Holmesian Musings: PART I

I wasn't a big fan of Guy Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes. Strangely enough, it stuck with me though, like a stone in my shoe or an ingrown nail. I guess that's why I'm posting this review some 8 months after the its initial release. 

There are things about the movie I like. The cast is impeccable, the music riveting, and the cinematography is stylistic and slick. But in spite of these cinematic delights, the main problem I had with the movie relate to its lack of narrative umpf.

(and by the way, there'll be heavy SPOILAGE throughout)

When we are introduced to Holmes and Watson, they have already been partners for years and the good ol' Doctor is ready to move on. He wants to settle down with his wife-to-be and leave behind the adrenalin-pumping days of adventure. This is arguably the most important subplot of the film and it remains unresolved until the third act. The problem is, I don't buy it. I don't believe for a second that Watson would walk out on Holmes for the sake of a seemingly unremarkable girl. Puh-lease. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson belong together like PB and J.

Unfortunately, Watson is not as bright as all that (and one may think he should be after having spent years and years in the company of the most intelligent person on the planet). Consequently, I remain impatient as I await a predictable outcome to an uninvolving predicament.

But what about the meat of the story; its throbbing heart, its roaring engine – the murder mystery?

Well, it certainly is an entertaining ride, but is it engaging? Early on in the film, Holmes and Watson apprehend a madman responsible for a series of occult murders. As a result, the madman is hanged. We can easily deduce that we have not seen the last of this allegedly dead maniac – what else would be the point of devoting the entire beginning of the movie to him? We also know that the seemingly supernatural elements that are taking place must have common-sense explanations, or else the Holmesian tradition of using cold logic to solve a case would be violated.

So, while watching the movie, I start making assumptions about the direction of the story based on what has to take place in order to justify its beginning. It's distracting when the narrative underpinnings make themselves known like this. I feel like what Superman must experience when he first meets a stranger; rather than focusing on the personality and disposition of this new acquaintance, his X-ray vision distracts him with the sight of human tissue and bones.

By the time it is revealed that the occult murders are, in fact, part of a world-reaching conspiracy, my level of interest has already hit the bottom.

Also, I can hardly speak of this movie without mentioning the elaborate slow-motion sequences in which Sherlock Holmes quickly calculates a series of blows and kicks that will bring devastating physical damage to his opponents. These scenes are visually stunning. However, I think they ultimately come off as gimmicky. On the one hand, I suppose they honor the novels and short stories where Sherlock Holmes was portrayed as an expert in the martial arts. On the other hand, Sherlock Holmes was never about the muscle to me, but about the brains.

All in all, I can't deny that it's an entertaining film with an impressive production value and an electrifying cast. Maybe my perspective is simply tainted by an adoration for the source material. But truthfully, it's not a vision of Sherlock Holmes that resonates with me.

It Happens

Sometimes things go wrong. You know? It happens.

Let me give you an example. Imagine that you work at a store that sells cell phone devices and calling plans. Yeah, that'll do for now. Just so I can illustrate my point.

It's a Sunday and you are the only person working. You arrive at the store with a 24 oz. coffee in one hand and a fully charged iPad in the other. You clock in, you boot up the computers, turn on the OPEN sign, and perform all other morning tasks that come with the job.

Oh, and, also – for the sake of this little demonstration – you are a man. Okay?

You open the store to the public at 10:59AM, and then you sit down with your iPad and begin to flick through Facebook-comments as you sip your cinnamon latte. You know from experience that it's going to be a slow day.

A half hour passes. The phone rings. You pick up and say:

"Thanks for calling ---- --------. This is -----, how can I help you?"

A female voice answers. She explains that she will be coming in to the store to purchase a phone. She will be using an upgrade on another line on her Family account. She would like for the process to be quick and streamlined since her family is heading for the beach right after stopping by.

You assure her that all of her wishes may come true (for a moderate price of $49.99 plus tax). All she needs to do is pay your store a visit.

She hangs up.

Forty-five minutes later (corresponding to three Facebook comments and half a blog post) a lady and her twelve-year old son rushes in through the store entrance. The Lady wears a blue dress with white flowers and her hair is put up in a tight, tight bun. The Son is tanned and freckled and impatient. There's a riled up smell about them, an odor of stress.

You stand up from your chair, you greet them and ask how you can be of service. She looks confused.

"Where's that woman that usually works here?"

You explain that she is not in today, but that you would be happy to assist them with whatever they need.

"Oh", she says, unconcerned with hiding her disappointment. "So, she must've left then. I just spoke to her over the phone."

This is when you realize that the “woman” she is referring to, is actually you. Perhaps you have a feminine voice. Or maybe you have a unisex name. No matter what the cause of this misunderstanding is, you conclude it is quite embarrassing.

You must quickly make a decision: Will you acknowledge that you were the person she spoke to or will you simply pretend that this mysterious female worker has left for the day?

In the flash of an instant the decision is made.

"Oh, I see", you say, very understanding of course. "So what did you and the lady talk about?"

You lie. There's no way around it. It's done.

The woman reiterates to you what you already know. However, it seems more complicated when she explains it the second time. She will be doing an upgrade for her son, but you will need to swap the upgraded handset to another line, and you need to add a data plan that does not interfere with the original data plan on the original line, and... Confusing to say the least.

You take a deep breath. You go into the back of the store and get the phone that her Son has picked out (it's a -------- -------- with a 3" touchscreen, a back-lit keypad and a front-facing 5 MP camera). You ask for the woman's ID and the last four digits of her social security number and you log onto her account.

At this point, a girl in her twenties enter the store with an envelope in her hand.

"Hello there", you say with a smile. "I'll be with you as soon as I can."

The Twentysomething does not smile back. The Lady with the Son does not smile either.

"I'm just here to pay my bill", says the Twentysomething.

You hesitate. What does the customer service handbook say about this situation?

"Uhm", you begin, turning to the Lady with the Son, "would you mind if I assist in paying her bill first? It won't take more than a minute."

The Lady with the Son sucks her lips together. "I suppose that would be alright. But we do need to be on our way soon. We're going to the beach."

You help the Twentysomething with paying her bill (it does take two minutes rather than one). She leaves and you swing around to the Lady with the Son again.

Your fingers scramble over the keyboard and you can feel your heart pounding as you succumb to the inner voice telling you to "hurry up, darn it, they're going to the beach". Finally. You're almost done with the upgrade and the customer summary is printing and... you realize you got it wrong.

You made a mistake. The phone you just upgraded is connected to the wrong phone number.

So, you start switching out the SIM card, but that in itself will not solve problem, because the SIM card belonging to her other son's phone must also be swapped out to make up for your mistake. As you try to explain this technical nightmare to the Lady with the Son, you can see her forehead crinkling with every word you utter, how her shoulders tense, and her eyebrows sink.

Another customer walks into the store.

You say: "Hello there", and you really try to sound cheerful, "I'll be with you as soon as I can."

"I just want a car charger", says the Other Customer.

"Oh, okay. Well, let me finish up here and then I'll help you in a minute."

The Other Customer sighs. The Lady with the Son gives you a stare that could shatter glass.

At last, you get through the upgrading process, and you manage to explain to the Lady which SIM card goes into which phone, and you begin to type her information into your point-of-sales system so you can print her an invoice, and the clock is ticking, and the minutes pass by.

As you open your mouth to declare the total amount due, the Other Customer exclaims:

"Are you gonna sell me the charger, or what?"

You tell him it will only be a minute, but he is furious, and he turns around, and leaves a trail of cussing and complaints in his wake as he exits the store never to return again.

Forcing a smile, you redirect your attention to the Lady with the Son. Relieved that this will all be over soon, you may finally tell her what she needs to pay so that she can be on her merry way:

"So, the total amount due will be $89.49."

The reaction you get is not what you had hoped for.

"Excuse me?" spurts the Lady with the Son in a tone of voice that is normally devoted to expressions such as: "Are you out of your !#*@$%& mind?!"

You hesitate and then repeat what you just said.

"But the phone is only $49.99", she growls.

"Yes, but the sales tax is added on top of that."

"So I'm paying 40 bucks in taxes?"

"Yes", you agree, "the sales tax is actually calculated on the retail price of the phone, which in this case is $329.00, rather than the subsidized pricing."

"That's outrageous! I've been coming to this store for many years, and they've never charged me this much."

You assure her that you are not at liberty to adjust the sales tax.

"Then the price tag is misleading", she claims.

And you can only agree that perhaps the price tags should be revised with greater clarity in this regard.

"And", she adds, "that is not what the lady on the phone told me when I called in earlier today."

At this moment it strikes you that a lie may not be morally defensible, but it may nevertheless be convenient.

"She didn't?" you say with well-timed surprise.

"No. She most certainly did not."

"Well, once again, I am terribly sorry that you were misinformed."

The Lady with the Son grinds her teeth as she pulls her wallet from her purse and scatters bills of various denominations over the counter. You walk over to the register and get her change. You print out her receipt. She snags it from you as if you were smitten with the plague.

You wish her a great day at the beach as she whips around. She does not say a word as she leaves the store with her Son scampering in her tracks. You watch them through the window, how they walk to their car, and get into it.

You conclude to yourself that that could not possibly have gone any worse.

However, within mere seconds you realize it could.

As you glance through the heap of paperwork that the Lady with the Son left behind, you discover that the most important document of them all – the one stating that she will in fact adhere to the terms and conditions of her two year service agreement – has not been signed. To not acquire a signature on this piece of paper is one of the deadly sins while working in this particular business.

Once again a decision has to be made. And fast, because as you grab the document and start running into the parking lot, the Lady with the Son is already backing out of her spot.

You hurry towards her car, scrambling over the asphalt. For a second, your eyes lock with hers and there's not a doubt in your mind that she will drive off. She's going to step on the pedal and leave you in a cloud of dust with an unsigned document symbolizing an unbinding contract.

Luckily for you, you're wrong. She does stop, rolling her eyes as she rolls down the window.

"What?"

You hand her the document and ask her to please sign it. She does and then hands it back. She does not even ask why.

You thank her. Twice. She drives off.

As you watch her merge onto the highway, you can't help but laugh a little.

You laugh at yourself and your capacity for human error. You laugh at the little things in life that sometimes give rise to disproportional frustration and stress. You laugh at the very idea of remaining disquieted about this whole affair.

Because sometimes things go wrong. And you know what? It happens.

5 Reasons to Stop Making Lists

1. A common yet erroneous belief among our species is that life exists in a state of controlled chaos, when in fact our empirically proven laws of physics have all drawn upon a principle of chaotic control. Rather than allowing our natural tendency for chaos to prosper, the making of lists simulates an illusory control of the biological process we call thinking, and therefore violates a fundamental principle of the universe.

2. If you make lists by hand, consider the following: An average $0.50 ballpoint pen can draw a continuous line for a quarter of a mile before the ink runs out. This roughly corresponds to a three week period of list-making if you write one 10-item list per day with a moderately sized handwriting. If you include the cost of paper, you would be spending at least $11.72 per year, which adds up to about $656.32 in the lifespan of an average list-maker. Would you call that a responsible investment?

3. The relationship between "list-making" and "listening" is not solely explained by a shared linguistic origin. A Harvard University study performed in 2001 concluded that list-making tends to decrease a persons capacity for listening with about 22.7%. This is due to a psychological process known as neural filtering that takes place among people who regularly make lists. They will mentally reject any form of communication that is not itemized on the grounds that the information is simply too "dysfunctional" and "disorganized".

4. Consider the definition of the word listless: "Disinclined for any effort or exertion". Now, answer truthfully: Would you prefer to be drained of the sap of life as you toil and exert yourself needlessly, or would you rather spend the rest of your days in blissful comfort and ease? If you're like me, then only a listless lifestyle may bring you the long-lasting satisfaction you seek.

5. I knew this guy up in Sacramento, California. He was a three time triathlon champion with a wife and a 3-year old kid. About a month ago he sat down and wrote a list of all the things he wanted to accomplish in life. 36 hours later, they found him dead in his bathtub, drained of all blood and with bite marks on his thigh. True story.

Following

It was 6:28 PM when I set the security alarm to ALL ON and locked up the store. A sense of forgetfulness tickled me as I twisted the key. I ignored it.

To get to our apartment from where I work, I take a fifty minute walk. It was chilly that evening, in a California sort-of-way. I noticed a certain carelessness to my step as I wallowed in the freedom of pastime.

A girl with red short-cut hair came towards me, flittering lightly over the pavement. She wore stonewashed jeans, a green top and a red purse. She smiled at me. I did not have time to smile back before she had passed.

I continued to walk, perhaps twentysome steps, and then I stopped. I said a bad word, which I was not proud of, and threw glances all around me to ensure that my impulsive discourtesy had not attracted an audience.

You know that sinking feeling that settles in your belly when you realize you've forgotten something? That enervating inner voice that grazes your subconscious with a spiteful "I knew it"?

It can be frustrating to retrace your steps, to return to what you've already left behind. Sometimes it's quite necessary. It brings a different perspective to your journey. I headed back. I unlocked the store, turned off the alarm, and grabbed the iPad and my white-rimmed shades. Then: alarm back on, door relocked, and I was on my way again.

As I went through the Spencer's parking lot, that girl with the red hair (the one that smiled at me but ten minutes ago) stepped onto the pavement, wielding an overflowing grocery bag. She swept in front of me and was evidently heading in my direction.

I felt stupid. The girl and I had shared a fleeting moment of connectedness, an innocent smile in the passing. I wish we could have left it at that. As we again found ourselves sharing the road, I felt as if we were violating the anonymous exchange that had taken place between us. This was becoming too intimate with me tracing her footsteps like in a child's game.

My thoughts raced, plaguing me with possibilities of discomfort that could arise from this situation. What if the girl had recognized me outside the grocery store, and merely pretended it was not so? What if she suspected I was stalking her?

I slowed my pace. Just to be on the safe side.

Please, may she part from this road, I prayed, into a driveway, or onto a trampled path, or off to an anywhere but here.

She stayed her course, same as mine. Oh, the Gods must have giggled in their omnipresence.

But as the minutes slipped by, I soon came to question my anxious disposition. We were both walking on public ground, were we not? Furthermore, she was probably indifferent, why, even oblivious of me walking behind her. And frankly, I would have preferred to walk a little faster rather than conforming to this imaginary predicament. So, goshdarnit, I increased my pace, just a tad, so I could pass the girl, and spend the rest of my walk buried in abashed self-reflection.

To my utter dismay, she began to walk faster too.

So, she was aware of me after all. And she must think I'm a creep. What if she would panic, and start screaming for help? Maybe I should just turn around, and seek an alternative route...

She stopped. And here I made a serious mistake, for instead of just walking on, unperturbed, as if nothing had happened, I too came to a halt. I couldn't help myself. My legs froze in unison with hers, as if we shared an invisible corporal connection.

We stayed still. She did not look back. I did not move. It was very, very silent. Even the breeze held it's breath. Finally, she cocked her head just a smidge and spoke over her shoulder:

"Are you following me?"

"I, um", I stammered, "no, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. You've been following me from the grocery store."

My cheeks were burning. "No, no. I'm just going home."

She swiveled around and that smile flashed over her face again.

"Then, why are you embarrassed, silly?"

I blushed. "I am... I don't know."

I started walking again, eyes downcast, but as I was about to skirt around her she held out her arm, like a palace guard protecting sacred ground. She pursed her lips.

"I think I might be lost", she admitted.

I hawked. "Well, it's sort of a common side effect."

"What are you talking about?"

I never had to answer, for her eyes suddenly expanded and the realization hit her like an arrow to the chest.

"Oh, no, you didn't!"

"Just, waitaminute..."

She crossed her arms, eyes blazing. "This is about that damn blog, isn't it?"

I tensed up, half-expecting to have to defend myself, and then realized there was no need for that.

"I don't even have a home, do I?" the girl said, lips pouting. "I'm a nobody. Just a paper-thin excuse for you to have something to write about."

I was silent for a few moments, thinking.

"Well?" she snorted.

"Do you feel any different?"

"No."

"Do you know where you live?" I asked.

"Of course I do, stupid. I live right there."

She whipped out a hitchhiker thumb and pointed at a yellow-paneled house only a block away. A scrawny, shirtless man stood in the driveway, polishing the yellow finish of a 1968 Chevrolet Corvette.

"I gotta go", she said with an air of nonchalance. "My boo and I are going skinny-dippying at Pirate's Cove."

"Oh. Sounds nice."

She shook her head. "Such a liar."

I shrugged. "It's kind of what I do."

She reached into her grocery bag and handed me an apple with a Red Delicious sticker on it.

"For the walk home", she explained.

I thanked her, but I didn't eat the apple right away. Neither did I eat it when I came home. I tried to tell myself I wasn't hungry. The truth is, I was scared. If I'd take a bite out of that gorgeous apple, would it be there still when I opened my eyes?