Celebrity counts for a lot -- how else to explain contemporary media and pop culture?

But we are not alone in this guilt. The obsession with celebrities began with the development of the printed book, followed by periodicals and newspapers, which catered to the first mass audience with the means and leisure to consume them.

In other words, celebrity has long had its draw. But among the oddest celebs must be Sherlock Holmes and his handy sidekick Dr. Watson -- odd because they are fictional, even though fans still troop to 221B Baker St. as if it were a historical shrine. From Holmes' creation by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, he quickly became so popular the public demanded he be brought back for further adventures even after his supposed death.

[ERROR REPORT: In today's print edition, the above address is given as 221B Wimpole Street, which is nonsense. To read Chris Rawson's apology, go to today's entry in On Stage, his online journal.]

Odder than that, Holmes also has been popular on stage and in the movies: Wikipedia cites at least 24 film versions of "The Hound of the Baskervilles" alone. And the novel now makes a claim for itself as theater, produced by Prime Stage at the New Hazlett Theater (the old Public Theater) on the North Side.

This earnest production suffers from the Holmes stories being basically after-the-fact narratives, not intrinsically very dramatic. The appeal is more in Holmes himself -- saturnine, intellectual, clever, decisive -- with some added appeal in the ritual of sleuthing and deduction.

In its Prime Stage adaptation by Terry McCabe, "Baskervilles" is almost perversely undramatic, dominated by sequential, point by point narrative, with the actors often illustrating what has been reported. The narration is by Watson, as in the stories, so his voice is dominant, now talking directly to the audience, now as voice-over, with little apparent reason for which mode is chosen.

Then Holmes, the most interesting person on stage, disappears for half the play! And the ending is abrupt and anti-climactic, as if something were left out.

Prime Stage defines itself as bringing literature to life, but this is a singular example of literature staying literary, with lots of expository data, but little drama. I expect a child under 10 would be bored, because it feels longer than its two hours. But for an older, easier audience, such as me -- and maybe especially for bright 12- to 14-year-olds -- there is pleasure to be had in sifting through clues with Holmes.

And above all, there are the leads. Among all the actors in Pittsburgh, David Crawford and Jay Keenan would be among your prime choices for Holmes and Watson, and Prime Stage has them. Crawford has the right impatient hauteur, commanding height and sonorous voice. And Keenan has a terrier's eagerness breaking through a reserved, awkward exterior that feels believably English.

Prime Stage also has a fine designer, Gianni Downs, who fills the rear of the stage with a handsome, soaring window, where projected images create telling atmosphere. (The projections sometimes include the texts of notes and letters, which rather lessens the atmospheric effect.) There's also a giant clock that's very Victorian sci-fi in implication, a thick mist that comes in off the moor, handsome hanging lamps, a rich Turkish carpet and simple chairs that can suggest a dining hall or a forest as needed.

Mark Calla's direction is impressive for the speed of the transitions, valiant compensation for the slowness of exposition.

The supporting actors are generally adequate if seldom strong, which more or less describes their British accents, too. Several get to double, but Margie Johnson gets to triple all three female characters and makes each role distinctive. Crawford and Keenan are distinctive, too. Holmes holds his own.