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The Chive


   The funniest, nastiest movie reviews anywhere.

Mr. Holmes

Sherlock Holmes has more lives than a Hindu cat.  He's been busting bad guys on the big screen since 1900.  1900?!  You know how many other things have been around that long?  Your great-granny's panties . . . and that's about it.

During the past six years alone we've had Downey Jr.'s kung fu version in two Guy Ritchie jawns, Cumberbatch's preening Sher-prick in three seasons of the TV series from the BBC (which I've come to learn does not, in fact, stand for "Big Black Cock"), four seasons of a drug addict Holmes and a hot, Asian-American chick Watson in Elementary, a direct-to-video cash grab starring some guy who'll be lucky if his next gig is a hemorrhoids commercial and now an art house flick focused on an octogenarian Holmes one sneaky fart away from pooping his pants.

And they say the entertainment industry is all out of new ideas.

Speaking of which, the fact that the recent, super-creatively-named Steve Jobs biopic, Steve Jobs, has crashed and burned like a Russian commuter jet has a bunch of fuckwitted commentators screaming, "See!  No one wants original movies!  They only want sequels, remakes and reboots!" 

Or, and I'm just spitballing here, maybe Steve Jobs failed so epically because the Apple-obsessed, Hollywood elite drastically underestimated just how few fucks "flyover America" - you know, everything between NYC and L.A. - gives about some asshole businessman, even if he was the 1%'s tech-stock Muhammad?  How about making a few kickass, mega-awesome, original movies with wide audience appeal and seeing how they do before giving up completely on fresh content, you lazy, wheatgrass-sippin', yoga-mat-sniffin' hacks?

Which brings us to Mr. Holmes, a movie about a senior citizen Sherlock (Ian "Patrick Stewart's Man Crush" McKellen) losing his mind.  Because Sherlock Holmes without his deductive genius is right up there with quadruple-amputee dancers, blind test pilots and tit-less wet nurses on the Good Idea list. 

Holmes is a retired codger trying to close his one unsolved case.  Except, (technically a spoiler but it honestly doesn't matter) he actually already solved it and just forgot.  World's greatest detective indeed.  When he's not hiking around Hiroshima looking for Sanity Weed or flashing back to the most boring mystery since The Case of the Missing Keys ("Oh, wait, there they are on the kitchen table.") he teaches his Irish housekeeper's son to tend bees. 

What the honey-covered fuck?

And there's not a deerstalker hat, meerschaum pipe, Dr. Watson or Moriarty anywhere in sight.  Just big, gay Sir Gandalf-Magneto riding on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's coattails 129 years on.

Mr. Holmes is shit Sherlock.

November 15, 2015

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