Few characters in literary history have been adapted with more obsessive fervor than the Great Detective, Sherlock Holmes. There have, in fact, been so many adaptations, parodies, twists, and riffs on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Holmesstories over the last 140 years that even just a bibliography of adapted works—The Universal Sherlock Holmes, compiled by Ronald de Waal in the mid-’90s—runs to four volumes, cataloguing some 25,000 pieces of Holmes ephemera.
No character survives that many brushes with the adaptation process un-mutated. Take, for instance, CBS’s current Watson, which reimagines the (dead) Holmes as Matt Berry, the (alive) Watson (Morris Chestnut) as an obvious copy of Dr. Gregory House, and Holmes’ Napoleon of crime, Professor Moriarty, as a malevolent techbro played by perennial TV nice guy Randall Park. Watson is, on the surface, an odd show, going to great lengths to establish its Holmes connections, and then using them for nothing better than propping up a very stock procedural premise. But when viewed through the wider Doyle canon, it begins to look positively normal: Writers and creators have, after all, been twisting the character of the world’s best known-crime solver to tell their own stories for the best part of a century at this point.
In honor of those strange twists on elementary storytelling, we’ve devised this tour through some of the oddest takes on the character across the decades. Eschewing obvious picks—take it as read that, while Sherlock, Elementary, and the Robert Downey Jr./Guy Ritchie movies all add their quirks to the character, we can get much weirder than “a very handsome, but irritating, man”—and building from the merely strange to the truly bizarre, we aim to answer the question “Who or what has Sherlock Holmes been reimagined as…this time?”
We’re starting with the most straightforward adaptation: In transplanting the action to a hospital, House creator David Shore found the ideal alternative setting for Sherlock Holmes—that is, Gregory House. His Fox medical drama centered on medical mysteries and the protagonist’s dedication to making the higher-ups look like fools. Though some of House’s DNA comes from a real-life attending physician, he’s about as direct—and homophonous—an analog for Holmes as you can get. They’re both misanthropic geniuses with musical talents, a substance abuse problem, and only one real friend in the world. They both reside at 221B Baker Street, albeit in different cities and centuries, and they both engage in differential diagnostic practices (Bonus: In Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s prototype story, Holmes was called Hugh Lawrence, which sounds an awful lot like Hugh Laurie). A white lab coat (which, admittedly, House only deigned to wear on occasion) turned out to be just as great a fit for this legendary detective as an Inverness cape. [Danette Chavez]
…a delusional cocaine addict, The Seven-Per-Cent Solution
The most jaw-dropping revelation in Nicholas Meyers’ 1976 adaptation of his own revisionist Holmes novel comes, not as part of a manic spiel of evidence from Nicol Williamson’s Sherlock, but from the mouth of the unassuming Austrian man into whose office he’s just burst: “My name is Sigmund Freud.” The Seven-Per-Cent Solution—its name a reference to Holmes’ preferred dilution of cocaine—ends up doing more traditional detective work in its back half. But it’s far more interested in setting Williamson and Alan Arkin, as Freud, to sleuthing out the formative traumas inferred from the odd, obsessive man depicted in Doyle’s stories. Unlike many Holmes deconstructors, Meyers never strips Sherlock of his gifts: He’s still an undeniable genius, with an unparalleled observational eye. But he’s also a twitching mass of obsessive delusions, allowing the film to apply a thick layer of Freudian interpretation to the classic stories. (Turns out, if you don’t want to be depicted as the architect of all of Europe’s most heinous crimes, you really shouldn’t have sex with Sherlock Holmes’ mom.) [William Hughes]
…an actor hired by Dr. Watson, Without A Clue
It’s somewhat surprising, given the length of his career, that Michael Caine has never played Sherlock Holmes—but he has played Reginald Kincaid, in 1988’s Without A Clue. Who’s Kincaid? Elementary, dear reader: A washed-up stage performer recruited by genius detective Dr. John Watson (Ben Kingsley) to give himself some professional cover while he’s indulging his hobby of solving London’s most tricky crimes, with the frequently drunk actor bounding around with a pipe and deerstalker cap while Watson actually does all the deductive work. Thom Eberhardt’s film isn’t nearly as broad as some Holmes comedies (see below), and thank god for that. But it still has a lot of fun flipping the basic Doyle paradigm, with Kingsley as the supremely confident, perfectly observant Watson, and Caine as the bumbling goofball who fakes his way to foiling Moriarty’s evil counterfeiting schemes. [William Hughes]
…an old man weighed down with regrets, The Beekeeper’s Apprentice/Mr. Holmes
When Doyle finally—after years of attempts—managed to mostly retire Holmes in the aftermath of World War I, he gave his great detective a suitably meticulous hobby to send him off with: keeping bees. Holmes’ apiary features in the works of many of the authors who’ve sought to extend the canon over the years, including Laurie R. King’s The Beekeeper’s Apprentice and its many sequels, and Mitch Cullins’ A Slight Trick Of The Mind—the latter of which was adapted for film in 2015, with Ian McKellan as Mr. Holmes. Both books feature a Holmes struggling to adapt to retirement: King’s version of the character later admits to suicidal depression before his new apprentice (and eventual 40-years-younger-than-him wife), Mary Russell, comes into his life, while Cullins’ 93-year-old hero is struggling with fading memories and oncoming mortality. Mr. Holmes is especially interesting for taking place in a world where the vast majority of Holmes adaptations actually exist: McKellan, whose Holmes befriends his housekeeper’s young son as he putters around the apiary, is suitably grouchy when he expresses his contempt for the caricatures that Dr. Watson’s imaginative retellings of his cases have inflicted on his life. [William Hughes]
…a cartoon dog, Sherlock Hound
The final television work of anime legend Hayao Miyazaki was directing a handful of Sherlock Hound’s steampunk adventures. Made between Miyazaki’s Lupin III movie (which this version of Sherlock looks and moves a lot like, despite being an anthropomorphic dog) and his breakout film Nausicaä Of The Valley Of The Wind, these episodes are endearing little morsels flavored with classic bits from both Arthur Conan Doyle and Miyazaki. There are plenty of exciting vehicles, slapstick humor, and spunky little girls, just like there are many moments of science-based evidence shedding light on counterfeiting schemes and kidnappings. The lanky Hound and the armed-and-dangerous version of Mrs. Hudson (who is also a young, cool pilot/driver) are as stylish and silly as one could hope for, while Lestrade’s bumbling cops only underscore the Lupin similarities. This Sherlock’s smooth charms, at least in the dub (sorry, purists) are due to the voice performance of Larry Moss, who would later get out of the dog-Sherlock business to become Leonardo DiCaprio’s go-to acting coach. [Jacob Oller]
…Will Ferrell, Holmes And Watson
Did you know that Sherlock Holmes was forced to kiss a donkey’s butthole as a child? Or that he was so traumatized by this schoolyard hazing that he sucked his own tears back into his eyes, shut off his emotions, and spontaneously developed his signature abilities as a way to narc on his many tormentors and get them all expelled? If so, you, like us, have unfortunately subjected yourself to Holmes And Watson, Etan Cohen’s truly bizarre (and deeply un-funny) effort to apply the Step Brothers formula to the world’s greatest detective. You probably could make a good movie with Will Ferrell as Holmes and John C. Reilly as his Watson, but Cohen, Ferrell, and Reilly definitely didn’t. Amidst its various scenes of copious vomiting, Victorian masturbation references, and Reilly-based lactation, Holmes And Watson commits the cardinal sin of any parody of this type: It frequently loses track of whether Ferrell’s Holmes is meant to be an idiot or not. (Reilly’s frequently gun-firing Watson, at least, maintains a certain consistency of duncehood.) Ferrell tries, at times, to highlight Holmes’ actual parodiable traits: His arrogance, sociopathy, and indifference to others. But he also just can’t help but make him genuinely stupid, too, undercutting any comedic heft the portrayal could have had. [William Hughes]
…a true-crime podcaster, Sherlock And Co.
The shadow of Sherlock looms heavy over Goalhanger Podcasts’ ongoing audio adaptation of the Holmes stories; actor Harry Attwell, especially, is Cumberbatchin’ hard as the show’s arrogant, slightly vicious Holmes, while Joel Emery’s scripts work overtime to re-interpret the Doyle stories through a modern lens. (This version of Watson, played by Paul Waggott, was injured while volunteering during the ongoing conflicts in Ukraine, for instance.) Technically, the show reimagines Watson as the podcaster, with Holmes only a reluctant participant—which doesn’t stop him from making a lot of jokes about microphone selection and audio quality when he’s not in the midst of a traditional Sherlock Scan. One of the show’s smarter acknowledgements is in the way it positions true-crime as the modern descendant of the old conceit that Dr. Watson was writing down what Holmes did and publishing it all for Londoners to read; the confessional format also allows the show to dig into Watson’s character, and the ongoing hell of what actually living with Sherlock Holmes would be like. [William Hughes]
…a failed Japanese comedy performer, Case File nº221: Kabukicho
It’s hard to picture Sherlock Holmes being bad at anything, but the anime series Case File nº221: Kabukicho imagines him as a failed rakugoka, or performer of rakugo, a type of Japanese stage performance that features one actor using just a fan and a small cloth to tell a long, elaborate story. Now he’s shuffling through life as a morose detective, hunting down Jack The Ripper through the scuzzier side of Tokyo while receiving case assignments from his broker, Mrs. Hudson, the proprietor of the local cabaret bar. Holmes delivers all of his case deductions as rakugo performances, which is the only thing that seems to bring him any joy. By the end of its 24-episode run, the show offers something we don’t see very often in stories that take inspiration from Sherlock Holmes: genuine growth and emotional catharsis. [Jen Lennon]
…an LAPD motorcycle cop with a head injury, The Return Of The World’s Greatest Detective
The best part of the extremely ’70s TV movie The Return Of The World’s Greatest Detective, aside from its uncomfortably sexy turn from Sid Haig, is that its take on Sherlock Holmes doesn’t actually involve Sherlock at all. Rather, it follows a dimbulb motorcycle cop (Larry Hagman) who gives himself a very specific kind of brain damage that makes him think he’s Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps this is because his name is Sherman Holmes. Who can say? Originally supposed to be a pilot for an NBC series, it’s unsurprising this mystery-comedy from a pair of Columbo writers didn’t go anywhere. The mystery and comedy have very little to do with the goofy premise (unemployed cop with head trauma pretends to be a literary detective), which means it’s mostly just a ’70s-flavored Sherlock story where everyone has one line that’s like “who are you supposed to be?” Or, if you’re less generous, it’s just a worse version of the film that gave They Might Be Giants their name. [Jacob Oller]
…a prog-rock concept album, The Hound Of The Baskervilles
Clive Nolan & Oliver Wakeman’s 2002 prog-rock concept album retells Holmes’ most famous case, The Hound Of The Baskervilles, with a heavy touch of theatricality. Written and performed by Shadowland leader Clive Nolan and Oliver Wakeman, son of Yes keyboardist Rick Wakeman, the album is the second part of the duo’s Tales By Gaslight, a pair of literary concept albums, which includes the Lewis Carroll tribute Jabberwocky. Here, Watson (voiced by British actor Robert Powell) tells the story through his observations, pausing for the Baskervilles to lament their puppy problem. Hounds’ innate Andrew Lloyd Webber-ness, with its dueling mix of seven-percent7% solution-inspired synths and strings, would make a fine Sherlock Holmes Broadway show. The only thing keeping it off the Great White Way is the distinct lack of Sherlock, who is mysteriously absent for two-thirds of the album. Still, it doesn’t take the world’s greatest detective to determine “At Home In The Mire” is a certified banger. [Matt Schimkowitz]
…a mystery-solving high school prodigy who gets turned into a little boy by a magical drug, Case Closed
In Gosho Aoyama’s long-running manga and anime series Case Closed, teenage detective Shinichi Kudo messes with the wrong guys and gets dosed with an experimental drug that de-ages and traps him in the body of an elementary school-aged child. Since Shinichi is smart enough to realize that no one would believe him if he tried to explain what happened, he adopts the new name Conan Edogawa (a nod to Arthur Conan Doyle and Japanese mystery author Edogawa Ranpo) and recruits his crush’s idiot dad as the adult through whom he launders all his deductions. Outside of the goofy set-up, Case Closed is a relatively straight Holmes adaptation that focuses on clever solutions to its weekly mysteries. De-aging a teenage detective and inventing increasingly complicated contrivances to keep anyone from finding out is the most unbelievable part of Case Closed; mapping a Sherlock Holmes pastiche on top of that falls into “Sure, why not?” territory. [Jen Lennon]
…a corpse brought back from the dead by police geneticists in 2103 to solve crimes with a robot Watson, Sherlock Holmes In The 22nd Century
Many Holmes adaptations address 1893’s “The Final Problem,” Arthur Conan Doyle’s desperate, ultimately unsuccessful attempt to rid himself of his own massive success. But only one does so by zipping forward fully 210 years after the Reichenbach fall, resurrecting the Great Detective in a world of flying cars, robotic hounds, and clones of long-dead criminal geniuses. Brought back by nebulous genetic technology (“Good thing he was preserved in honey, or there would have been nothing left to reanimate!”) the revived Holmes quickly acclimates to future living, accompanied by a robot programmed to believe he’s the bumbling Watson, and a descendant of Inspector Lestrade. Running for two seasons in the late ’90s, the animated 22nd Century is actually smarter and more reverent than you might expect, with several episodes riffing on classic Doyle canon, and Jason Gray-Stanford giving a suitably arrogant vocal turn as the man himself. But it’s still an animated series where Sherlock Holmes solves motherboard thefts while riding dune buggies on the moon; it’s hard to imagine Doyle ever predicted this one. [William Hughes]
