Rupert Everett has the lean height and falcon profile of a traditional Sherlock Holmes, but he's also an ex-model with an excellent set of shoulders and good hair: Would you really want him in a hunter's cap and Inverness cape? Instead he wears nicely tailored suits and moves through the sinister tendrils of London fog with the casual decadence of a man who has known the runway. It's as if Holmes's creator hadn't been Arthur Conan Doyle but Tom Ford. But Everett's take is original, and works quite well.
What's weak is the mystery—written by Allan Cubitt—about a fetishistic killer who stuffs stockings down the throats of Belgravia debutantes. Holmes's reasoning skills aren't best applied to irrational kink.