Ladies and gentlemen, you are all aware that a repulsive murderer has himself been repulsively, and perhaps deservedly, murdered.
Murder on the Orient Express
(1974)
Peter Ustinov is my favourite incarnation
of Belgian detective Hercule Poirot, for much the same reason that Margaret
Rutherford is my favourite Miss Marple. Their renditions of the characters
bring the warmth and sparkle of their own personalities to the parts. In the
case of Poirot, in particular, I’ve never much cared for David Suchet’s
“definitive” portrayal (Joan Hickson’s Marple is a different matter). But in
Sidney Lumet’s big screen version of her most famous tale (well, probably),
neither of the main suspects is in the frame.
Rather, the unlikely choice of Albert Finney applies boot polish to his
hair and waxes his ‘tache.
Finney’s performance is so self-consciously
BIG and theatrical, that it shouldn’t really work. In some ways it doesn’t; it’s
very much a “performance”, not a character brought to life, and it cannot be
seen as anything other than an actor enjoying his own hammery. But still, ultimately
it doesn’t feel out of place amidst the period artifice, the two-dimensional
suspects with their two-dimensional motives, and the absurdity of the plot that
Christie has constructed. Perhaps Finney thought he needed to make a big splash
or be lost amid his scene-stealing fellow thespians? Or maybe the extensive
make-up he endured every day dictated his approach; rather large than be buried
by it. Credit where it’s due, however; you don’t think you’re watching a
38-year old at work.
Finney wasn’t the first choice; both Alec
Guinness and Paul Scofield were unavailable. The Academy was clearly impressed,
as Finney garnered a Best Actor nomination (no doubt in the same way that big crowd-pleasing
turns are sometimes seen rewarded; see also Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean). It seems Agatha Christie herself was also
pleased, just not with the moustache. She considered the film as a whole by far
the best adaptation of her work (generally, she had not been impressed).
Paul Dehn wrote the script, an Oscar winner
for Seven Days to Noon more than two
decades earlier. At the time of Orient
Express (his final screenplay, and also nominated for an Oscar) he’d been
getting steady work on ‘60s espionage fare (both Bond and Le CarrĂ©, the latter working with Lumet on lacklustre George
Smiley-in-all-but-name The Deadly Affair)
before becoming a regular on the Planet
of the Apes sequels. The less well-received And Then There Were None/Ten
Little Indians was released at close to the same time as Orient Express, but not by producers John
Brabourne and Richard B Goodwin. They went on to produce three further big
screen Christies (two Ustinov Poirots and Angela Lansbury as Miss Marple in The Mirror Crack’d).
As to why Orient Express was such a big hit, maybe the period escapism was to
the tastes of audiences at just that moment. More likely, it was simply a case
of producer shrewdness. It may have been classier than its disaster movie peers
(if, ultimately, no less ridiculous) but the same approach was taken of “if you
pack your picture with stars, audiences will come”. Which still doesn’t explain
the Oscar attention (six nominations); costumes and cinematography perhaps, but
were they really recognising Dehn for adapting something so preposterous well,
or did they actually think the novel held up to scrutiny? Ingrid Bergman walked
away with a Best Supporting Actress Oscar; good as she is, you’d be
hard-pressed to say why she received special attention (perhaps because it’s
mostly one long scene of attention-grabbing affectation).
Sean Connery was first cast, as his star
was the brightest at the time (ironically as, this film aside, much of the
decade would be a box office drought for him). Sidney Lumet thought that his
name would attract others, but it appears that no one needed much
encouragement. Connery’s enjoyably full of bluster, but everyone is required to
perform in broad strokes; there’s limited screen time to make an impression, so
it’s as much about the audience recognising an actor as it is eliciting a
performance.
Some, like Jacqueline Bisset and Michael
York, make little impact. Richard Widmark’s victim/villain is ideally cast; he
leaves a strong wake behind even when he’s left the screen (although flashbacks
continue to remind us). Anthony Perkins is all awkwardness and nervous energy,
like Norman Bates redux (whether that’s appropriate to the character I don’t
know, but it’s memorable). Lauren Bacall is highly annoying, which I guess is
the point, but I don’t know that she suggests anything going on under the
surface. Wendy Hiller is given some great lines, and pulls off shameless
theatricality. Ironically, the best players are the most natural ones; John
Gielgud’s long-suffering butler is a treat. He could do this kind of thing in
his sleep, but his reserved disdain is never less than wonderful. Top honours
go to a delightfully sexy, vibrant Vanessa Redgrave; her character is fostered
with limited motivation and dialogue but Redgrave delivers her fully formed (not
remotely something the film is aiming for, but still not an inconsiderable
achievement).
Lumet says his love of melodrama attracted him
to the picture, but the very stylisation of the film made it much more
difficult that he expected. Credit to the director for wanting to flex his creative
muscles, and he provides a plush, elegant piece of work, but his best work tends
to lean in the opposite direction. This is the guy who didn’t quite have the
feel for Network’s satire
(interesting as the film is) and who was completely at sea with musical The Wiz. But put him in the contemporary
crime genre (to describe it at its loosest) and he invariably delivers the
goods, providing films or power, depth and resonance. Lumet lacks a light
touch, and he is never sure of himself with comedic elements; as many feel
forced and laboured here (Martin Balsam’s decisiveness that every successive
suspect interviewed by Poirot is the murderer) as hit the target (Connery
taking the piss out of the detective’s pronunciation of “PEEP cleaner”). Orient Express is an exercise in
aesthetics, which well-reflects the approach of the novel’s author, and as such
it is a success (although, to a modern eye the preponderance of soft-focus
photography, no doubt to indulge certain cast members no longer in their prime,
is distracting and slightly tacky), but it doesn’t really bring out the best in
Lumet.
Ina Rae Hark (Twelve
Angry People: Conflicting Revelatory Strategies in Murder on the Orient Express)
comments that Lumet and Dehn imbue Christie’s characters with the rudiments of
inner psychology largely absence from her novel(s), although Hark admits this
is common to adaptations of her work. She observes that Lumet is chomping at
the bit in the interrogation scenes (perhaps not on The Offence levels, but relatively), and its true that his prodding
sometimes feels at odds with the mannered, parlour game etiquette one expects
from Christie.
But more damaging is a structural one; the
film lacks the probing of characters/suspects that go with leisurely pacing. Generally this can be relied upon to provoke
the viewer’s investigatory faculties (it is certainly present in other screen
versions of Christie mysteries). At 128 minutes, it’s not that as if there’s
insufficient time to achieve this.
The author was inspired by Lindberg baby
case, hinging the central murder on the kidnapping and murder of the child of a
wealthy couple some years earlier. Lumet announces this immediately by kicking
off with newsreel footage of that event. Later, he punctuates the investigation
with further snatches of this footage; a decision of dubious merit. One can see
how he thought prepping the audience would be a sensible move, as it saves
getting bogged down later on and throwing off the narrative momentum.
But Poirot’s interrogation of his suspects
is perfunctory, spending a couple of minutes with each before announcing he
knows the identity of the killer and then launching into a lengthy explanation.
Little tension or suspense is generated regarding the suspects, and the red
herrings are discarded with barely a glance. Lumet seems to be unable to get on
board with the misdirection required by this type of plot. Both Death on the Nile and Evil under the Sun do much better jobs
of spreading the seeds of suspicion and motive before the little grey cells
come into play.
Which raises the other problem with Murder on the Orient Express. Without,
spoiling it for the uninitiated, this is surely the battiest of murder plots
(perhaps it’s for this reason that it is so preeminent in the author’s
catalogue). Usually with a Christie, I will nod to myself and commend the mind
that made it all so immersive (if replete with unlikely coincidence and
circumstance for it to be pulled off). They don’t invite picking apart because
they “feel” satisfying and resolved. Here, the whole isn’t so much a house of
cards as an illustration of what happens when you dynamite the deck. Christie
almost appears to be mocking her audience’s credulity, daring them to call her
out on the absurd extravagance of it all.
Not vintage Lumet then, nor vintage Christie. But the period-soaked ensemble ensure this an amiable two hours, and Finney’s performance is nothing if not memorable (divisive, might be a better word).
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