A Sherlock Carol. Marylebone Theatre.

Christmas Eve, 1894. “Moriarty is dead, to begin with,” Sherlock Holmes (Ben Caplan) tells us at the outset of Mark Shanahan’s entertaining if anodyne A Sherlock Carol, currently playing at the Marylebone Theatre. Therein lies the problem for Holmes. Without a criminal antagonist to spar with, and with Dr Watson enjoying new-found marital bliss with wife Mary, a jealous and disheartened Sherlock has nothing to do and too much time on his hands. Depressed, sullen and haunted by the shrouded ghostly presence of the late, unlamented Moriarty, the great detective has lost his mojo. To get back his spirit he needs a crime to solve. But will a case sufficiently intriguing to test his immense intellect emerge from the olive yellow murk of a London peasouper?

Enter Dr Timothy ‘Tiny Tim’ Cratchit (Damian Lynch), middle-aged manager of a London charity hospital. His benefactor, the now aged Ebenezer Scrooge (Kammy Darweish) has been found dead in his armchair. Who among many suspects could have murdered such a widely respected and much loved community hero? The game’s afoot and with it comes danger, intrigue, and an unexpected encounter for Holmes with a supernatural visitor from the spiritual realm.

A Sherlock Carol is essentially a lightly witty, family-oriented sequel to Dicken’s A Christmas Carol mashed-up with Conan Doyle’s only Christmas-set short story, The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle. Throw in carols, fake snow, and a nod to pantomime traditions (Richard James plays Scrooge’s dodgy housekeeper Mrs Dilber with ostentatious campery) for good measure and you will get a feel for it. It sounds like it might not work, and it is fair to say it could do with a few more jokes. In fact, Christmas fare aimed at the pantomime-going public probably ought to be funnier than this: there is barely a double-entendre in sight and even the single variety is scarce. Perhaps Shanahan feels the need to play it safe for the sake of the show’s family audience; but occasionally it all feels a little too schmaltzy. What makes it watchable, however, is a tremendous turn by Caplan as Holmes, direction from Shanahan with such momentum it feels like 5am on Christmas morning with two 6-year olds in the room, and an intricate storyline with plenty for both Sherlockians and Dickens-lovers to get their teeth into.

Caplan’s Holmes is a man imprisoned in a state of affected ennui (he has adapted Scrooge’s mean-minded phrase ‘Bah humbug’ and made it his own) and just too lazy to shave. Apparently recovering from one of his periodic visits to an East End opium den, this Sherlock has the tremulous look of a dipsomaniac from a ’40s Bette Davies melodrama who carries on his face the sheer weight of genius. No wonder he refuses to take up Watson’s invitation for Christmas lunch (much to Mary’s bitter chagrin). Caplan has a fantastic way of stretching the letter s to make it longer than it should be, so that “Merry Christmas Scrooge” sounds like a steam engine slowing down at a station. But In the main it is the performer’s hands that do the acting. Fingers twisted in despondent curiosity they quiver, shake, flutter, and flap the air, as if trying to conjure up investigative insights out of the ether. When he hits on the solution to the conundrum each finger, one by one, taps morse-code like on the table. It is a highly evocative demonstration of how to build dramatic character from physical action.

There are twists and turns aplenty in the narrative which concerns itself with amongst other things, poison pen letters, Christmas dinner geese, and the search for a valuable diamond that has gone missing the wake of Scrooge’s demise. Fittingly (and thankfully) a visit from a ghostly spirit convinces Holmes to snap out of his existential angst, to share his gift for brilliance and do what he is best at: solve crime. All this takes place at a theatre not 200 metres from 229b Baker Street, which adds a welcome site-specific authenticity to the show.

Production-wise this marks a pleasant shift from the Marylebone Theatre’s first show, the disappointingly dry Dmitry. Set designer Anna Louizos provides a suitably spooky, gaslight-filled London backdrop, with a talking doorknob amongst other comic gadgets. It is all atmospherically lit by Rui Rita, stuffed with gorgeous costumes from Linda Cho, and enhanced with a soundscape of driving wind and Christmas cheer from John Gromada.

Writer and Director: Mark Shanahan

This Review First Appeared in The reviews Hub