UNPLUMBED DEPTHS —
There are abundant variations on the basic plot that could give a film version a better shot at creating menace, fear and suspense. The supernatural angle could be played up. Intriguingly, one of the few (if not the only) interesting aspects of the Granger Hound is its very ending, when a mournful howl echoes over the moors after Stapleton and his beast have sunk into the Grimpen Mire, suggesting that the curse has not ended after all …
A similar notion was to be the basis of an unmade Keith McConnell Holmes film, The Werewolf of the Baskervilles, which reportedly postulated that the family had been haunted by a lycanthrope all along. Incorporating aspects of the various myths that may have been the “west county legend” Fletcher Robinson recounted to Doyle also could provide new angles that could help. (The Roxburgh Hound does portray the beast of the legend as a loyal pet defending his mistress’s honour, rather than an instrument of satanic forces, but does virtually nothing with this innovation.) Given Holmes’ encyclopedic knowledge, it would not be surprising that a man who kept entries in his commonplace book for vampires would be aware of the Whist Hounds or the Black Dog of Dartmoor, and be able to employ that knowledge to uncover Stapleton’s scheme.
A NEW HOPE? —
Perhaps, despite the pessimism of this column’s subtitle, The Hound is not an unscalable peak. When analyzed, flaw by flaw, the problems with these films should be susceptible to correction. Perhaps we, as the second Hugo Baskerville might have put it, (if he were alive today, and a reader of SHMM), should learn then from this essay not to fear the fruits of these past adaptations, but rather put to use them as a prism to highlight Doyle’s original remarkable act of creation. And when the next version hits the screen, just maybe it will be the product of a Sherlockian Peter Jackson, who could be out there, even as I write, preparing a film that deserves Doyle’s own description of his work, a film that is “a real Creeper.”
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Leonard Picker, an inspector general in New York City, has written on the Master for Publishers Weekly, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, and the Baker Street Miscellanea, and is fortunate to be married to someone willing to sit through six straight hours of Hound movies without complaint. He may be contacted at [email protected].
ASK MRS HUDSON, by (Mrs) Martha Hudson
It is both gratifying and a tad onerous that ever since I became landlady to the illustrious Mr. Sherlock Holmes, my life has become richly endowed with incident, and at times is downright adventurous. One may therefore well imagine the enlarged experience that such an association brings an industrious gentlewoman as I hope I may represent myself.
Mr. Holmes’s dear friend Dr John H. Watson has encouraged me to share this store of worldly knowledge with the readers of this apposite periodical. To get things started, he has solicited several queries which I have endeavoured to answer below.
In future, should you wish to seek my advice, address your query to Ask Mrs Hudson at <[email protected]>. Letters may be of a personal or impersonal nature; I am happy to give advice on any topic whatsoever.
Sincerely,
(Mrs) MARTHA HUDSON
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Dear Mrs Hudson,
I am an American, and my cousin is almost forty, lives alone, is meticulous to a fault (I once caught him refolding the guest towels after I had used the lavatory). He shies away from women — in fact, he seems afraid of them. He is a member of the Guilford Choral Society, and enjoys Gilbert and Sullivan operettas. He says his years at a boys’ public school were the best of his life, even though I know the boys were beaten and forced to take cold showers. Is he “peculiar?”
Sincerely, Puzzled in Pembroke
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Dear Puzzled, Don’t worry about your cousin. No, he is not peculiar; he is merely British. Yours, Mrs Hudson
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Dear Mrs Hudson,
My mother in law goes everywhere with us — holidays, shopping trips, even restaurants. To make matters worse, she lives next door and has taken to popping over for tea without being invited. She goes on at length regarding my performance as a wife and housekeeper — I wasn’t even allowed to buy drapes for the bedroom without her advice. When I complain to my husband, he says he only wants to be a good son and that I should be more respectful of my elders.
Ignored in Ipswich
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Dear Ignored:
Here is what you should do: Have your husband transfer his assets to your name, then book a one-way ticket for one to Palermo. Take a train in the middle of the night. Leave no forwarding address. Get an Italian boyfriend. He will be just as attached to his mother, but it will be worth it, as he will be much better in bed.
Ciao,
Mrs Hudson
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Dear Mrs Hudson,
My husband likes to dress in women’s clothing. Should I divorce him?
Doubtful in Dublin
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Dear Doubtful,
Not unless he looks better than you do in heels.
Sincerely,
Mrs Hudson
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Dear Mrs Hudson,
My Labrador retriever Wellington has taken to sleeping in the bed next to me. He’s become so bossy about it, in fact, that my poor husband has to sleep on the couch these days. In fact, if poor Jacques tries to come anywhere near the bed, Wellie growls and snaps at him. What should I do about this?
Snoozing in Sussex
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Dear Snoozing,
Yes, you certainly are. What on earth do you expect when you name a dog after a general who famously defeated Napoleon? Your dog is merely living up to his namesake by re-enacting the battle between England and France, attacking your poor husband, who has the misfortune to have a French name. Your husband may not be much of a man (as I strongly suspect, as he is allowing a Labrador retriever to intimidate him), but he deserves his place beside you in bed. Give away the dog, if you must, but restore your poor beleaguered Jacques to his rightful place before he loses all of his self respect. And for god’s sake, tell the new owners to give the dog a new name! Votre servante, Mrs Hudson
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Dear Mrs Hudson,
I am frightfully sorry to bother you, but you see, my girl went and ran with my old school chum, Charlie. Not that he’s a bad sort, mind you; he’s a regular decent chap, I suppose; a bit of a prankster on the old rugby pitch, you know — he’s just a little fellow, don’t you know, so he played scrum half, only he wasn’t that keen on it — rugger, I mean, so he was always a bit bulloxed. Good fun, really, at the parties afterward. Always had something amusing on his head — lampshades, a plate of salmon mouse, the fullback’s underwear. But I mean, sod it — what a rotter, to go and do something like that! I mean, it does really take a bit of cheek, doesn’t it, to go and pinch a fellow’s girl? The thing is, you see, I’d like to show I’m a good sport and all that by getting them a nice wedding present. Any suggestions?
Stranded in Surrey
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Dear Stranded,
Have you considered cyanide? I believe there’s a sale on just now at Harrods. And for god’s sake, you sound like an upper class ponce. Try talking like a sensible, normal person and maybe your next lady friend won’t leave you for a