Theater review: “Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Suicide Club”

Bottom line: Utterly elementary.

One of the problems with plays about popular detectives like Sherlock Holmes or Hercule Poirot is that, if you’re a fan of such things, then you’ve probably read the original books on which they’re based or seen any number of previous movie or TV versions of the stories. In traditional murder mysteries, perhaps more so than in any other genre, the element of surprise is key. Where’s the sense of mystery, when you already know whodunit, why and how?

The biggest problem with artistic director Robert J. Farley’s Georgia Ensemble Theatre staging of “Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Suicide Club” is that there’s not much sense of adventure, either. The script (by Jeffrey Hatcher) is hardly crackling, the performances are predominantly stiff and Farley does little to reinvigorate or reimagine the stuffy material. The show plods along without a lot of stylistic flair to counter all the narrative exposition.

The setting is 1914 London and involves a secret society whose members have various reasons for wanting to end their lives. Rather than simply putting themselves out of their own misery, they subscribe to a “charitable” notion of “suicide by second party,” routinely meeting to draw billiard balls from a hat that will decide which of them dies next – and at whose hands. The intrepid Holmes goes undercover to infiltrate their ranks and get to the bottom of things.

Possibly taking a cue from the recent Robert Downey blockbusters, it’s a theoretically refreshing idea that Farley casts the role younger instead of going the typical Basil Rathbone/Jeremy Brett route. Still, Bryan Brendle isn’t ideally suited for the part. He seems to excel better with contemporary characters than in period pieces. Although he can be a forceful presence on stage (e.g., ART Station’s “I Ought to be in Pictures”), he’s not always a very nuanced actor. His Holmes comes across as more blustery and brash than cunning and urbane.

Elsewhere, an amiable Hugh Adams enlivens his scenes as Holmes’ trusty sidekick, Dr. Watson, who serves as the play’s narrator. Matt Felten registers, too, as the most spirited of those club members (and later, amusingly, as an aged chemist). Farley’s ensemble also includes Tess Malis Kincaid as an alluring illusionist, LaLa Cochran in a few comic-relief bits and Matthew Myers as a suave Russian prince.

Myers’ credible accent is of singular note in the show. Most of the others sound vaguely British and variable, to boot. Were you not told about it, however, you might never realize that a couple of characters are supposed to be French and German.

Notwithstanding Linda Patterson’s costumes, the production is largely devoid of the proper Victorian-era ambiance. The only truly atmospheric moment takes place in a misty cemetery, even though (on opening night, at least) the output of the smoke machines evaporates midway through the scene.

Similarly, as it often happens in such talky old murder mysteries, “Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Suicide Club” runs out of steam long before that.