Everyone may be a suspect, but guilt may lie with the filmmakers here.
As if another Murder on the Orient Express was necessary or even really wanted, Kenneth Branagh helms this stylish whodunit with panache if not passion. He and his team do some fun and interesting things with the familiar tale, but its overall effect is cheapened by stuffy sentimentality, repeated attempts at superfluous spectacle, and a surprisingly unfocused screenplay by Michael Green (whose amazing breakout year has included American Gods, Logan, Alien: Covenant, and Blade Runner 2049).
It all starts with a strange opening scene at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem, one that introduces not only Branagh's own Poirot (who I had more than a little trouble believing, but that's just my own taste) but the film's forced efforts at leaping into the twenty-first century. It's a bizarre little plea for interfaith harmony disguised as an introduction to Poirot, as he wryly solves a silly but consequential little mystery for a rabbi, a priest, and an imam. Unfortunately, the modern social commentary doesn't stop there. While the presences of Penelope Cruz, Leslie Odom, Jr., and Manuel Garcia Rulfo are a lovely addition, they do change the texture of the story in dramatic and unnecessary ways. If we're going to change the source material, can we please have a better reason than publicity?
Regardless, it doesn't take too long and our hero has boarded the titular train on his fateful journey. A particularly dour Johnny Depp plays Ratchett, a businessman afraid for his life, who unsuccessfully bullies Poirot into protecting him. Poirot is a man of apparently unshakable morals, it seems, and as he says early in the film, there is right and there is wrong. His opinion of Mr. Ratchett doesn't change for the better when the latter is found murdered in his bed. The thirteen passengers of that coach are all suspects, and as Poirot interrogates them and collects evidence, lies and trickery pile up into one of Agatha Christie's most beloved works. It's certainly one of my favorites, with a killer ending that, in my opinion, is one of the most satisfying and disturbing in all mystery literature.
Unfortunately, this film doesn't measure up to previous incarnations by a long shot. Sidney Lumet's 1974 version, though it too changed a few character names, is one of my favorite movies of all time. This film, like that, features no small amount of grandeur and style, in extravagant costumes and sets as well as in really dynamic camerawork by Haris Zambarloukos (Eye in the Sky, Sleuth, Mamma Mia!, Thor, Locke). His long tracking shots and attention to fabulous lighting are worthy of admiration. And while a feast for the eyes should be enough for a twisty mystery like this, Branagh and Green seem to think they need to add an irritating amount of spectacle. Swooping vistas of eastern Europe are grand in the 65mm film, but the extreme close-ups on actors' faces are a shallow attempt at intimacy and claustrophobia. Similarly, a few other camera gimmicks didn't work as well as Branagh may have hoped, such as the crime scene investigation, which all takes place overhead; cool, I suppose, but we are unable to see any faces or their emotion. Ratchett brandishes a gun at Poirot; one woman gets stabbed in the shoulder; a strangely Romantic lightning strike that causes an avalanche doesn't just stop the Orient Express from proceeding, but literally knocks it off its tracks. The film avoids any possible claustrophobia (a poor decision, I say) by having Poirot interrogate the suspects in various places around the train at various times, including one "picnic" as he calls it outside in the snow, as if he would do such a thing, much less expect it of a strong-willed British lady.
Irritated yet? Just wait. The film includes two ludicrous action scenes, which I would have laughed aloud during had I not been so anxious about what would happen. In one, a man attempts to burn incriminating evidence; he does so by inexplicably going outside the train, into the scaffolding under the bridge, and almost dying in the process. Why couldn't he have simply tossed the documents out a window? They're on a bridge in a snowy mountain range! Or burned it in the train, and scattered the ashes? It's just a cheap ploy by the filmmakers, who seem to think a good mystery has to have action sequences. In the other scene, another man shoots Poirot in the arm as he claims responsibility for the crime and the scene proceeds to turn into a fight between Poirot and the man. I could have accepted the scene, except of course that it is absurd and ends with no transition to the climax. Poirot wouldn't be caught dead fighting like a street thug, and more importantly, he'd never have to.
Speaking of characters, for the most part the cast is solid. The script does not allow for much characterization of anyone but Poirot, a sad fact for those of us who like character-based mysteries. Each interrogation of the suspects is interrupted either by (you guessed it!) spectacle or bewildering editing, which results in our inability to fully understand the criminal timeline and evidence amassed -- even those of us who know the story intimately. There are a few gems in the cast, mostly the A-listers who get the lion's share of screen time, including Michelle Pfeiffer, Johnny Depp, Josh Gad, and Daisy Ridley. Most of the rest of the cast gets severely limited exposure, especially Derek Jacobi, Lucy Boynton, and Olivia Colman. Judi Dench does her brief thing of scowling imperiously over everyone else, and Penelope Cruz turns the role that won Ingrid Bergman another Oscar into a bitter, shallow wretch of a Spanish missionary (wait, I thought this was supposed to be more culturally sensitive?). Whereas Christie and Lumet made their insular, claustrophobic stories to examine issues of human rationalization and projection, deception and delusion, and awful guilt, Branagh here mostly attempts spectacle and pleasure for a modern audience in focusing on celebrities in a more or less period film.
Apart from the film's reliance on spectacle, its greatest failing lies in its dripping sentiment. Nary a shot isn't Romantic or romantic, and while I like some eye candy like Branagh strutting along the roof of the snow-covered train for literally no reason, it doesn't mesh well with what is one of Christie's most disturbing and enchanting mysteries. We don't need to see Poirot fawning over a photo of his lover and repeating her name ad nauseam to have sympathy for his character. We don't need to see, at the climax, the suspects arranged in the mouth of a tunnel like the Last Supper to understand what's happening (and as if Princess Dragomiroff would deign to march through snow drifts!). And then there's the one-line groaners like Poirot's "There is right, there is wrong, and now there is you." There's a suspect's almost gleeful inability to maintain a lie during questioning, as he changes accents and behaviors on a whim without even attempting to look desperate, embarrassed, or ashamed. There's the revealed mastermind's "You are a clever man" before sobbing hysterically. And, worst of all, there's the flashback scene that depicts the murder in black-and-white; over the drama (which Lumet filmed as a straight-up horror scene to awesome effect) is played a romantic piano ballad that sounds like something from Twilight. It's not creepy, it's not warm and symphonic, it's not even a grandiose "AHA! It is solved!" Instead it's a sickly love song that makes no sense overlaying a gruesome murder and served only to irreparably rip me from the moment.
What else is there to say? It's an entertaining film -- until that climax -- and handsomely shot. I was disappointed more often than not, but if that's what it takes to keep Christie alive in the public eye, maybe it will be worth it. The ending suggests pretty overtly that the door to a sequel is wide open, but I certainly hope if Death on the Nile is green-lit, the filmmakers do it some justice. And, honey, do something about that mustache.
IMDb: Murder on the Orient Express
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