Doc, I can tell you just ate a popsicle.
Hands of a Murderer (1990) is an odd case. A good, twisted story from the Sherlock Holmes extended canon, by which I mean no source story by Doyle himself; technical aspects of the movie seem to lack nothing; brother Mycroft appears in what seems an authentic and substantial role, which I enjoyed; Professor Moriarty is in a critical role; and, yet, I saw it a week or two ago and am finding I have to view it again to compose this review.
Perhaps it is the presence of what many consider magic: hypnosis. In a series popularized by an adherence to close observation and application of logic, the power of hypnosis, magnified as it is in this story, bypasses logic and enables the story while obscuring audience deduction.
Or it may be that the semi-regular character of Inspector Lestrade is played as a buffoon, and an annoying buffoon at that. It’s one thing to be outclassed by an outré mystery, but when mystified that a lack of dust in an empty house means anything, one has to wonder how this Inspector earned the description … the pick of a bad lot.
Another source of irritation is that of the character Sophie DeVere, possibly a Baroness, who has sunk into the depths of evil and has a romantic fascination with Professor Moriarty. An inquiry is forced into either point: evil requires a monstrous ego and arrogance that often denies romantic fascination with others.
Colonel Gould, too, falls into the magical category in that too little is known of him to predict his later actions. He is … convenient to the storytellers.
In the end, it’s simply too twisted, with too little logic, to fix one’s attention. It’s not awful, or even bad. But for many viewers, it will not reach the established standards.
