Vanity, thy name is Kenneth Branagh.
Bad enough that he dishonors Agatha Christie by turning her shrewdly stoic, sharp-as-a-tack Hercule Poirot, he of the “little gray cells,” into a despondent, uncertain, weeping snowflake with no emotional control: somebody to be scorned, not admired.
 |
| Newlyweds Simon (Armie Hammer) and Linnet (Gal Gadot) happily tour an Egyptian bazaar, little realizing that the stalker they've hoped to elude, isn't very far away... |
At one point, having just acknowledged dropping a massive chunk of stone onto an unwary victim below, one suspect then wails “But I never would have killed her,” despite having just admitted attempting to do that very thing: a statement that goes unchallenged by Poirot and everybody else, which makes them look like fools.
That’s probably the worst howler in this egregiously stupid script, but it has plenty of company.
And as if all this isn’t enough, Branagh — who also directs — tolerates (encourages?) overacting to such a ludicrous degree, that he telegraphs the plot’s most surprising twist.
This may well be the worst big-screen Christie adaptation ever unleashed on an unsuspecting public … and I’m quite mindful of 1965’s dreadful Alphabet Murders — Tony Randall being an equally appalling Poirot — while making this claim.
Dame Agatha must be spinning in her grave.
This brings us to the issue of assigning early 21st century attitudes on characters who inhabit the 1930s: an “enhancement” that must be handled with care, lest the disconnect become distracting. There certainly isn’t anything wrong — as a positive example — with making two of these suspects lesbian lovers; even if Christie never specifically addressed such a relationship, they certainly existed.
But completely changing numerous supporting characters — in name and behavior — is both unnecessary and irritating.
This film also opens with a nightclub display of Miley Cyrus-style “dirty dancing” that is impressively salacious by today’s standards, let alone those of nearly a century ago: a sequence that Branagh allows to go on, and on — and on — long past the point of … well … having made its point.
And that’s far from the only sequence that feels wholly out of place.
Clearly, since 2017’s similarly “modified” Murder on the Orient Express was such a box office success — grossing more than $350 million worldwide — Branagh’s reprisal of Poirot was inevitable.
But good grief … couldn’t all concerned have tried a little harder?
Sigh.
Events begin with a World War I trench prologue that has absolutely nothing to do with Christie’s Poirot, which supposedly establishes the reason for his bushy mustache and — later, as the story proper unfolds — his determination to eschew any hint of l’amour toujours.
Flash-forward to 1937, as Poirot enjoys a holiday in Aswan, admiring the majesty of the pyramids. He chances to meet a young friend, Bouc (Tom Bateman), traveling the region with his mother, Euphemia (Annette Bening). This reunion is interrupted by an uncomfortable display back at their hotel: Newlyweds Linnet (Gal Gadot) and Simon (Armie Hammer) are being stalked by his former fiancée, Jacqueline (Emma Mackey).
She never does anything overt, beyond showing up wherever the honeymooners happen to be … but even that’s deeply unsettling. Linnet and Simon ask Poirot to intervene; he points out that Jacqueline has broken no crime.
Hoping to elude their stalker, Linnet — who’s rolling in money — and Simon book private passage on the steamship Karnak, set to tour the Nile River. Their extended entourage includes Bouc, Euphemia and…
• Louise Bourget (Rose Leslie), Linnet’s maid, a mousy, timid young woman (and the only character here who feels authentic to Christie);
• Katchadourian (Ali Fazal), Linnet’s financial advisor and childhood friend, who radiates shiftiness;
• Windlesham (Russell Brand), a physician devoted to Doctors Without Borders-style humanitarian work throughout the world;
• Marie Van Schuyler (Jennifer Saunders), an avowed communist, traveling with her nurse and constant companion Miss Bowers (Dawn French, making this a droll reunion of the famed British comedy team);
• Famed American blues singer/musician Salome Otterbourne (Sophie Okonedo), along with her daughter/manager Rosalie (Letitia Wright); and
• Poirot, invited at Bouc’s insistence.
Everybody is gay and merry, particularly when the steamship stops and allows them to tour the massive, fabled Abu Simbel temples … at which point, the aforementioned incident with the chunk of stone occurs.
Worse yet, when everybody returns to the Karnak, Jacqueline is present, cheerfully waving them aboard from the bow.
But if she has been on the ship, she couldn’t have been behind the temple incident … or could she?
The steamship resumes its journey. A murder occurs shortly, and then another (the second one far more gruesome than anything Christie ever wrote). Poirot’s perceptive skills are put to the test: a task that becomes increasingly difficult when so many of the others begin to treat him with undisguised contempt and hostility.
Again, that’s bad psychology and stupid scripting. One doesn’t annoy the detective investigating a murder, lest one become the target of suspicion. One cooperates, if only with stiff politeness. But it’s pointless to carp about such details, because — following the initial murder — Green’s screenplay devolves into a classic idiot plot … which is to say, the story lurches forward only because everybody behaves like a pompous, entitled idiot at all times.
Tone is a problem throughout, and I’m forced to conclude that Green is out of his wheelhouse. He’s far more comfortable scripting larkish romps like Jungle Cruise and Green Lantern, or brooding sci-fi epics such as Blade Runner 2049 and Logan. Achieving the refinement of Christie’s oeuvre obviously eludes him.
(The fact that he also adapted Branach’s Murder on the Orient Express matters little; that script is similarly flawed.)
Branagh’s handling of Poirot is even more self-indulgent than was the case the first time. He apparently believes that all of Christie’s tics, quirks and mannerisms make the character deeply flawed and vulnerable, rather than a resolute force of genius with whom to be reckoned. Branagh’s Poirot suffers, and far too much; no wonder he’s treated with such disdain.
Gadot’s Linnet is appropriately aristocratic, and Mackey makes a great femme fatale; both look terrific when poured into barely-there dresses by costume designers Paco Delgado and JobanJit Singh. Rosalie is by far the most interesting and well-fleshed character; Wright brings intelligence, spunk and shrewd acuity to the role.
Salome also is fascinating. Okonedo gives her a regal bearing — as an unapologetic culture warrior determined to symbolize the splendor and energy of Black American cultures — which evokes the era’s Josephine Baker. The mild flirtatious sparks that fly between Salome and Poirot may not be Christie, but they’re endearing.
That said, Branagh salts the first half’s soundtrack with far too many of Salome’s gut-bucket blues vocals. They become distracting, then flat-out annoying.
The production work is as stunning as the story is banal. The special effects required to replicate this 1937 setting are impeccable, and cinematographer Haris Zambarloukos’ sweeping tableaus along the Nile are gorgeous (which compensates for his tendency toward too many tight close-ups of cast members … particularly Branagh). Production designer Jim Clay’s Karnak exterior and interiors are quite luxurious.
Which merely gives us a film that’s all dressed up, with nowhere to go.
I can’t bear the thought of Branagh mutilating another Christie novel, so let’s hope this is the last time he dons Poirot’s mustache.
No comments:
Post a Comment