Review: Murder on the Orient Express
"My name is Hercule Poirot, and I am probably the greatest detective in the world," remarks the resplendently mustachioed Belgian detective as he surveys the twelve passengers-turned-murder suspects in Kenneth Branagh's handsomely mounted, star-studded remake of Agatha Christie's classic whodunit, Murder on the Orient Express. Indeed, Poirot's reputation precedes him, his name recognisable though his first name is often mistaken for the far brawnier, less brainier Hercules.
The detective wants to take a holiday from detecting, partly because his facility for solving the seemingly unsolvable has rendered him complacent and partly because he wants "to look at paintings and have too much time on my hands," but what one man calls a little beachside puzzle for him to work out will call everything into question and shake Poirot to his core. Poirot thrives on method, precision and absolutes - "There is right, there is wrong, there is nothing in between" - but neither the world nor the people who inhabit it operate on such absolutes.
At its heart, Murder on the Orient Express is a man's crisis of faith disguised as a murder mystery. Make no mistake, it's first and foremost a mystery but Poirot's investigations are the less interesting aspect of this lavish adaptation than the erosion of his belief in himself and the world around him. The facts are as follows: a man has been murdered on the famed Orient Express, a long-distance passenger train service that was a symbol of luxury and comfort at a time when such glamour was lacking in travel. The man was stabbed twelve times sometime after midnight. Amongst the clues found in his compartment: a handkerchief embroidered with the initial "H," a pipe cleaner, a coffee cup with traces of Barbital, and a partially destroyed note. As no one left or entered the carriage during the night and every passenger is accounted for, Poirot deduces that one of the passengers must be the murderer.
But which one? Could it be the man's elderly valet Masterman (Derek Jacobi), who had a mildly heated exchange with his master before his death? Or perhaps it was Hector MacQueen (Josh Gad), the man's alcoholic secretary who was skimming money off his accounts? Or xenophobic Austrian professor Gerhard (Willem Dafoe) and Marquez (Manuel Garcia-Rulfo), whose Latin origins immediately make him a suspect? What of pious missionary Pilar Estravados (Penélope Cruz), who was the last person to see the victim alive? Or the hotheaded Count and enigmatic Countess Andrenyi (Sergei Polunin and Lucy Boynton), whose diplomatic immunity prevents their luggage from being searched? Then there's maid Hildegarde Schmidt (Olivia Colman), to whom the handkerchief found at the scene may belong, and whose mistress Princess Dragomiroff (Judi Dench) may have a tenuous connection to the victim. What of young governess Mary Debenham (Daisy Ridley) and Dr. Arbuthnot (Leslie Odom Jr.), whose careful behaviour may be due more to merely keeping their interracial relationship under wraps. Lastly, there's manhunting heiress Caroline Hubbard (Michelle Pfeiffer), who claims that the murderer was also in her room on that fateful night.
All are somehow connected to the deeply unpleasant and obviously shifty American businessman Ratchett (Johnny Depp), but also to a famous American family whose child was kidnapped and later found dead (Christie drew inspiration from the real-life abduction and death of famed aviator Charles Lindbergh's baby in 1932). Christie is renowned as the Queen of Crime and the best-selling novelist of all time; there's no arguing her popularity nor the entertainment value to be gleaned from her works. Yet the truth of the matter is that, as enjoyable and untaxing as her mystery novels are, they're not particularly ingenious or exciting. Perhaps they haven't aged well with time or perhaps they're too of their time to be radically reinvented or even made engaging for a generation whose attention span is worse than a magpie's.
Branagh certainly does what he can from preventing the scenes from slipping into stasis, but the film is nothing but a series of talkative fits and starts. It's solid, one can even say workmanlike despite the effortful gloss, and there's no denying that there is always something to catch the eye - whether it be the introduction of yet another movie star, the crisp compositions, the visual flourishes (including some impressive tracking shots), Daisy Ridley's impossible youth, the impeccable production design, and the amazing array of period costumes (Ratchett's floor-length chocolate brown coat is a highlight) - without the entire film itself being remarkably interesting.
Of the phenomenal roster of stars, Branagh shines as Poirot though the indisputable standout is Pfeiffer not only because she is the epitome of the kind of dazzling movie stars they used to have back in the day (her slinking down the corridor in that plum-coloured gown is an unforgettable movie star moment), but because she's the sole live spark amongst a cast of characters who are mostly dour and sobersided. By turns minxish and melancholy, Pfeiffer enlivens the proceedings and often elevates the film to the glamorous escapist fare it aspires to be. As a bonus, Pfeiffer can also be heard singing "Never Forget" over the film's closing credits.
Murder on the Orient Express
Directed by: Kenneth Branagh
Written by: Michael Green; based on the novel by Agatha Christie
Starring: Kenneth Branagh, Penélope Cruz, Willem Dafoe, Judi Dench, Johnny Depp, Josh Gad, Derek Jacobi, Leslie Odom Jr., Michelle Pfeiffer, Daisy Ridley, Tom Bateman, Lucy Boynton, Olivia Colman, Marwan Kenzari, Sergei Polunin, Manuel Garcia-Rulfo
