The leg standard.

I'm a tall guy, which means a couple of things:

• I can reach the top shelf;
• I have trouble finding a decent pair of jeans;
• chances are that I'll be fairly to incredibly uncomfortable in planes and (especially relevant in this case) movie theatres.

The latter offers me an interesting, off-beat frame of reference for determining the overall entertainment value of a film. You see, if a film is genuinely interesting in whatever way (be it narratively, acting-wise, through impressive CGI, you name it) I'll probably not notice the discomfort that creeps into my legs after a certain amount of time from the lack of space in which to manoeuvre those unwieldy stilts at the underside of my body; I'll be too engrossed, too entertained. Consequently, the opposite is also true: if a film fails to grab my attention my legs will, at some point, start bothering me.

In other words, a good rule of thumb is this: the quality of a film is directly inverse to the level of physical discomfort I experience while watching it in cinema.

I just saw Sherlock Holmes and my leg was fucking killing me throughout the latter half of the film.


Which (to instantly, partially kill the point I just made) does not mean the film is all bad. There are good bits: Holmes deconstructing his fighting tactics before executing them is an inspired way of accentuating his hightened senses, Victorian era London looks gorgeous and Jude Law steals the show as the elementary Dr. John Watson, which is no mean feat, playing opposite RDJ. But there's something missing. There's just no spark, no zing, no pop, no sparkle. Which is a shame, because the base materials for a properly good film are all there.

Still, bring on the sequel. Maybe that can pass the much-dreaded leg test.