medium.
Everywhere a Sherlock
He currently resides under his own name in two television shows, Sherlock and Elementary. (Tip: never get in the middle of an online discussion between BBC version and CBS version Holmes fans. They will virtually cut you from both sides.) But he has assumed an alias on many more shows.
Is he a high functioning sociopath? A raging drug addict? Does he have Asperger's, or is he just an ass?
A year ago, he retired as the pill popping curmudgeon diagnostician, House. He’s thinly disguised himself as two fake psychic detectives, and there are bits of him woven into the literary genetic code of every television crime scene investigator swabbing the murder weapon for DNA. In the movies, he’s Robert Downey Jr.’s other manic, genius character.
No matter how brilliant these versions of Sherlock are, would we really want to spend even an hour in their presence, if loyal Watson wasn’t standing behind Sherlock, rolling his (or her) eyes at the great detective?
For Holmes couldn’t fall into the 21st century cloning machine without Watson jumping in worriedly after him, and so with every new Sherlock we get a new version of Watson.
Always the sidekick, but still heroic
It’s the Watsons, really all suffering sidekick characters, who fascinate me. Though relegated to the unassuming assistant and chronicler role, Watson is an intelligent doctor, crack shot and war vet. He’s the only man (or woman as the version may be) who can play caretaker to the diva detective while never getting subsumed by his overbearing personality.
The Alley Theatre’s production of Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Suicide Club harkens back to retro Holmes and Watson, but the play is a mix of old and new achieved by contemporary playwright Jeffrey Hatcher marrying Conan Doyle’s characters to the plot of the Robert Louis Stevenson’s “The Young Man with the Cream Tarts” from his collection of short fiction, The Suicide Club.
He’s the only man who can play caretaker to the diva detective while never getting subsumed by his overbearing personality.
Alley company member Todd Waite portrays a middle aged, world-weary Holmes, who at the beginning of the play seems on the verge of weeping for there are no more criminal worlds to conquer, no intricate puzzles to solve.
Sidney Williams’s Watson on the other hand seems quite happy in the autumn of his life, having both a comfortable medical practice and wife to go home to if, ever there comes a time of no more mysteries.
But that is not a current problem because Holmes himself is the moody riddle Watson must decipher. Holmes manages to be so annoying and rude even Watson is driven away, and the audience is left to follow Holmes into the smoky London night where he will later look for solace in the strange suicide club that mixes gentlemanly wagering with the chance for club members to off their despondent cohorts.
But true fans of Sherlock Holmes will know Watson can’t be long gone from the scene, and thankfully in this version he’s not.
Though Hatcher along with directors Mark Shanahan and Gregory Boyd build a solid little conspiracy for Holmes to unravel, by the middle of the second act it becomes more and more apparent through simple process of elimination who is responsible for the suicidal murders. Still, the play's focus on mystery is refreshing, as it seems lately Holmes writers are less interested in creating nifty plots for Sherlock to untangle and more in dissecting his psyche and brain chemistry.
Is he a high functioning sociopath? A raging drug addict? Does he have Asperger's, or is he just an ass?
Waite’s Holmes is indeed a bit of an ass, but he does care about human beings and lives lost, also something not always guaranteed with contemporary Sherlocks. However, for me the most poignant moment in the play came when Holmes pauses for a whole 30 seconds to contemplate the nature of friendship and the honesty and kindness, or at least the Sherlockian version of kindness, he owes Watson.
At first, Suicide Club’s Watson looks to be the play’s bungling narrator and comic relief, something I abhor in my Watsons, but by the (spoiler alert) second half of the play, we see a Watson only half a leap behind Sherlock’s deductive jumps. He’s the one character, who can keep up with Holmes while willingly putting up with him.
Hatcher gives most of the best lines to Sherlock and his brother Mycroft, played with the driest deadpan by James Black, but Williams gets in several telling jibes at Holmes himself.
But I wanted more because I look to Watson to represent me on stage, screen or page as the one person who can affectionately give the genius detective the figurative punch in the face he sometimes so richly deserves.
Sidney Williams’s Watson, left, on the other hand, seems quite happy in the autumn of his life.
