Guy Ritchie's "Sherlock Holmes" is a so-so 21st-century reimagining of the classic Arthur Conan Doyle detective and his sidekick as (surprise, surprise!) action comic heroes who operate in a cartoonish CGI version of late 19th century London – big, cluttered, loud, ultra- violent, over-produced, over-scored, over-stuffed and hyperactive. But – it's the 21st century, folks, so what do you expect?

When Sherlock Holmes (Robert Downey Jr.) and Dr. Watson (Jude Law) aren't engaging in stunts they engage in often self-conscious attempts at witty banter, married-couple-style bickering, and in the case of Holmes, rapid-fire internal and external monologues reciting his brilliant deductions from whatever collection of facts happens to be presenting itself at any given moment, as if to grudgingly cram the essence of Holmes into a film that otherwise seeks to diminish and de-emphasize it at every turn. Sometimes the droll mutterings, following gasp-inducing moments of physical torment, are funny, thanks to the skills of the lead actors, but for Ritchie and his team – of what? 5, 6, 7 screenwriters? - it isn't enough to present Holmes and Watson as two men who get along well, share quarters on Baker Street and analyze tangled masses of evidence by the use of deductive reasoning; he has to give them love affairs and superhuman physical feats to perform; the Doyle raw material isn't enough (oddly, it has served the reading public superbly for over 100 years).

For whatever reasons the film is burdened with two subplots involving Holmes's and Watson's relationships with females. Neither adds up to much.

When Downey and Law are given the chance to interact verbally in one-on-one scenes, they shine and command attention. But too often they are reduced to flying projectiles in the director's frenzied mise-en-scene. Downey gives it all he's got but never convinces. He is presented visually as a grungy bohemian pugilist, but he performs with elegance, understatement and refinement to the fullest extent possible under the circumstances; but the contrast works against the character so that he emerges as a sort of Indiana Jones. As an action hero, he's fine, but Holmes he ain't. Law, too, doesn't quite fit his role. He is a little too youthful, too spiffy in his tailored suits, too cute. But Law too, by the virtue of his skill and talent, almost overcomes it. But what is the point of such radical revamping of classic characters? Why not just create completely new characters, or do the old ones right? One would never, ever, having read any of the Doyle adventures, picture either of these actors in these roles. Fifteen years ago Jeremy Irons would have made a splendid Holmes and any number of British actors would have made an equally appropriate Watson.

For all the expense and fuss, there is really nothing new or different here. It feels like every other slam-bang-chase-explosion flick we've seen for decades. The unique flavor of Holmes and Watson is pulverized in all of the clattering mess. It could just as well be James Bond transported back into Victorian times.

At the end we are led to believe that Holmes's chief nemesis, Prof. Moriarty, the real evil behind this film's villain, Mr. Blackwood, is still at large. In other words, a sequel looms.