Sherlock's Home

by Steve Emecz

  After a short tour, we played five successful weeks on the Edinburgh Fringe, winning five stars; and a placing among the Top Ten plays of the year. An immediate three-week transfer to The Cockpit Theatre in London (the closest one to Baker Street) was followed by nine years international touring, with over 800 performances — and counting.

  At which point, I asked David for a second play, which he duly provided… and both productions continue to tour extensively.

  Though never a particular Sherlockian myself, I recognised that I was good casting for the role, with the required vocal style, and a certain angularity of profile, and I was delighted that the Holmes David had written for me bore strong reference to the character I had found for myself in The Hound.

  David had liked, and I had enjoyed, the dry, sardonic and not infrequently cruel humour that had developed in my interpretation, and which he expanded in his own original, contributions. Cleverly, from his encyclopaedic Holmesian knowledge, he abstracts “clues” and then develops them into entertaining and intriguing dramatic constructs.

  Holmes, this super-intelligent, unemotional, insensitive, distant observer of everything, whose lack of social self awareness could occasionally appear very amusing, provided a wide and contrasting palate of options for any actor to pursue. I think that a case for Asperger’s Syndrome could be made for him.

  I had got to know him quite well in the nine weeks of rehearsals and performance of The Hound, and the lengthy process undertaken by Gareth and myself to create a solo life for the man rapidly opened many more doors.

  David had adopted the premise that the friends had gone their separate ways for two years — Watson with his wife in London, and Holmes with his bees in Sussex. And then ... Watson dies!

  Holmes attends the funeral, and is of course drawn once more to the dust-covered Baker Street rooms, where he is confronted with... what? His future, now totally alone.

  The audience is cast in the role of Watson, and Sherlock unburdens himself of all the secrets, shames and glories of his life. Including the major role that the doctor had played in the detective’s work — and, more than we suspected, in his life.

  In this way, the actor is required to inhabit the famous character as generally perceived by the world, but also to open many doors into his previously unrevealed private nature ... almost as therapy.

  A major challenge for me, as a classically trained “leading” actor, who usually sounded like variations of himself, was to discover a range of characterisations, to represent the large cast that David had created to people Holmes’ retrospective revelations. I was not confident enough to replicate the characters as written, so we decided to invent our own versions, which we could then contrast sufficiently with each other for theatrical effect, and, in several cases, provide the broader humour required to leaven the darker realms of DSD’s invention.

  Therefore, for instance, Inspector Hopkins, obviously, becomes Welsh (check my surname); everyone knows all doctors are Scottish, so Dr Mortimer has a strong Highland burr; and the bookseller becomes Irish, to allow for a cheap gag involving the pronunciation of “three” . It never fails.

  It is essential for me truly to identify with each of the thirteen individuals, as some of them have only two or three lines; and the audience must believe in them instantly, if they are to fulfil their function in the narrative. They are therefore, invariably, broadly and strongly drawn; leaving ample room for the hopefully more subtle expositions of the character of the protagonist.

  As to this character, I have found over all these performances that the more ruthlessly I reveal the selfishness, the indifference, the cruel wit, and most of all the final honesty of the man, the more the audiences warm to him, and, at the emotional end, forgive him his shortcomings.

  In terms of what I attribute his extraordinary longevity and success I would say that apart from the obvious nostalgic appeal — pea-soupered, gas-lit, hansom-cabbed, cobbled Victorian London — Holmes symbolises the regular triumph of good over evil, and achieves heroic success by the application of his own moral form of justice, offsetting the frequent injustices of the official legal system. And he is the original “Super-Hero”, pre-empting Superman, Batman, and all the others by displaying incomprehensible abilities, apparently beyond human endeavour.

  On the subject of whether I based my interpretation of the role on Jeremy Brett’s version, I don’t believe any actor worthy of the title, would “base his performance” on anyone else’s. For me, the rehearsal process involves addressing every character issue head on:

  Is this thought truthful? Is he saying this for the obvious reason — or to achieve some other goal? What is the subtextual plot in this situation? What result is he intending to achieve with this statement or action or question…?

  My metaphor is, cutting a way through a dense steep forest, branch by branch, step by step — i.e. thought by thought, and line by line, until the summit is achieved, at which point, you look back and see the shape of the path you have hacked, which is the character you have built.

  To base your work on another actor’s concept, would be to copy only the outside of his creation, and leave a hollow inner core for yourself. That would not last thirteen years of performance. And the longer you intend to play the part, the longer you need to take in cutting through the forest.

  The privilege of playing Holmes for such a long time has allowed me to allow him to develop intrinsically in a way not possible in the more usual acting schedules. When he has been “rested” for a couple of months — essential for the health of the actor, and because of the structures of commercial touring — after a break of this nature, I have to re-rehearse the plays, to bring the thoughts and lines back to the front of the brain, and the tip of the tongue, and have regularly been surprised at the way it has developed on its own. Like a good casserole, it has enriched itself. Radical new ideas occur about thoughts and meanings.

  My preference is to do one or two nights in different theatres. It is the answer to the question of keeping it fresh, and not being bored. Every performance is a First Night in many respects.

  My preferred work schedule is to arrive at 10.00am, meet the tech. team, and check out the stage, auditorium and dressing room. They help me to unload my car and show me where they have hung the lamps, following my detailed notes and diagrams, emailed three weeks before. I lay out the set — two chairs and tables, three rugs and a hat stand — and dress them with the props ... books, glasses pipes etc. They focus the lamps under my direction, and colour them as appropriate; we then plot the cues into the Lighting Board. After a brisk canter through the play, I can comfortably leave them to rehearse technically on their own. On a good day, this takes three hours in total, so that I can relax, eat, sleep, shower, and return sixty minutes before curtain to settle any issues that may have arisen. I then do my vocal warm-up for about ten minutes, and with a little make-up and costume, begin to look more like the man on the poster. After the show, I get out of the dressing room as fast as possible; occasionally meet and greet friends or fans, then get down to the boring and exhausting business of re-packing all my set and props, and, with help from the staff, carry them out to the car and re-load.

  The lighting and acoustic are slightly different in each theatre. The stage size, height, and facilities are very different, as are the access to the stage and the wing spaces. I have to rehearse entry and exit carefully in each new theatre. I might play to a 1200-seater on Tuesday and a 90-seat studio on Thursday.

  The audiences decide by their reactions what sort of a play they are seeing. If they respond very early to the humorous elements, they are telling me to play the show like that; but if they do not respond in this way, they get a darker, differently timed evening. I enjoy both versions, and relish the chance to give them the one they have chosen. Recently, in a three-night run in York, the Tuesday house barely laughed at all, but the Wednes
day and Thursday audiences hooted as if it were one of Ayckbourn’s funniest. All nights were sold out.

  I certainly hope I have not become like the character myself. I am a genial, sociable fellow — “GSOH” with certain culinary skills, which my many friends regularly enjoy.

  For my assessment of him… read above!

  Roger Llewelwyn

  Actor, The Sherlock Holmes Experience

  I have been asked many times to give information on Undershaw and the fight to save it. Very rarely have I been asked why I personally think it should be saved. So this is a refreshing opportunity to talk about the house from a very personal perspective.

  I was introduced to Sherlock Holmes by my mother in 1982 (yes a long time ago now) and have been a fan ever since. I was fortunate to be around and interested when Jeremy Brett first took to the screen as Sherlock Holmes in 1984. They were good times and those coming to Sherlock now, courtesy of the BBC, know only too well how you can become passionate about a character very quickly.

  Yet Sherlock’s creator is often forgotten, lost in the shadow of his famous detective, as are the many other things of interest that he did. His house Undershaw represents a ten-year period of his life when much of significance took place. The most notable of these things for many of us was the re-birth of Sherlock Holmes in The Hound of the Baskervilles and The Empty House. For Conan Doyle the big events were his service in the Boer War, his attempts at standing for Parliament and the death of his first wife Louise.

  With Conan Doyle long dead, Undershaw is the only physical reminder of those times and it is under serious threat. Back in March 2010 I got involved with the Undershaw Preservation Trust and we discussed the idea of a book on the ten year period during which Undershaw was Conan Doyle’s home. The result of my labours was An Entirely New Country in which I attempted to illustrate what went on during those years and what Undershaw represents not only to me but to the world. It was a labour of love and the resultant book is probably my favourite of all I’ve written.

  The book that you are now reading is another attempt by me and its many other excellent contributors to make clear what the house means to us and why it should be saved. I hope that what you read within these pages proves to you that the plans on the table, which would see the house irrevocably damaged, are not only unnecessary but they are also a permit for an act of historical vandalism. The people in power need to be shown that we will not stand by without protest while they attempt to rob us of our history.

  Alistair Duncan

  Author of ‘An Entirely New Country - Arthur Conan Doyle, Undershaw and the Resurrection of Sherlock Holmes’

  Stories & Poems

  Undershaw

  By Caitlin Rose Bowles

  Swindon, UK

  There it stands, on sandy soils

  Sheltered from bitter winds by an embrace of Firs

  But not the violent hands of modern man

  Within clenched fists a hatred stirs.

  Dust has settled in the darkened rooms

  Where the Hound of the Baskervilles played

  The sunlight is strangled by wooden boards

  Wallpapers peeling and walls decayed.

  The grand façade, now an empty shell

  All the splendor ripped and rent

  Ghostly echoes of what it once had been

  Join the Undershaw’s lament.

  Who knows what great things were penned

  Between those book lined walls

  Who knows what secrets will be lost

  If the Beautiful Undershaw Falls?

  Charlie Milverton

  By Charlotte Anne Walters

  Shropshire, UK

  Todd Carter smiled a patronising smile and straightened the lapels of his designer suit. He was smug, superior, rich and about to have a little fun.

  “Well Mr Gareth Lestrade, on paper you stack up very nicely. Twenty years at Scotland Yard, senior police officer with all the relevant qualifications, but that’s not enough. Think you’ve got what it takes to look after my girls? Prove it...”

  He flashed a playful smile of whitened teeth then barked across to the burly, black-suited security guard standing by the door.

  “Take him down Peterson,” Todd commanded, adding a playful wink. “This ain’t Scotland Yard.”

  He shrugged off a pang of guilt; well, if the agency does insist on sending these old men...

  The guard rushed at Gareth, sixteen stone of muscle bearing down on him like a speeding train. This was shaping up to be the most surreal job interview imaginable.

  Gareth had always been fairly adept at self-defence, but understood that to work in private security he needed to enhance his basic skills. Twelve months of unemployment had given him plenty of time.

  Gareth swiftly blocked his attacker; they grappled together before a final outburst of effort enabled him to send his opponent confidently to the floor. What he lacked in strength, he compensated for in technique.

  Todd was momentarily stunned by this unexpected outcome, though a face-full of Botox made it impossible to show it. He was becoming reluctantly impressed with this understated man who was clearly not a fame-hunter, kiss-and-tell merchant or someone who would have designs on his most precious possession, his girlfriend Della. But could a forty-seven year old ex copper with a damaged reputation and no previous experience really look after a high-profile girl-band? Well, at least Della wouldn’t want to sleep with him...

  Sherlock Holmes wasn’t a sentimental man, but he did get used to certain people being in his world, like a favourite jacket or armchair. Detective Inspector Lestrade had been one of those people and now that he had gone, it was surprisingly unsettling.

  So to find Lestrade back in his sitting room was comforting, a restoration of normality – except for Lestrade’s expensive suit and LA tan.

  “How is Doctor Watson?” Gareth asked, trying to ease in with general conversation.

  “He has abandoned me for a wife.”

  “My wife abandoned me for a Chief Superintendent,”

  “Not the same, her decision made sense.”

  “Thanks,” replied Gareth sarcastically, greatly accustomed to Holmes’ direct honesty.

  “Smoke?”

  “I don’t, not now. I’ve just come back from LA, no one smokes – they all drink green-tea and have perfect teeth.”

  “You stopped off on the way back though, somewhere in Europe, Ibiza. All-inclusive 5 star hotel?”

  This was what Holmes did, observed everything at lightning speed and made highly accurate inferences that would elude anyone of inferior brain.

  “Don’t look so surprised, you should know my methods by now. Your watch is two hours behind so not long-haul, and your boss owns a club in Ibiza I believe? You’re wearing a hotel wrist-band so must have been all-inclusive and celebrities don’t stay anywhere less than 5 star.”

  Gareth smiled, same old Holmes. They had known each other professionally for years but were not exactly friends. There were no normal conversations about family, football or last night’s TV, such pleasantries would bore Holmes’ hyperactive mind. But take him a problem, a perplexing murder, an odd series of apparently unconnected events, and he would come alive with furious energy. “Why are you here Lestrade? You said you needed my help, so elaborate.”

  It had been a hectic twelve months, a real baptism-of-fire into the music business for an ex copper with no previous experience. Gareth felt as if he had travelled around the world and back again at least twice. He had seen more drugs, assaults and weapons than in the whole of his career on the force. A career that now lay in ruins.

  “I’ve brought someone with me; they’re waiting in the car. I wanted to see you first, make sure this would be something of interest to you. I know how scathing you can be
towards a client if you find their situation disinteresting. And she’s fragile, my job is to protect her – not expose her to your own peculiar brand of pleasantries.” “Della, I presume?”

  “How do you know? There are three girls in the band.”

  “But Della has the highest profile, and it would take something serious to bring you to my door again.”

  “Holmes, I don’t blame you for what happened...”

  At which point the sitting room door opened and Della walked in. Dressed down in comfortable shoes, skinny jeans and a t-shirt she still looked strikingly attractive. A designer bag was slung over her shoulder and a huge pair of shades was pushed on top of her head, holding back a side-fringe of baby blonde hair.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, in a warm Northern accent, “I couldn’t wait any longer. I’m going out of my mind Mr Holmes. The police aren’t interested and Mr Lestrade said you could be trusted, that you help people. I really need help.”

  Della settled herself on the sofa next to Gareth, nervously rubbing together her hands.

  “As you probably know, I’m a singer in a girl-band. I’ve worked so hard to get this far – I did my first talent contest aged five and was sending off demo tapes by the time I was fourteen. I’m twenty-nine now, but the record company tell everyone I’m twenty-four. Thank God for Botox or we’d never get away with it.

  “Soon after getting signed to my label, I started dating my manager, Todd Carter. I was flattered, felt lucky he was interested in me. We’ve been together five years, we’re even engaged. We’re like one of those celebrity couples everyone loves to read about, Todd markets it for all it’s worth – ‘at home’ shoots in magazines, pictures of us on yachts smiling like we’re a devoted couple. Truth is, he’s a control freak – even installed a tracker in my phone so that he always knows where I am. I can’t breathe without his permission. He’s got me on diets constantly, he’s obsessed about me not looking my age – he’s thirty-five and thinks it makes him seem younger if I look good. He’s obsessed with his own looks too, had loads of cosmetic surgery. I won’t say I’m afraid of him Mr Holmes, but he’s a powerful man, he made me and can break me just as quick. I don’t have money of my own, he controls everything – I can’t even buy a bagel without him knowing.”