This modern retelling of Sherlock Holmes casts Rupert Everett as a Holmes who is clearly out of his element, much like Basil Rathbone in those cheapie Holmes flicks from the mid 40s that are set during WWII. Modern times (or 1902, in this case) foist upon the still-Victorian Holmes, and us, such unwanted contrivances as routine fingerprinting, telephones, cigarettes and crime "game" rooms. If you didn't know better, you might think you were watching an episode of LAW & ORDER. The plot is straight out of L&O as well: it's Holmes and Scotland Yard versus a fetishist serial killer. Holmes is so befuddled, he fails to see what we clearly see when it is discovered early on that the primary suspect's fingerprints do not match those taken from the crime scene. We then have to wait for Holmes to play catch up. How sad. I could have taken the change in era if the filmmakers had used an actual Conan Doyle plot. Everett is wasted, playing a chain-smoking, doped-up Holmes. We even get to watch him inject himself with cocaine in one scene, as if this was needed. We also get to watch Inspector Lestrade perform an L&O-style big whupping on the suspect.