The BBC’s recent showing of three hour-and-a-half-long episodes of Sherlock has been like a brief breathe of fresh air in the fetid atmosphere of summertime television – in which the terminally wounded televisual beast Big Brother howls out its last gasps, seemingly able to bore even those who aren’t watching it, and the Masterchef judges continue to harangue contestants and audience alike with their remorseless lack of charm or self-awareness. Sherlock – a re-imagining of the Sherlock Holmes character for the Google Generation – is an engaging portrait of the ‘consultant detective’, which is in fact – despite the iphones – a fairly faithful realisation of the eccentric spirit of Arthur Conan Doyle’s original creation.
The plots of all three episodes have been ludicrous but enjoyable. However, the third and final (for now) episode was an interesting interrogation of the benefits of sentimentality in the face of violence. The episode sees Sherlock contacted by a master-villain who expects him to solve various mysteries in a certain amount of time. If Sherlock fails, then an innocent and random civilian (who for the duration of the task is being held hostage) will be killed. The result of this is a sense of potentially paralysing urgency which Sherlock must overcome. As ever, the trusty Dr Watson is on hand for support, but is increasingly made aware not only of Sherlock’s enjoyment of the macabre tests, but of his ability to undertake them without becoming overwhelmed with worry about the fate of the hostages whose lives hang in the balance.
Eventually, Watson finds himself objecting to Sherlock’s seeming indifference. The doctor increasingly sees Sherlock as something of an abomination because, while undoubtedly helping ameliorate crime, he displays no gushing sentiment towards its victims. ‘Will it help them?’ Sherlock asks caustically, to which Watson replies with a surly ‘No’, but as if actually helping them is not in itself the point. The point for Watson, the ‘everyman’ of the programme, is the gesture of sentiment itself – whether it is helpful or not. (There is also perhaps an element of the Big Other at work here – that even though the victims themselves are ignorant as to whether or not Sherlock betrays feeling for them, he is nevertheless expected to do so as a way of satisfying the Big Other’s expectations.) At one point, Sherlock, agitated by Watson’s sulky accusations of heartlessness, snaps: ‘There are plenty of people dying in this hospital. Go cry by their bedsides, see if it makes any difference’. Watson’s sentimental reaction is thus shown to be a facile, merely rhetorical palliative which Sherlock himself eschews in favour of cold – but ultimately more helpful – thought.
Redolent in the reaction of Watson to Sherlock here is Zizek’s observation that for most people ‘there is a sense in which a cold analysis of violence somehow reproduces and participates in its horror’. Opposed to this form of cold analysis is today’s predominant mode of addressing violence: in which the ‘fake sense of urgency that pervades the left-liberal humanitarian discourse on violence’ is underpinned by a ‘sense of moral outrage’ – both of which in reality operate as obfuscatory mechanisms that preclude any meaningful interrogation of the root causes of violent events. During the time that Watson is succumbing to sentimentality and moral indignation, he is in fact distracting Sherlock from what should be the more pressing task of actually solving the mystery and therefore saving the lives of the people held hostage. The bluff, caring, mawkishness of Watson therefore actually endangers the lives of the hostages, and yet it is Sherlock who during the exchange is tarnished with an air of impropriety.
Especially relevant here is Zizek’s take on a scenario which Sartre used to demonstrate existential freedom, in which a Frenchman is presented with a choice of either going to war to fight the Nazi invasion, or staying at home to nurse his sick mother. Only by exercising pure abyssal freedom (as opposed to adhering to preexisting moral codes of conduct) can this difficult decision be made. But Zizek offers a third option: ‘to tell his mother that he will join the Resistance, and to tell his Resistance friends that he will take care of his mother, while, in reality, withdrawing to a secluded place and studying’. What Zizek means here I think is that the hysteria of a morality grounded in sentiment – be it jingoistic, filial, or humanitarian – should be avoided when thinking about ways in which to actually improve upon the world. The dispassion of Sherlock’s approach means he avoids the mystification which Zizek claims is inherent in a direct confrontation with violence, ‘in which the overpowering horror of violent acts and empathy with its victims inexorably functions as a lure which prevents us from thinking’. Sherlock’s refusal to succumb to the effusive displays of sentiment expected by society is thus essential to his ability to actually help those affected by violence.
Unfortunately, the writers of the show were not brave enough to see the helpfully dispassionate intellect of Sherlock through until the end. Ultimately, Watson himself is held hostage. Following some twists and turns he is freed, upon which Sherlock seems to betray some brief gushing relief, therefore apparently absolving himself of his previous crime of callousness. It is a regrettable retreat into moral black and whiteness – Sherlock is revealed as merely Good, both in his nod to a sentimental normativity, and in his intellectual efforts to think himself and others out of a crisis. The more interesting point – that sentimental performances are potentially harmful in their ability to mask inaction with vacuous gestures – is abandoned.
The plots of all three episodes have been ludicrous but enjoyable. However, the third and final (for now) episode was an interesting interrogation of the benefits of sentimentality in the face of violence. The episode sees Sherlock contacted by a master-villain who expects him to solve various mysteries in a certain amount of time. If Sherlock fails, then an innocent and random civilian (who for the duration of the task is being held hostage) will be killed. The result of this is a sense of potentially paralysing urgency which Sherlock must overcome. As ever, the trusty Dr Watson is on hand for support, but is increasingly made aware not only of Sherlock’s enjoyment of the macabre tests, but of his ability to undertake them without becoming overwhelmed with worry about the fate of the hostages whose lives hang in the balance.
Eventually, Watson finds himself objecting to Sherlock’s seeming indifference. The doctor increasingly sees Sherlock as something of an abomination because, while undoubtedly helping ameliorate crime, he displays no gushing sentiment towards its victims. ‘Will it help them?’ Sherlock asks caustically, to which Watson replies with a surly ‘No’, but as if actually helping them is not in itself the point. The point for Watson, the ‘everyman’ of the programme, is the gesture of sentiment itself – whether it is helpful or not. (There is also perhaps an element of the Big Other at work here – that even though the victims themselves are ignorant as to whether or not Sherlock betrays feeling for them, he is nevertheless expected to do so as a way of satisfying the Big Other’s expectations.) At one point, Sherlock, agitated by Watson’s sulky accusations of heartlessness, snaps: ‘There are plenty of people dying in this hospital. Go cry by their bedsides, see if it makes any difference’. Watson’s sentimental reaction is thus shown to be a facile, merely rhetorical palliative which Sherlock himself eschews in favour of cold – but ultimately more helpful – thought.
Redolent in the reaction of Watson to Sherlock here is Zizek’s observation that for most people ‘there is a sense in which a cold analysis of violence somehow reproduces and participates in its horror’. Opposed to this form of cold analysis is today’s predominant mode of addressing violence: in which the ‘fake sense of urgency that pervades the left-liberal humanitarian discourse on violence’ is underpinned by a ‘sense of moral outrage’ – both of which in reality operate as obfuscatory mechanisms that preclude any meaningful interrogation of the root causes of violent events. During the time that Watson is succumbing to sentimentality and moral indignation, he is in fact distracting Sherlock from what should be the more pressing task of actually solving the mystery and therefore saving the lives of the people held hostage. The bluff, caring, mawkishness of Watson therefore actually endangers the lives of the hostages, and yet it is Sherlock who during the exchange is tarnished with an air of impropriety.
Especially relevant here is Zizek’s take on a scenario which Sartre used to demonstrate existential freedom, in which a Frenchman is presented with a choice of either going to war to fight the Nazi invasion, or staying at home to nurse his sick mother. Only by exercising pure abyssal freedom (as opposed to adhering to preexisting moral codes of conduct) can this difficult decision be made. But Zizek offers a third option: ‘to tell his mother that he will join the Resistance, and to tell his Resistance friends that he will take care of his mother, while, in reality, withdrawing to a secluded place and studying’. What Zizek means here I think is that the hysteria of a morality grounded in sentiment – be it jingoistic, filial, or humanitarian – should be avoided when thinking about ways in which to actually improve upon the world. The dispassion of Sherlock’s approach means he avoids the mystification which Zizek claims is inherent in a direct confrontation with violence, ‘in which the overpowering horror of violent acts and empathy with its victims inexorably functions as a lure which prevents us from thinking’. Sherlock’s refusal to succumb to the effusive displays of sentiment expected by society is thus essential to his ability to actually help those affected by violence.
Unfortunately, the writers of the show were not brave enough to see the helpfully dispassionate intellect of Sherlock through until the end. Ultimately, Watson himself is held hostage. Following some twists and turns he is freed, upon which Sherlock seems to betray some brief gushing relief, therefore apparently absolving himself of his previous crime of callousness. It is a regrettable retreat into moral black and whiteness – Sherlock is revealed as merely Good, both in his nod to a sentimental normativity, and in his intellectual efforts to think himself and others out of a crisis. The more interesting point – that sentimental performances are potentially harmful in their ability to mask inaction with vacuous gestures – is abandoned.
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