The Shaw Festival’s new Sherlock Holmes play is totally illogical yet still surprisingly entertaining

NIAGARA-ON-THE-LAKE, ONT.—Elementary, my dear reader. Elementary! What is, you say? Logic. For it’s the essential ingredient in crime fiction.
After twisting and turning toward a shocking conclusion, any good work of that genre should come together when the final blackout arrives, leaving audiences to replay the story in their mind, going through all the obvious clues that they’ve somehow managed to miss. 
But if we’re to measure the Shaw Festival’s latest Sherlock Holmes play by those terms, then the drama truly isn’t a detective mystery at all. Because this production at the Festival Theatre is as illogical as they come, like watching a farcical spoof of Sherlock Holmes through a funhouse mirror.
And yet — somehow — this new show running through to October is still surprisingly entertaining. Just try not to think too hard about its ludicrous, nonsensical plot. Or you’ll be left, like me, with a headache. 
“The Mystery of the Human Heart” is the third play in six years at the Shaw Festival to feature the characters of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It certainly feels like the fictional detective (played by Damien Atkins) along with his sidekick Dr. John Watson (Ric Reid) and landlady Mrs. Hudson (Claire Jullien) have found a home in Niagara-on-the-Lake.
The trio first appeared in 2018 in “The Hound of the Baskervilles.” Then, three years later, they returned for “Sherlock Holmes and the Raven’s Curse.” (Full disclosure: I saw neither of those productions.) 
This third whodunit is loosely — that’s the key adjective here — based on “The Final Problem,” what Doyle intended to be the final short story in his Sherlock Holmes series. (The British writer later reneged on that promise and revived, quite literally, his famous character.)
As adapted by “Reginald Candy” (I’ll get back to why I have the author’s name in quotation marks), the play concerns its titular sleuth as he attempts to find the perpetrator behind a series of heartless murders. (Pun intended.)
The caper begins after Holmes and Watson, joined by Inspector Lestrade (Sanjay Talwar) and his sister, Amelia Lestrade (Rais Clarke-Mendes), stumble upon more than a dozen human hearts, ripped from their corpses and scattered across London. 
Holmes has a suspect in mind: Professor Moriarty. But who exactly is this evil nemesis and is he what Holmes initially pictures him to be? 
The biggest draw of director Craig Hall’s production is no doubt its casting. Atkins, Reid and Jullien are all returning to their roles for the third time and it’s easy to see why Hall has cast this trio — with their perfect chemistry — yet again. 
Atkins offers much nuance to the man underneath the deerstalker hat. His Holmes is whip-smart and observant yet also socially awkward, favouring facts over feeling, the quantitative over the qualitative. Reid’s Watson, warm and generous, is therefore the perfect foil to Atkins’ detective. And equally delightful is Jullien as the motherly yet no-nonsense Mrs. Hudson.
Among the supporting cast, there’s not a weak link among the actors Johnathan Sousa, Sophia Walker, Nehassaiu deGannes and Sochi Fried. 
But the problem with this play lies in the rest of the production and the head-scratching material itself.
Hall’s staging, clocking in at nearly three hours with two intermissions, meanders listlessly. Hanne Loosen’s costumes are appropriate for the play’s Victorian-era setting and Bonnie Beecher’s lights effectively evoke an ominous mood. But Ken MacKenzie’s sets, grand as they are, feel too cumbersome for the Festival Theatre stage, especially during the production’s numerous scene transitions. 
These overlong set changes do the show no service. It’s at these moments, when the action grinds to a halt, that you come to contemplate the play’s countless plot holes, incongruities and pure how-did-we-get-here moments.
That’s not to say the show isn’t exciting. It is — and often because of these ridiculous narrative leaps. But if you’re like me you’ll be left frustrated as to the whole point of Holmes’ entire adventure. 
Which brings us to the elephant in the room: who the hell wrote this thing? Now I don’t want to spoil that mystery, but here are a few hints. Any amateur sleuth with access to Google will quickly discover that Reginald Candy does not exist. It’s in fact a pseudonym. But for who? Take a close look at the program, focusing on Candy’s birth year, country of birth and agent. Then compare it with those in the company. (Again, a quick Google search will suffice.)
Now, dear reader, I send you off on your next adventure. And this time, there’s a very logical conclusion.