If I counted all the reasons why I was obsessed with the upcoming Sherlock Holmes film, I would run out of fingers, toes, and cranial bones to count them all with. So I’ll make things simpler–I’ll narrow it down to one big reason, which is that apparently Stephen Fry is going to get naked.
I never even saw the first Sherlock Holmes–not because I’m not a fan of the franchise or don’t think it has potential–it’s simply that, while I’m excited about it, I could live without most of it. I can survive without the bad drag, the jokes about bad drag, the red herring-homoeroticism, the glossy action sequences, Jude Law’s bad facial hair, Robert Downey Jr.’s unconvincing accent and pipe smoking–none of it is necessary to the continuation of my life on earth. But the thought of Stephen Fry without clothes–even for an instant–is just too much. No–I’m fairly certain that if that bit of celluloid is out in the world and I somehow never get to witness it, I will self-asphyxiate. So while the chrome lettering (à la Gaga) and predictable cuts of the trailer may leave me with diminished enthusiasm, the thought of Fry baring all is enough to get me into the theater at least three times, to be followed by the purchase of a pirated copy in Chinatown reserved for long winter evenings.
Case in point: dreams do come true. Even if The Lone Ranger did get axed. So I’m not going to give up just yet on my dreams of the day when James Gandolfini goes rogue and decides to self-produce an x-rated Laird Cregar biopic.