Sherlock &Watson: Damaged. Dysfunctional. Damn Compelling!

!CONTAINS SPOILERS!

The portrayal of masculinity and male relationships in Steven Moffat’s Sherlock seems to be every bit as weird as its labyrinthine, sinister plotting. The show’s central relationship, between eccentric Holmes and sober Watson, has attracted a lot of comment, with both critics and creators insisting that the unlikely bond between the troublesome twosome is the vital core that all the murders, maniacs and mysteries revolve around. Sherlock and Watson are two damaged men who don’t fit comfortably into the roles assigned to them by society, who need their rather dysfunctional platonic arrangement to fully enjoy their adventurous lives.

There are some strange elements to the pair’s characterisation that make me wonder about the timing of their appearance on our screens. Benedict Cumberbatch’s Holmes is superficially a classic brilliant unbeatable hero, walking escapism. His outrageous exploits can be enjoyed for an hour while the audience briefly forget the impossibility of pulling off his defiantly independent lifestyle in real life.

Yet in a refreshing turn, Sherlock and his fantasy lifestyle are explicitly portrayed as unnatural, far-fetched. He’s a dashing male hero who lacks all the socially-mandated trappings of masculinity; perhaps more significantly, he lacks anything that might cause a man weakness or pain. He has no family (apart from his estranged brother), no mundane day job apart from his adrenaline-pounding detective work (you frequently see him rejecting “boring” cases, implying a lack of financial stress) no real social life, no conventional desire for “success” beyond avoiding boredom and of course, seemingly no romantic interests or desires. Lacking all of the most common sources of both worry and comfort, plus self-proclaimed “sociopathy” and contempt for even the most basic social norms, makes him hard to relate to as a person but fascinating to watch.

Sherlock is both an attractive fantasy and a disturbingly “incomplete” man at the same time. Unlike other escapist figures (obvious example: James Bond, especially in the Connery and Moore eras) the disadvantages as well as the advantages of being set apart from other men are a major theme of the show. It takes Martin Freeman’s Watson, who is oddly enough both quite bland and an adrenaline junkie with a high tolerance for antisocial behaviour, to be his wingman and put-upon friend. This doesn’t mean that Moffat and Gatiss are deliberately saying “This is what the idealised stereotype of men-as-fearless-emotionless-competence-robots would look like if it was real,” but it’s very easy to read it that way.

Yet by the final episode (and hopefully without giving too much away) shockingly, sadly, Sherlock is put in a position where it becomes obvious that his tentative connections with his handful of almost-friends have evolved, making him more sympathetic, making him more human, making him desperately vulnerable to his enemy Moriarty (a full-on demon with no weaknesses). Making him a man, in other words (not that women aren’t human and vulnerable, obviously, it’s about the stereotype and the fantasy that’s being subverted). The final few scenes are legitimately brilliant (and painfully close to the bone for many CALM supporters), in a way they wouldn’t be if we were watching a super-confident chilly genius and not a flawed, floundering man, making the final transition from isolation to having a few, fragile, dangerous yet vital bonds of trust and friendship. It’s a very impressive collaboration of writing and acting and, a timely comment on male vulnerability and the importance of friendship in a scary, unstable world.