Murder on the Orient Express
(2017)
(SPOILERS) Sydney Lumet’s 1974 adaptation of Murder on the Orient Express could
scarcely be called the pinnacle of his career, but (Sir) Kenneth Branagh’s latest
version of Agatha Christie’s (probably) best known novel (in the world) invites
new found appreciation of its merits. Ken’s film is a bauble, and like much of
his work in cinema, it’s big and showy and overblown and empty. You need to
fill that space with something, but unfortunately neither his Poirot nor
Michael Green’s screenplay does the job.
His Mr Poirot, then. I commented of Albert Finney’s (Oscar nominated)
incarnation that it was very much a performance, rather than a character
brought to life: entertaining, but indulgent and ham-laden. Ken doesn’t really
have that facility for excess. Much as he has been hailed (a heralding that
gradually drifted, despite his keenness for adapting any Shakespeare going, but
still bagged him a knighthood) as the next Olivier, he’s basically too normal
and nice to turn Poirot into something chewy and appetising. Hence the enormous
tache, designed to do much of the heavy lifting.
Agatha Christie’s only beef with Finney was with the
whiskers, and she considered the picture the best adaptation of her work (she
died two years later, but I don’t think the face furniture was the culprit);
one doubts she’d have been so generous towards either Ken’s embodiment, double
hamster, or the movie as a whole. In the pantheon of Poirots, David Suchet’s finickity
TV incarnation is generally seen as the one to beat, although for me it’s Peter
Ustinov’s genuine eccentric every time.
Ken talks a lot about “leetle
cakes”, does some clever business with his cane, and seems more concerned
with balance – treading in a sole-soiled cowpat with his other foot – than OCD tendencies – like maybe cleaning the
dirtied shoe of poo – but his Poirot is never any more than, how you say,
adequate. He’s also granted the feeblest in attempts to “beef up” the
character, as Hercule lets it be known that, despite his apparent detachment from
normal human emotions, he did – once – love, as evidenced by a framed photo of
Katherine he takes with him everywhere. I’m guessing this is Michael Green’s
addition (since he gets the sole screenplay credit), and one wonders how long
it will be before the bubble bursts on his current status as a go-to franchise darling
(neither Alien: Covenant nor Blade Runner 2049 did terrific business,
so at least Logan evens up the
bankability odds a bit). I was half-expecting a reveal that Edward Ratchett
(Johnny Depp) was the author of all Poirot’s pain, but mercifully Green
resisted.
Green has, of course, assigned himself one of Christie’s
most ridiculous plots, whereby it becomes clear quite early on that there’s
either an enormous conflation of coincidence on the titular train or the
eventual conclusion reached, however unlikely, is the only possible one. As far
as I can tell, the sequence of motivational studies and reveals (despite
various character shifts and inventions) isn’t that different to either the
book or the previous film, and yet the unfolding conspicuously lacks any grip
or tension, or the appreciation that Poirot is really required to apply the little grey cells to get to the bottom
of things.
A good mystery well told will still offer pleasure on repeat
viewing, so the issue isn’t that I know the plot (I still find Evil Under the Sun enormous fun whenever
I catch it, for example). The problem is, for all that Green and Branagh have
finessed the plot, it’s at best serviceably told. Ken’s more obsessed with
elaborate camera moves (and, yes, some Dutch angles) than really getting his
teeth into the plot and character, and even those camera moves – how many crane
or overhead shots or doubling images through glass is enough? – don’t feel intrinsic
to the picture’s overall design, but rather – as has been evident throughout
his career – whatever seemed a good idea at the time. There are a few
exceptions – the overhead scene in which Ratchett’s cabin is examined from the
corridor effectively conjures what you can’t see – but generally the
much-remarked upon use of 65mm fails to wow.
Indeed, one has to doff one’s cap in respectful awe of just how
far Ken has risen on such unenviable cinematic talents. Thor gave him ready-made success in Hollywood that had eluded him following
the absurdly bad Mary Shelley’s
Frankenstein (all set to be as big a hit as Francis Ford Coppola’s Bram Stoker’s Dracula – until it wasn’t) on
the back of the sleeper that was Dead
Again (a risible film noir homage that gave us or Ken’s signature Dutch
angles and crazy swirling camera). He followed that with a Jack Ryan reboot wash-up, but then rallied with another no-brainer
in Disney’s Cinderella (in fairness,
both Thor and Cinders suit his lack of subtlety). Orient Express ought really to be acing the same points, but Ken’s
too hung up on the idea that he’s some kind of visual stylist.
The picture, ironically, is at its best when it isn’t sticking
to the Christie, predominately during an extended introductory act (It’s quite
some time before we even board the choo-choo), introducing us to various future
suspects and giving Poirot a case in conclusion as his introduction (because he’s
just like Bond or Indy, don’t you know; that murder on the Nile we sign off
with may or may not happen; this picture didn’t cost the earth, but on the
other hand, I doubt that it will be quite the franchise-spinning hit Fox might
hope for).
For Lumet, Orient
Express was a break with his more familiar crime genre trappings, and he
delivered a relatively glossy, heightened environment in response; compared to
Branagh’s version it’s positively grounded and gritty, though. Indeed, an
artificiality pervades the frequent “exterior” sequences (why, exactly, is
Poirot walking atop a carriage in the snow? Is he un imbécile? Probably for the same
reason he gets an inappropriate action scene with an angry doctor).
One of the
pleasures of Christie stagings has always been the flashbacks accompanying the theories
or thesis, but they’re in scant supply here, and when we do see them (the
murder) they’re disappointingly perfunctory. Further, the move from a carriage
to a tunnel entrance line-up for the big reveal – a Last Supper restaging, apropos
of nothing – is a particular
miscalculation and damp squib, not to mention the appalling score from Patrick
Doyle, tinkling his piano over the back of every goddam scene regardless, that
rises to a meaningful “crescendo” as the double-hamstered Belgian reaches his moral
decision over the fates of the guilty; since the crime and characters have no
weight, neither does his choice (as it plays out here, you think he made the
wrong one).
There are some
interesting choices in the mix, though. Dr Arbuthnot (Leslie Odom Jr), in
contrast to the general trend towards period-inaccuracy in the presentation of
race in TV and movies, has reached his
position in spite of prejudice, rather than through the filmmakers studiously
ignoring its existence, and faces it daily.
It’s questionable how consciously based
on his current public profile the casting of Depp as the villain is (in as much
as there’s a very vocal Internet army who despise him, but most of them loathed
him even before Amber Heard, and Pirates of
the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales still made more money than anyone who
wants to call him washed up is willing to admit), but he’s really good in the
role, limited as it is, and the scene in which he attempts to obtain Poirot’s
services might be the only truly successful dramatic scene in the entire movie.
That said, it isn’t terribly clear what sort of child murderer-come-rug
salesman Ratchett is supposed to be; he just does bad stuff because that’s what
he does, and that should be enough for us, it seems.
The impressions the cast makes are largely based on whether
there’s anything interesting on the page, and compare and contrast accordingly with
the Lumet version. Michelle Pfeiffer’s very good, but Caroline Hubbard isn’t terribly
engaging, even as a performance within a performance (a similar problem for
Lauren Bacall); so too, Josh Gad scores as Ratchett’s secretary McQueen (just
as Anthony Perkins did in an entirely different spin on the part). As usual,
Ken casts Derek Jacobi, but alas, he isn’t a patch on John Gielgud as Ratchett’s
manservant.
There’s as little there for Dame Judi Dench as there was for
Wendy Hiller as Princes Dragomiroff (aside from the unlikely sight of her
stabbing Johnny Depp). Likewise, Penelope Cruz in the part that snagged Ingrid
Bergman an Oscar. Meanwhile, Daisy Ridley is mostly forgettable as Mary Debenham,
whereas Vanessa Redgrave practically stole the show in the 1974 version. Tom Bateman,
with whom I wasn’t familiar, makes a strong showing as the movie’s Hastings-type,
though, there’s a nice scene where Poirot interviews Olivia Coleman in German
so the Princess can’t understand, and Willem Dafoe is having great fun, first as
a racist professor and then his real Pinkerton’s identity.
It would be a cliché of reviewing to suggest Ken’s Express runs out of steam after chugging
along nicely throughout the first act, but it’s sadly the case. I’m not so sure
the supporting cast matter as much – although obviously, you want a mix of recognisable
names in there – as the detective himself, and Ken did the movie an even greater
disservice by casting himself than taking the directing gig. Murder on the Orient Express can’t help
come across as a vanity project, but it’s one that betrays hubris rather than
justified ego.
Agree? Disagree? Mildly or vehemently? Let me know in the comments below.