Sherlock Holmes at Regent’s Park Open Air Theatre

There he is, the arrogant old sod. He’s brawling just for kicks, and headed straight from the latest beatdown to the opium den to cool off. He’s chomping his pipe at his old Baker Street digs, brow quizzically furrowed as he browses the morning paper. When he leaps to his feet, a lightbulb all but visibly aglow above his head as he launches into a feverish deductive spiral, the stage begins to revolve in tandem with that ever-shifting brain of his. Be it BBC or Basil Rathbone or Great Mouse Detective, aficionados of any variant of Arthur Conan Doyle’s detective will find seeing him in action again to be the equivalent of slipping under a warm blanket (though, this being the Regent’s Park Open Air Theatre, it’s most likely to be one of translucent plastic to shield against onslaughts of rain). Writer Joel Horwood’s fluency in and affection for the Holmes stories of yesteryear is bountifully evident, and it’s both the charm and, ultimately, the straitjacket of this new production. Sherlock Holmes is an expert, loving pastiche with only so much room to be anything more than that.

The story Horwood and director Sean Holmes (yes) have concocted here covers all the bases. There’s a ticking clock, as Holmes (Joshua James) and his faithful biographer/roommate Dr Watson (Jyuddah Jaymes) race to save their new client (Nadi Kemp-Sayfi) from the hangman’s noose. There’s the convoluted case in which she’s ensnared, concerning British military theft of valuable gemstones from India, which ends up providing the perfect framework for Holmes and Watson’s classic push-pull of nihilism and idealism, pragmatism and sincerity. There’s drive-by appearances from old foils Mycroft Holmes (Patrick Warner) and Inspector Lestrade (Will Brown), both there just long enough to be made fools of. There’s a chase through a garish carnival set-piece, complete with sword swallowers and firebreathers, and an electronic score (courtesy of composer Jherek Bischoff, re-teaming with Horwood after their work on The Ocean at the End of the Lane) that isn’t above “dun dun DUUUUUNNN”-ing after declarations like “There’s more to this than we thought!”. All that and even a spot of romance between Watson and the new client, without neglecting the bromance at the heart of all Holmes stories, of course. Fans will be pleased by the cheeky allusions to the homoeroticism at its core; is Holmes’ distaste for Watson’s romantic fancies merely practical, or is he – as the good doctor suggests – just jealous?

The two leads slip comfortably into this old repartee, with James nailing the detective’s denial of the warm, fleshy heart not-so-secretly beating underneath all his snotty disdain. Still, Jaymes’s dorkily earnest Watson comes close to walking away with the whole show, providing exactly the unassuming, grounding presence needed when the plot risks tying itself into knots. Speaking of the plot, while its unfurling is never less than watchable, Horwood and co’s fealty to format ensures that the gestures at colonial commentary embedded therein are, perhaps inevitably, underbaked. To Holmes, the crimes of the British Empire are the clearest proof of the meaninglessness and amorality of human endeavour. Watson, for his part, is a little keener on the whole empire thing, but there’s not much time to parcel it all out when another clue is bound to send them scampering across the stage again in short order. Furthermore, at an overextended two-plus hours, the mystery runs the risk of persisting well past one’s investment in seeing it solved. Still, a final stinger’s suggestion of a follow-up adventure is not altogether unwelcome. With a slightly tighter ship, this duo would make pleasant company on future excursions.

Ultimately, this fond homage should offer familiar comforts to the Sherlock-fluent and an engaging romp for novices. Though it overstays its welcome, and its aim falls short of hefty thematic targets, the results remain smoothly enjoyable.