This is way too much fun.
Director Tom George’s mischievous period “whodunit within a whodunit” is a valentine to Agatha Christie — and her fans — and a cheeky send-up of theatrical storytelling conventions.
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| Inspector Stoppard (Sam Rockwell) and his fresh-faced associate, Constable Stalker (Saoirse Ronan), are surprised by the care with which a murder victim has been placed on a theater stage couch. |
Most of the humor is slow-burn: witty, not farcical, in the manner that is uniquely British.
Chappell also did his homework. A surprising amount of his narrative’s core details are based on historical fact (and I’ve no doubt viewers will rush to the Internet to determine fact from fiction, after watching this retro charmer).
The setting is early 1953, at West End London’s Theatre Royal, as the cast and crew of Christie’s new murder mystery play, The Mousetrap, celebrates its 100th performance. Essential details are supplied by an unseen narrator who, in a nod to 1950’s Sunset Blvd., speaks from beyond the grave.
The festivities are cut short both by the drunken antics of boorish, blacklisted American screenwriter Leo Köpernick (Adrien Brody), and — a bit later — the distressing discovery that one of these folks has been murdered. For real.
Cue the arrival of world-weary Scotland Yard Inspector Stoppard (Sam Rockwell) and his eager-beaver rookie, Constable Stalker (Saoirse Ronan). They find the body propped on the couch of the play’s single-room theater setting.
“Staged, so to speak,” Stalker impishly observes.
Chappell’s script is full of similarly playful one-liners.
The corpus delicti is none other than Köpernick, who — as flashbacks reveal — managed to irritate, annoy, belittle or blackmail just about everybody else. In true Agatha Christie fashion, there’s no shortage of suspects.
They include:
• Aristocratic theater impresario Petula “Choo” Spencer (Ruth Wilson), who has sheparded this play to the stage;
• Petula’s mother, Mignon (Ania Marson), a gourmand who says very little, but misses nothing;
• Film producer John Woolf (Reece Shearsmith), who hopes to turn this hit play into an equally popular big-screen movie;
• Ann Saville (Pippa Bennett Warner), Woolf’s personal secretary and mistress;
• Edana Romney (Sian Clifford), Woolf’s wife, and a hobbyist clairvoyant;
• Pretentious, puffed-up playwright Mervyn Cocker-Norris (David Oyelowo), who despises the way Köpernick — hired by Woolf to “Americanize” the material — is ruining his adaptation;
• Giovanni Bigotti (Jacob Fortune-Lloyd), an Italian consort who speaks not a word of English, and is madly in love with Mervyn;
• Mildly pompous actor Richard “Dickie” Attenborough (Harris Dickinson), who stars as the play’s investigating Det. Sgt. Trotter;
• Fading actress Sheila Sim (Pearl Chanda), Dickie’s real-life wife, and co-star in the play; and
• Theater usher Dennis (Charlie Cooper), a tall, brooding fellow who stalks the aisles.
And, when this cheeky saga charges into its third act, we shift settings in order to meet Agatha Christie (Shirley Henderson), her husband Max (Lucian Msamati) and their somewhat sarcastic butler, Fellowes (Paul Chahidi).
(We’re dealing with a Christie pastiche. Of course there’s a butler.)
Motives aren’t lacking. The biggie, though, is an eyebrow lift: Christie’s contract stipulates that no film adaptation can be made until six months after its theatrical run concludes. Ergo, Woolf can’t even think about making a movie unless this production of The Mousetrap were to, um, suddenly stop. For some reason.
(Believe it or not, this is true. The Mousetrap is by far the world’s longest-running stage play, having racked up 27,500 performances as of September 2018, and Christie’s original contract contains that very clause … which is why it never has been turned into a movie. Covid interrupted its run for 14 months, but it re-opened in May 2021 and continues to be a sold-out phenomenon.
(And yes: Richard Attenborough and his wife, Sheila Sim, were indeed members of the play’s initial cast.)
Although this film’s tone is both stylized and playful, Rockwell plays Stoppard fairly straight: a sexist, over-the-hill alcoholic who has lost his passion for solving crime. He’s viewed as “past it” by his boss — police commissioner Scott (Tim Key) — and does nothing to disabuse this notion.
His failings notwithstanding, he can’t quell the shrewd instincts that once made him a superb investigator, or the stubborn curiosity that demands that details be uncovered, and questions answered. The fun comes from the way Rockwell — always a subtle, calculating actor — milks Stoppard’s slump-shouldered slow takes, and occasionally adds perceptive sparkle to the man’s otherwise seen-it-all gaze.
(His name is a nod to Tom Stoppard, whose 1968 play The Real Inspector Hound parodies much of The Mousetrap.)
Stoppard clearly is a man desperately in need of redemption, and Stalker’s just the person to point the way.
Ronan is a hoot. Stalker is a bubbly, effervescent force of nature: eager to please, willing to rush in where angels fear to tread, and determined to do the best job possible. Yet she’s out of her depth — as a blushing movie fan — while surrounded by so many film and theater stars. Ronan’s chirpy line delivery is both comedic and sweet; although Stalker is aware of her inexperience, and knows her place, she’s also not about to let Stoppard make her some sort of second-class dogsbody.
Brody — who gets more screen time than you’d expect, for a corpse — is the pluperfect comic villain: abrasive, oily and thoroughly loathsome. We soon begin to wonder why somebody waited so long to bump him off.
Production designer Amanda McArthur’s touch feels period-authentic, as the story moves through various theaters, music halls, pubs and a stunning London property once owned by Attenborough (and, here, standing in for Agatha Christie’s estate).
Odile Dicks-Mireaux’s impeccable costume design draws a stark contrast between the opulent wardrobes of the theater folks, and the uniformed plainness of Stoppard and Stalker.
Daniel Pemberton’s orchestral score propels the action with a lively blend of swinging jazz and dance hall frolic.
George and editors Gary Dollner and Peter Lambert maintain a lively pace, and the momentum never flags during this 98-minute charmer. Mystery fans — and particularly Agatha Christie fans — will appreciate it the most, but that background certainly isn’t essential.
Simply put, this a great time at the movies. Or theater. Or both…
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