Last night the husband and I dragged out the Sherlock DVD my sister sent us for Christmas. (The BBC modern update, natch.) And now, for a few wandering thoughts on that subject.
First of all, I would like to say for the record that I love living in a world wherein 34 years ago someone had a bouncing baby boy and named it “Benedict Timothy Carlton Cumberbatch” on the off chance that someone, somewhere, might someday give the lad a chance to play a Victorian sleuth. And then the infant in question subsequently grew up to play Sherlock Holmes.
What a universe, am I right?
Anyway. Second of all, it’s worth noting that we’d already seen the episodes themselves – all three of them, drat the slow production overseas – and loved them to bits and pieces. But we had not seen the original, unaired pilot. So last night we played it, and it was absolutely fascinating … not because it was better than the pilot which actually aired, because it wasn’t. Not at all. If I’d seen this pilot first, I would’ve walked away going, “Huh. This looks like it might be fun.” Instead, I saw the final pilot … and my reaction was more, “HOLY SHIT Y’ALL I NEED ME SOME MORE OF THAT.”
(This might be a good place to inform you that I’ve read Doyle’s entire canon, and I consider myself an amateur Baker Street enthusiast. I’m not one of those nutters who can recite every single jot and tittle from each adventure – far from it – but I most certainly do know the proper answer to the slippery question, “Where was Dr. Watson wounded?”*)
No, the original unaired pilot (hereafter referred to as the OUP) was fascinating because of all the little ways it was altered in order to become the final Sherlock pilot (FSP).