Dr John H. Watson and 21st Century Stress Syndrome | PIOTR GZOWSKI
Once upon a time in high school, Mr. Welsh, our home room teacher thought it was a clever idea to assign an oral midterm exam profiling Jean Paul Sartre’s 1938 novel Nausea against J.D. Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye.
Salinger’s book was an amazingly easy read for a high school junior. It was supplied with just the right amount of angst and sense of alienation against society that every adolescent seems to experience. It was post-war, contemporary, and very American. Sartre’s story, on the other hand, was difficult to swallow. Set in pre-WWII France it focused on the loss of identity, the notion that living in “the present” is hard because everything is over as soon as it begins, and that a person desperately clings to any anchor within his memory to clarify who he was in the past in order to prevent himself from considering his present life with disgust. However, the cover of the paperback, a highly contrasted black and white photo overlay of a man’s grimacing face against the backdrop of his torso, was intriguing. It seemed like a great book to carry everywhere and then drop on a table in the middle of a conversation just to impress someone.
Unfortunately, the only take-away at the time for my 17-year-old nature was imaging myself as a lanky Frenchman wearing a beret and tinted glasses, hunched over a cognac with an unfiltered cigarette carefully cradled between my fingers, seated in the shadows of a dingy bistro, with a physical posture that implied “Ask me nothing, for I know nothing”, watching my volatile mistresses standing by the bar bickering and slapping each other. When the bistro closed, I would stumble home alone to my Spartan atelier somewhere on the Rue Something - Or - Other overlooking the Rive-Gauche, spending a sleepless night, sullen and brooding, counting out my last 20 francs and conceding defeat at the notion of trying to live in “the present”. It wasn’t till years later, while coursing through the underbelly of New York City, observing without being observed, that certain passages of Nausea revisited me. It wasn’t until this past year, isolated from normal social contact with the outside, that the Sartre novel finally made sense.
People who suffer violent trauma tend to develop debilitating post-traumatic stress. This is true for those who have been victims of physical violations, and especially true for survivors of warfare. My oldest sister once confided to me that as she grew older her lack of tolerance for much was a delayed consequence of her experiences of World War II in Europe. She vehemently avoided talking about it and tried as much as possible to distract herself from those memories. My closest college buddy, upon returning home from Vietnam after a year and a half of combat, would not accept any phone call or visit from any one of his friends with whom he regularly socialized before he left for Southeast Asia.
The current pandemic has radically altered social interaction. Behaviors that only a few decades ago were considered abhorrent have surfaced as an acceptable norm, and polarized humanity into tribal subcultures reinforced by some vague, ill-defined traditions built on shaky foundations, as if we were desperately trying to avoid facing our personal disgust of the present and our numbing fear of the future. Consequently, we, similar to the victims previously mentioned, exhibit an unconscious reaction to a new social malady that can only be described as 21st Century Stress Syndrome. And, because it is still rooted in the unconscious, we are condemned to finding our own cure.
My preferred medicine for adversity has always been the arts and entertainment. Lately, however, because of COVID restrictions, my favorite remedy, once the workday has ended, has been a shot of ice-cold Belvedere vodka, a sofa across from the flat screen TV, and a stream of Sherlock Holmes programs. Holmes has always been my favorite fictional entity. Even before the first Conan-Doyle book came into my hands, I had watched every Basil Rathbone, Peter Cushing, and Jeremy Brent portrayal of the character. Holmes was the epitome of intellectual prowess, observation, with an uncanny ability to correlate the smallest details into the final solution.
However, there was always a problem with Dr. Watson.
In the novels, Watson is the narrator, and as the voice of the story, his primary role is expository. What we do learn about him is that he is a competent doctor, a former army surgeon, and a decorated veteran of the British-Afghan Wars. The primary focus, however, is always Holmes. Whatson’s role is more of an unobserved observer. This characterization carries over into the series of films presented over the years. He was always portrayed more as companion to the detective rather than a crucial part of the investigation.
This all changed, however, in the 2009 and 2011 Guy Ritchie versions of Sherlock Holmes, portrayed by Robert Downey, Jr., as Holmes, and Jude Law as Watson. Suddenly, Watson appears as more of a partner rather than just a companion. Watson is spurred by the physical thrill of the chase. He is not only the former army surgeon soldier forced into retirement because of a wound, but also an individual who still welcomes all the dangers associated with his former military career. Consequently, the partnership between Holmes and Watson is rooted in commonly shared characteristics.
The theme carries forward to the Martin Freeman’s portrayal of Watson in the 2010-2017 21st century version of the saga Sherlock , where Freeman portrays Watson’s post traumatic stress syndrome not as a result of his war injury but because he misses the war.
Quite recently, Amazon Prime has posted a Russian version of Sherlock Holmes, produced in 2013 for Russian television as a series of eight hour-and-half episodes subtitled in English. The story still takes place in Victorian England. The plot lines (Irene Adler, Professor Moriarty) still parallel the originals, but the overall presentation of the saga is definitely flavored with Chekhovian and Dostoyevsky seasonings. Holmes , portrayed by Igor Petrenko, is less a polished Victorian English gentleman and more of an initially visually unassuming but brilliant curmudgeon. Watson, played by the late Andrei Panin, is a veteran consistently haunted by his wartime experiences who despite his afflictions tries to reintegrate back into civilized society by maintaining his military composure. He is unwaveringly loyal to his former regiment, an accomplished boxer able to pummel a gang of hoodlums, and an expert shot with a pistol. His association with Holmes is at the outset rooted not in any commonalties, but in the detective’s demeanor as an annoying housemate. However, despite their frailties the two do develop a symbiotic friendship. It has become, perhaps, my favorite version of the Holmes and Watson relationship.
The overall appeal of the series is in the staging of the characters’ backgrounds. Holmes’ obsession with Irene Adler, which received greater attention in the British Sherlock series than former versions, is fully detailed in a single episode of flashbacks of their passionate affair and eventual falling out in Paris. Watson’s experience in the Afghan War is graphically addressed. The introduction and development of the archvillain, Professor Moriarty, is brilliantly dark. Furthermore, the series is not devoid of humor. The interplay among Holmes, Watson, their landlady, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade of Scotland Yard does conjure up a few chuckles.
Despite the subtitles, which many home viewing audiences may find annoying, the Russian Sherlock Holmes is a good diversion for the COVID blues. In the least, it has provided me with a version of Dr. John H. Watson as a decent role model for coping with 21st Century Stress Syndrome. However, should that eventually fail, I can always purchase a beret online, set up a table in the darkest corner of my apartment, put on my Ray-Bans, pour myself a glass of cognac, light up a cigarette, and invite my closest, funniest, female friends to visit once they have been inoculated to act out the parts of the volatile, bickering mistresses. The slapping, of course, is optional, and totally their call.
But, as always, dear reader, this is only my opinion. Stream as many diversions as you can while we all cope with this insane situation and judge for yourself.