The British film industry, that grand old dame of cinematic heritage, has apparently discovered the secret to global relevance: strap a teenage superstar to a Victorian bicycle and hope she doesn’t cycle off a cliff. Yes, gentle reader, Millie Bobby Brown and her spritely co-star, one Henry Partridge, have been trotted out to sing the praises of Enola Holmes, a film that proves beyond doubt that the UK can produce content so inoffensive it could be piped directly into the cerebral cortex of every Netflix subscriber on the planet.
Let us first address the elephant in the screening room: Millie Bobby Brown. She is, by all accounts, a perfectly competent actress. She delivers her lines with the earnestness of a Girl Guide selling cookies, her eyebrows performing acrobatics that suggest she is constantly surprised by the existence of dialogue. But here’s the rub: she is not Enola Holmes. She is Millie Bobby Brown playing dress-up in a corset, and the entire production feels less like a period piece and more like a TikTok filter slapped over Victorian London. The streets are suspiciously clean, the accents are suspiciously modern, and the whole affair smells faintly of focus groups.
And then there is Partridge. Poor, beleaguered Partridge. He is the human equivalent of a wet weekend in Bognor Regis. He delivers his lines with all the charisma of a damp paper towel, and his presence on screen serves only to remind us that the British film industry is now so risk-averse it would rather cast a mannequin than an actual actor with opinions. The chemistry between the two leads is about as electric as a eulogy at a funeral for a lightbulb.
But let us not be too harsh. After all, this is the British film industry we are talking about. An industry that has perfected the art of turning literary heritage into bland, exportable mush. Remember when we used to make films about angry young men and kitchen sink dramas? Now we make films about plucky teenagers solving mysteries while wearing hats. It is the cinematic equivalent of a Sunday roast that has been blended into a smoothie: all the nutrients, none of the joy.
The global pull, they call it. Because nothing says ‘cultural export’ like a sanitised version of Victorian England where the biggest threat is a slightly suspicious viscount. The Americans love it, of course. It confirms their view of Britain as a quaint theme park where people speak properly and solve crimes with pluck and good manners. It is the Brexit of films: a little island story, stripped of any real meaning, wrapped in a Union Jack, and sold to the highest bidder.
And yet, we watch. We watch because Millie Bobby Brown has the sort of unchallenging charisma that makes us feel clever for following a plot that a particularly bright spaniel could unravel. We watch because the production values are high, the costumes are nice, and the whole thing is so relentlessly pleasant that it feels like a betrayal to complain. But complain I must, for I am a journalist of the old school, and I believe that art should disturb the comfortable and comfort the disturbed. Enola Holmes does neither. It merely exists, like a particularly well-decorated waiting room.
So here is my verdict: Enola Holmes is a triumph of marketing over meaning, a testament to the British film industry’s ability to turn anything into a franchise. It is the cinematic equivalent of a gin and tonic made with supermarket-brand tonic: technically correct, but lacking the necessary bite. Millie Bobby Brown and Partridge are merely the faces of this bland empire, smiling politely as they cash their cheques. The British film industry’s global pull? More like a gentle tug in the direction of mediocrity. Cheers.
