There have been many successful stand-alone films about Sherlock Holmes, the fictional detective created by Arthur Conan Doyle (as opposed to the famous series with Basil Rathbone), and now Ian McKellen is playing Holmes as a real person, years after his greatest successes, fully aware of his worldwide fame.

Mr. Holmes occurs in 1947, as the eighty-year old detective returns to his favorite retreat by the Dover cliffs and tries to write one more adventure of his own before succumbing to the infirmity that is overtaking him.  He wants to revisit his final case, the one which caused him to retire — but he cannot recall the details without a great deal of concentration.  He does recall, of course, but many of his memories are of a different case altogether, which may or may not be connected.

Bill Condon’s film is most striking in its melancholy; it broods on loneliness, aging, mortality, infirmity, regret and memory loss.  Even its lighthearted moments are purpled by the knowledge that this great mind is nearing its end.  Its somber mood is not improved by the casting of Laura Linney as an always frowning housekeeper who would rather be anywhere else, desperately afraid that her young son (Milo Parker) is becoming increasingly attached to the old man.  Linney is a terrific actress but she has little to do here, nor does she effectively pass as British.

The two cases intertwine in Holmes’ memory, neither one coming to a satisfying conclusion; it is no wonder that he is so troubled.  He comes to understand that the past is immutable; one can only come to terms with it and keep living.  McKellen is excellent as Holmes, of course, and his makeup is exceptional.  So much so that I had a reaction that almost no one else on the planet would have to this movie: the elderly Holmes looks very much like my departed Uncle George.  A buzz cut would have finished the illusion.  Mr. Holmes is a nice little film that, because of its tone, must be a deliberate choice to enjoy.  ☆ ☆ 1/2.  25 July 2015.