BBC1
We begin the Sherlock finale with Rupert Murdoch (played by Troels from The Killing) being grilled at the Levenson enquiry. An unrepentant heel, this one, exercising undue influence over successive British prime ministers, blackmailing his way through the British establishment and reading micro-dossiers on his interrogators via some kind of Google Glass spectacles. Among those questioning him he finds Lady Smallwood (Lindsay Duncan) of particular interest and he pays her a personal visit after the gig. He licks the whole side of her face like Rick James in Studio 54, says “I’m Rupert Murdoch, bitch” then reveals that the love letters her husbland wrote to a 15-year-old girl back in the day are in his possession. And that means that she’s in his possession. Smallwood is appalled good. Time to call on Sherlock.
He licks the whole side of her face like Rick James in Studio 54, says “I’m Rupert Murdoch, bitch.
A while later John drags Sherlock out of some smack den and humps him back to Baker Street where he finds to his surprise that his pal has been knocking the back out of Janine from the wedding. He’s in an actual relationshit featuring somewhat fulfilling heteronormative sex. Could this be the magic at last?
He’s in an actual relationshit featuring somewhat fulfilling heteronormative sex. Could this be the magic at last?
In a sense, yes. And in another more accurate sense, no. He’s callously grooming, fucking and emotionally violating Janine because she’s Murdoch PA and he needs access to the anal cavity of his office at the top of the Death Star. Early negotiations to retrieve Lord Smallwood’s letters stall when Murdoch takes it upon himself to piss in Sherlock’s fireplace like he’s a Persian porn producer on Sons of Anarchy.
Early negotiations to retrieve Lord Smallwood’s letters stalled when Murdoch took it upon himself to piss in Sherlock’s fireplace
And yet when Sherlock and John get into the office they find Janine clubbed unconscious like a Chris Brown groupie. As John tends to her needs, specifically the one to be not clubbed unconscious, Sherlock nips into a side room where Murdoch is about to be executed by Mary. Wait, what? Newlywed Mrs Watson? The very same.
It turns out Mary is some kind of Ninja spy assassin and Murdoch was threatening to cruelly reveal her problem with cellulite on the sidebar of shame. When Sherlock gets salty with her she gets all Listen to My Nine Millimetre Go Bang and plugs him. He survives, as does Murdoch but poor old John has to find out that he married Sydney from Alias.
It turns out Mary is some kind of Ninja spy assassin and Murdoch was threatening to reveal her problem with cellulite on the sidebar of shame.
Fast forward to Christmas at the Holmes’s. Sherlock is so bored he drugs the entire family and takes a trip to Appledore, Murdoch’s countryside retreat where he keeps a vault containing all the secrets of the rich and powerful. They have a deal: if Sherlock can have a peek at the vault Murdoch can have Mycroft‘s laptop with which he can take over the parts of the world he doesn’t already run.
But when Sherlock comes to view the vaults he can’t help but feel a bit disappointed. Murdoch’s “vaults” are actually some shitty mind palace, the kind of worthless memory aid recommended by both Sherlock and those dopey Supercharge Your Memory books. “It’s all in your head then?” Sherlock says. “You’re not wrong, cobber!” Murdoch responds “I’ve been blackmailing the most powerful people on the planet for decades with no physical evidence of wrongdoing which, now I think of it, is completely implausible – Jesus, who wrote this shit?”
“I’ve been blackmailing the most powerful people on the planet for decades with no physical evidence of wrongdoing which, now I think of it, is completely implausible”
“It’s all in your mind palace though” Sherlock reasons “And stop me if I’m being a dick, but couldn’t one just, I dunno, blow your head off its stump?” Murdoch pauses. “Fair dinkum mate. In my many years as world’s greatest blackmailer that had literally never occurred to me” Sherlock sympathises “It’s always the ones you don’t see coming. I could tell you some stories!” “Please don’t”. Sherlock agrees with his final wish and pumps one in his dome which, as legitimate ways to end a Sherlock Holmes story, is the kind that really isn’t.
Sherlock pumps one in his dome which, as legitimate ways to end a Sherlock Holmes story, is the kind that really isn’t
Oh and apparently Moriarty didn’t die when he shot himself in the head. This is the show where no one is ever really dead and that means that no one is ever really alive. A character death now has the same emotional impact as Kenny’s on South Park. The consensus is that this brilliant finale made up for the mess of the first two episodes but the truth is the series was doing just fine until now with a seriously shitty supervillain who was nine-tenths exposition, one-tenth action.
This is the show where no one is ever really dead and that means that no one is ever really alive.
It was still good enough but the suspicion that it’s turning into Doctor Poo is hard to shake. We’ve gone from Sherlock cart wheeling his way out of impossible fixes to “….and then I shot the cunt. Elementary”. If Sherlock can’t be bothered with escapology then who can? Not having that, Gal. Do you really fink I gonna have dat?
The verdict: Not its finest hour.
Marks out of 10: 7
