"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth" - Sherlock Holmes, The Sign of Four.
Amongst all the pasties and photography opportunities that a trip to Cornwall affords you, I was pleasantly surprised to hear that Jo had secured, in keeping with her culture-vulture status, two tickets to an open-air performance of The Death of Sherlock Holmes, courtesy of the county's Miracle Theatre company. As a former board-treader myself (my favourite role being that of the Reverend John Hale in Arthur Miller's The Crucible, probably the best play of the twentieth century) I was excited about how the troupe could utilise the beautiful setting of Pendennis Castle as the backdrop to a tale of Victorian mystery and intrigue. With the circus at Eden a letdown, I felt this was Cornish culture's change to shine.
We arrived about thirty seconds before the performance took place, owing to tactical errors regarding choices of ice-cream at the Tesco Express on the way, and the fleece-covered woman manning the makeshift box-office certainly couldn't hide her inner tuts of irritation with her smile. No matter - in true outdoor theatre style we pulled out blankets and towels, readied our box of Cadbury's Giant Buttons and began work on our Soleros, just as the usual announcements about mobile phones and flash photography brought us back to earth. The stage was amateur dramatics personified - little more than a wall and a floor but with tricks and secrets enough to transport the audience from 221B Baker Street to the Horsham Spiritualist Society and back again. The cast numbered merely five, with multiple roles for all except Holmes and the utterly brilliant Watson, who delivered an impeccable performance combining just the right amount of straight and slapstick.
I don't intend to use this post as a formal review of such, but needless to say I was hugely surprised by the talent and professionalism on display. The story was average-to-middling, a fairly liberal take on Conan Doyle's 'The Final Problem' combined with some frankly farcical meta-fictional elements (in one scene Conan Doyle talks to his own fictional creations and tells them how they will be written out to save him the pain of continually writing stories for his adoring public). The acting, though, was top-notch all around, with some brilliant comic moments in the second half, including what appeared to be some truly inspired improvisation, and the canned music added depth without distraction.
At the interval, approaching the Castle on a clear, chilly Thursday night, the setting certainly looked spectacular. Standing aloof on verdant hillocks of green, the building looks proud and detached from afar but more homely and modest up close, despite its original purpose of defending the Carrick Rhodes. At night, with the ever present ships floating like monoliths on the water, lights twinkling like earthbound stars in the black, the whole scene is imbued with a romantic intrigue, a world surrounded by history and mystery. During the interval I wandered closer to the dark to fully drink in the faint outline of the Cornish coast, and felt an immense sense of belonging. All appeared at peace, and it was impossible not to feel wrapped up in warmth despite the chill of the descending dark. It was almost a shame to return to the play, with so much drama displayed all around me.
All in all, it seems bizarre that a small bunch of actors, albeit Arts Council-funded, were far more convincing and entertaining than a massively promoted circus at Eden. I wish them all the best of luck in future tours, and I would urge you all to catch them if you can.
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