I do find it hard to watch a lot of modern television. I am, for instance, probably too old to enjoy Sherlock (BBC One, Sundays, 9pm). It moves too fast; the characters mumble. There’s a lot of snappy wit that, to me, sounds like old jokes sped up. And I have happy memories of a better time.
I remember Peter Cushing – a dashing Holmes with a gallon of charm – or Vasily Livanov, the Soviet version of our hero as an eccentric aristocrat. Or, most compelling of all, Jeremy Brett – the fierce yet feline Holmes who came to resemble a panther with a pipe. All took the part seriously; all put an emphasis on plot and character. Things moved sedately back then, so that even if Sherlock was a couple of steps ahead of you, there was still time for the audience to catch up.
