To paraphrase one of the characters, if you value your Holmes, stay away from this perfectly dreadful HOUND. Conan Doyle's original novella - often regarded as one of the finest detective stories ever written - is a pretty straightforward affair, one which would seem relatively a breeze to adapt for the screen. Perhaps that's part of the problem then, because in every film version I've seen (save, perhaps, for the Jeremy Brett Granada one, where the hound looked as though it merely wanted a Milk-Bone and a nice tummy rub), scriptwriters can't resist the temptation to add dubious "improvements" to Sir Arthur's masterwork. This latest BBC attempt is one of the worst offenders of the criminal lot, thanks largely to the woefully unfaithful script by one Allan Cubitt. Mr. Cubitt apparently ignored the book and used the recent, thoroughly wrongheaded version of OLIVER TWIST as his template for "adapting" the Holmes tale. As other IMDb users have noted, gone is the crucial opening scene of Holmes and Watson examining Dr. Mortimer's forgotten walking stick; in it's place, Cubitt has - for some strange reason - cribbed the Turkish bath scene of an entirely different Holmes adventure. (Why? To suggest a more intimate relationship between the doctor and the sleuth?) It's downhill from there, folks, as Cubitt makes major changes in the story, such as tossing out important characters while creating entire chunks of business which add absolutely nothing to Sir Arthur's finely constructed plot. When he sticks to the original - such as when Holmes identifies the culprit from an ancient portrait - the film intermittently feels on target. Redefining the Holmes-Watson dynamic in a negative light, revealing the villain's identity halfway through the film (!), inventing a seance and Baskerville Hall Christmas party and - worst of all - having Holmes shoot up in the Gents of the Essex train station on Christmas Day show that Mr. Cubitt will go to any depth to rip the source material to shreds. Set the hound on him!<br /><br />Casting isn't great, either, as Australian Richard Roxburgh makes the second worst Holmes in recent memory - the top "honours" there go to Matt Frewer for his snide, spastic sleuth in those awful Hallmark TV films. Roxburgh's Holmes is blond, bland and lacking in much charisma, which is painfully obvious when he's in his scenes against wily Richard E. Grant's Stapleton. (Somehow, casting Richard E. Grant as Stapleton pretty much gives the game away right off the bat; yet with his tall, slender build, Holmesian hairline, feline grace and dusty velvet voice, Grant seems more like a natural Holmes than poor Roxburgh, with his occasional Down Under twang.) Peter Cushing R.R. sure ain't, and the polka dot tie doesn't help him either. Ian Hart fares somewhat better as a more active and intelligent Watson, but he's physically wrong for the part: small and even more rat-faced that the show's Lestrade. Supporting players come off best - Aussie Matt Day makes an appealingly naive Canadian Sir Henry Baskerville; Ron Cook is a nicely mysterious Barrymore; lovely Neve McIntosh is a Beryl Stapleton work sinking into the Grimpen Mire for, and Grant pretty much makes his scenes endurable when nothing else does. However, a fat Selden (Paul Kynman)? Let's just say that Stevie Wonder could see the difference between Sir Henry and Selden in this production, which makes Holmes look like a total idiot at a crucial plot point...<br /><br />And the hound itself? The CGI work does indeed create the most fearsome beast - far better than the poor German Shepherd pressed into duty in the even worse Frewer version. In fact, this digital hound looks like a leftover critter from the BBC's WALKING WITH PREHISTORIC MAMMALS - not some mistreated modern dog. And where was the animal's ghostly glow? Another glaring omission on the filmmakers' part.<br /><br />No denying, then, that another opportunity to adapt this hoary Holmesian chestnut went straight to the dogs. Granted, the 1959 Hammer version and the 1982 flick with Ian Richardson aren't much more faithful, but they each have an excellent Holmes - Cushing remains my favourite, as he rescued Holmes from the cliche which Rathbone made him, and Richardson has an airiness which still seems refreshing compared to Brett's ham-and-more-ham approach. Both of those versions are preferable to Auntie Beeb's latest atrocity. If you do catch this one, be prepared to do a lot of howling yourself - in outrage.