Watson is a frenetic misfire that thinks it's House with a deerstalker hat, but it's more like a flatlined patient. It promised us a Sherlock Holmes spinoff but delivers a clunky House knockoff that's left me pining for the real McCoy. Morris Chestnut's Dr. John Watson, now running a Pittsburgh clinic, wades through medical mysteries with a furrowed brow and a nod to Sherlock's shadow. The cases... fatal insomnia, a delusional chap with a bullet in his brain, a runner's sudden paralysis... sound intriguing but unravel with all the fizz of flat lemonade, bogged down by jargon and predictable beats. The Sherlockian flourishes feel like they were scribbled in by a studio exec desperate to justify the spinoff label. Chestnut's charm is the only thing keeping this afloat (and only relatively so), but the supporting cast, especially the so-called "twins," are written like caricatures from a bad sitcom, their quips landing like lead balloons. Is this a detective yarn or a hospital soap? It's neither, and it's knackered. I'm off to rewatch House... this one's a proper damp squib.

See other user reviews