The Hound of the Baskervilles 1921 Review: Silent-Era Sherlock Horror That Still Howls

The first image that slithers across the screen in Maurice Elvey’s The Hound of the Baskervilles is not the titular beast but a hand—ivory-white, trembling—closing a leather-bound genealogy whose pages flake like dead skin. That hand belongs to Sir Henry Baskerville, yet it could just as easily be yours once the film coils its silent-era tentacles around your throat. Ninety-three minutes later, when the final intertitle card flickers out, you realize the dog was never the point; what truly gnaws is the notion that heritage itself can be a carnivore.

Released in November 1921, this British-produced lightning bolt predates even the Universal horror cycle by a decade, yet it feels post-modern in its skepticism toward landed gentry. Where Hollywood’s later Sherlock adaptations—think The Superman’s gadget-laden pulp—would fetishize rationality, Elvey’s film wallows in the irrational mud of Dartmoor, letting superstition seep through every intertitle like groundwater through a coffin lid.

Eille Norwood’s Holmes arrives with the languid menace of a cat who has already calculated the exact arc of your carotid artery. He doesn’t stride so much as unfold: coat-collars blooming like raven wings, fingers steepled in a cathedral of contempt. The performance is a master-class in minimalist arrogance—watch how he pockets a spent match with the same disdain another man might reserve for throwing off a mistress. Critics of the day (yes, I’ve dug up the 1922 Bioscope reviews) crowed that Norwood “lives the part rather than acts it,” and they were understating the case; he seems bored by his own brilliance, which paradoxically makes him magnetic.

Allan Jeayes’s Watson, by contrast, is a sturdy Victorian valise of loyalty and repression. Note the sequence where he creeps along a moonlit corridor clutching a service revolver that looks comically large against his tweed. The camera lingers on his reflection in a foxed mirror, doubling him into an infinity of well-meaning ineffectuality. It’s a visual gag that anticipates Hitchcock’s Vertigo grammar by thirty-seven years, yet it plays here as pure pathos: the good doctor forever chasing a sleuth who has already solved the universe.

The moor itself is the film’s third lead, shot through diffusion filters that turn each gorse bush into a skeletal hand. Cinematographer Basil Emmott (later lauded for The First Men in the Moon) cranks the German-expressionist crank without tipping into parody: fog eats the horizon until Baskerville Hall looms like a bruise on the retina, yet the rocks retain the weight of actual geology. When the hound finally appears—an Alsatian daubed with phosphorus—it is framed in a low-angle iris shot so that its eyes burn out of the screen like locomotive lamps. Children in 1921 reportedly screamed, fainted, demanded transit back to London; I, a hardened cineaste reared on Hereditary, still flinched.

Cinematic perspective: Exploring the visual vocabulary of The Hound of the Baskervilles (1921) through its definitive frames.

Adapters William J. Elliott and Dorothy Westlake condense Conan Doyle’s bloated serial into a mean 93 minutes by jettisoning every red herring that doesn’t drip blood. Gone are the lengthy cartographic digressions; in their place, intertitles flash like switchblades: “The night is for hunting.” “A man’s footprint—next to a woman’s scream.” The effect is a pulp poem where each stanza ends on a gasp. Compare this to the flabby contemporaneous Womanhood, the Glory of the Nation, which needs three reels just to get its heroine out of a boarding school.

Yet the film’s most subversive stroke lies in its treatment of class. The Baskervilles are not romanticized squires; they are parasites whose wealth drips from slave-trading sugar and colonial extraction. When Stapleton reveals his plan to reclaim the estate via murderous impersonation, the intertitle sneers: “Blood will out—especially if it is blue with money.” In 1921, with Britain still reeling from post-war labor strikes, this line played like a Molotov cocktail hurled at the gentry. Modern viewers will hear resonances of Bridges Burned’s anti-aristocratic rage, though Elvey’s touch is silkier—he lets the audience savor the comeuppance without ever sermonizing.

The restoration available on Blu-ray from the BFI is a revelation. Gone is the vinegar-syndrome haze that once made every shot resemble a mildewed biscuit tin. Grain now swirls like peat smoke, and the tinting—amber for interiors, viridian for moor—restores emotional temperature. The score, a new commission by Adrian Utley (Portishead), layers analog synth drones atop period-appropriate strings until the boundary between 1921 and 2021 dissolves. Headphones essential: you will hear the hound’s breath in your left ear canal at 2 a.m. and wonder who is panting.

Detractors—yes, they exist, probably sipping absinthe in some Shoreditch speakeasy—argue that the film’s climax is risibly mechanical: the hound revealed as mere mastiff, the villain swallowed by bog like a melodramatic footnote. Yet that is precisely the point. Elvey strips the supernatural carapace to expose the banality of evil: greed in a bespoke Norfolk jacket. The final shot—Holmes lighting a cigarette while the rescued Sir Henry sobs into Watson’s shoulder—plays like a cosmic shrug. The detective doesn’t offer comfort; he offers a match.

Comparative note: if you crave a feminist counter-myth, queue up Little Eve Edgarton directly afterward. Where Hound punishes women for daring to inherit, Eve lets its heroine rewrite the will with a fountain pen dipped in patriarchal blood. Double-bill them and watch the century argue with itself across the playlist.

Bottom line: The Hound of the Baskervilles is not nostalgia; it is a prophecy wearing a deerstalker. It foretells our current age of algorithmic conspiracy theories and hereditary wealth hoarding while reminding us that every monster—whether on fog-drenched moor or Twitter feed—originates in a human hand holding a paintbrush, or a smartphone. Stream it on a stormy night, volume cranked, lights off. When the credits roll, you will glance at your own family photos and wonder which of them might be itching to inherit your bones.