Sylvia Mirkwood

I have three words: READ THE BOOKS I have always loved the books. However, I don’t like the film at all. The very thought of Enola being in love with the Marquis repels me. I have often think that she has a higher chance of ending up with Cecily than the Marquis. The year was 1889, so the votes for women movement hadn’t become violent yet, since they started peaceful protests in 1903. Enola and Sherlock don’t get along in the books, and she is a consulting perditorien. She is not a detective, she only looks for missing people. Her fake name was not Miss Posy, but Ivy Meshle. She doesn’t find the Marquis in the train, and she found a lock of his hair in the treehouse. She encountered not the dowager but Lestrade on her way down the tree house. Not to mention, she never saw her mother again. She stayed with gypsys and willed herself to be happy until she died of cancer. Didn’t mention Squeaky or the cutthroats. No Mrs Turner, our deaf landlady in East End. Enola was 13, not 16, and her measurements were 21, 20, 21 inches, instead of 34, 24 and 35. Never became the helper of Sherlock. She posed as the the assistant of a nonexistent man. Eudoria was 64, and preferred water colours to oil paints. Her mother didn’t homeschool her, she went to the town school. She wore her mother’s corset. There wasn’t the mention of the dagger. Eudoria left her money behind the mirror, as mentioned in the peculiar pink fan. The acting is the only thing that is good. No offence, but the book Enola doesn’t look like that. She is not even beautiful. In the book, Sherlock has mud brown hair and eyes and tall nose and hawk like stare. And Enola looks like him. This is as bad as the Peter Johnson movies! There is incredibly few things that actually matches the book. Throw it into Tartarus!