I love any film, no matter how dubious, which is set in the murky back alleys of Victorian London (see From Hell and Mary Reilly). The back-drops are always comfortingly similar; lashings of fog, a doomed, toothless prostitute on every corner, and toddlers wandering around smeared with coal dust and smoking opium.  I also adore pointlessly convoluted mystery stories, no matter how many times they are hurriedly ended with barely sufficient explanations about Mysterious Oriental Medicines or an entire network of Secret and Convenient Underground Tunnels. I am also endlessly cheered by leading ladies in Victorian era films who are anachronistically sassy and well-educated with improbably sparkling teeth. Add in a soundtrack of cheery Irish folk songs, Robert Downey Junior wearing a charming smirk plus occasionally going shirtless and you’ve got yourself a deal. Or a mildly entertaining two hours at least.

Sherlock Holmes is a wise-cracking bromance with plenty of elegantly violent fight scenes and bad taste puns. Its plot is absurd; a conspiracy theory mash up of murderous Freemasons, satanic rituals, virgin sacrifices and one very creepy pet raven. The villain, Lord Henry Blackwood, is a pleasingly theatrical baddie with slicked back hair, a swirling cape and a blood curdling way of saying ‘Mr Holmes’ at all the right moments. Rachel McAdams is an acceptable example of the above mentioned bustle-wiggling Jezebel, and as Holmes’ old flame competes with Jude Law’s Watson for Sherlock’s curmudgeonly affection. Essentially any hero who dives out of a top floor window of the Houses of Parliament into the Thames in order to impressively punctuate a sentence is worth your time.

So if you like your action heroes lascivious and violin-playing, get down to Vue for a film of questionable historical accuracy and good old-fashioned escapism.