The BBC’s third television adaptation of The Hound of the Baskervilles (after an episode of the 1968 series starring Peter Cushing and the Tom Baker version in 1982, is far and away the least of them. Slickly made, it always looks good but is let down by poor casting, some strange tinkerings with the original story and a number of fundamental misunderstandings about not only the story but about Holmes and Watson and their relationship. It was seen as a prestige project by the BBC, broadcast over the Christmas period of 2002, and afforded a sizeable budget but the changes wrought by writer Allan Cubitt ultimately prove its undoing. There’s no questioning the film’s ambition, but its flaws ultimately outweigh its virtues.
One of the adaptation’s major problems lies in the casting. Supporting roles are well cast (Neve McIntosh as Beryl Stapleton, John Nettles as Dr Mortimer, Geraldine James as Mrs Mortimer, Ron Cook and Liza Tarbuck as the Barrymores, Danny Webb as Lestrade and particularly Richard E. Grant as Stapleton who comes closer than most to matching Holmes’ original description of him as one of the most dangerous people he’d ever met) but the three leads are less well served. Matt Day’s Sir Henry Baskerville is just bland and makes no impact whatsoever. It’s difficult to warm to him in any way and that’s a problem that runs though all three of the leads.
Ian Hart (who reprised the role opposite Rupert Everett’s Holmes in the BBC’s Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Silk Stocking (2004)) makes for a rather glum and humourless Watson. It’s understandable that any actor tackling Watson would want to distance themselves from the divisive buffoonery of Nigel Bruce’s portrayal but by 2002 there had been many Watsons that hewed closer to Conan Doyle’s original for actors not to have to go the extremes that Hart goes to here to not go down the comedy sidekick route. He doesn’t even so much as manage a smile once throughout the film and one has to wonder why he remains with Holmes – who, towards the end, he admits to not trusting – if it makes him so miserable.
Richard Roxburgh’s Holmes is more physical than we’re used to, quicker to resort to violence than reasoning. He assaults the cab driver who brought his impersonator to Baker Street and although he stops an uncharacteristically aggressive Watson from attacking Stapleton after the good doctor has discovered the brutalised Beryl tied up in a barn, he’s not averse to subsequently roughing him up a bit himself. This Holmes often comes across as a bit smug rather than emotionally and intellectually detached and is rather too quick to dismiss Watson as “an idiot” for comfort. Roxburgh never quite seems at ease in the role and certainly doesn’t come anywhere near close to matching the very best portrayals of Holmes.
Cubitt seems to completely misunderstand not only the main characters and their relationships, but also Holmes’ relationship with drugs. In the original stories, Holmes resorted to his “seven-per-cent solution” as a way to deal with the crushing mundanity of life between cases. Here, he shoots up at the drop of a hat (including in a railway station toilet for God’s sake…) as a way to enhance his critical thinking. Other changes are less contentious but no less annoying. A seance scene owes more to the Basil Rathbone 1939 version of the film than it does to Conan Doyle, Christmas celebrations are clumsily shoehorned in, presumably because the film was first broadcast on Boxing Day 2002 and small details like Watson shooting Stapleton to death rather than him meeting his fate in the Grimpen Mire abound. What makes this all the more regrettable is that Cubitt does occasionally display some indication that he has a more than passing familiarity with the original – Holmes’ initial meeting with Stapleton quotes Conan Doyle’s dialogue virtually word for word and it’s a rare adaptation that ends with the small detail of Holmes and Watson preparing to unwind after their adventure with a night at the opera, Holmes having booked a box for them from which to enjoy a production of Giacomo Meyerbeer’s Les Huguenots.
So if the film fumbles its portrayal of Holmes and effects too many changes for die-hard Holmesians to be comfortable with, it all really comes down to how well it presents the eponymous hound. And even here it comes up short. The dog itself is a mix of decent but still not quite convincing enough CGI effects, courtesy of Framestore, and it has that disconcerting “lightweight” feel that mars so many CGI creations – it never quite feels like it’s actually “there”. But more damagingly, the production tries to have its cake and eat it when it comes to the hound’s origins – in the book, the hound is exposed to be just an ordinary, if rather large and aggressive dog covered in phosphorous to give it a menacing appearance. Here the dog is a peculiar looking beast (Holmes seems to admit that he doesn’t actually know what it is) that is given a much more unnatural and monstrous appearance that is left unexplained. Is it natural or supernatural? A mistreated canine or some sort of never-seen-before monster?
Well directed by David Attwood, beautifully photographed by James Welland and lavishly designed by Donal Woods, this version of The Hound has enjoyed a mixed reputation since its first broadcast, with some supporters hailing it as a triumph and others being too let down by the changes and misunderstandings. Overall, despite its many technical virtues, it remains a disappointment.
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