On This Handsome “Orient Express,” The Murderous Mystique Is Almost Non-Existent
Oy vey Orient Express, back at it again turning into a crime scene for the sublimely mustachioed Belgian detective Hercule Poirot to work his “little gray cells.”
Now five becomes the number of times Agatha Christie’s renowned tale gets adapted, a fact that more than justifies those wondering how a universally known whodunnit can be worth their while. Even without it, however, 2017’s Murder on the Orient Express isn’t the definitive or eminent adaptation it paints itself to be — Fox, stop demanding us to believe that with Imagine Dragons — since the film is so bent on being entertaining that it erodes the mystery’s ability to affect. Or re-affect.
Murder wastes no time setting off the fireworks, opening with a kid running through the bustling Jerusalem streets to notify Poirot (Kenneth Branagh, also directing) of a theft involving a rabbi, a priest, and an imam. Aside from being a point of difference to the 1974 version, this sequence is the first time Blade Runner 2049’s writer Michael Green flaunts his ability to deliver information — in this case, Poirot’s character, namely his inimitable genius, affinity for food and natural balance — in a delectably succinct manner. There is definitely more of that neatness during the Istanbul-to-Calais train ride, too, which turns turbulent after being halted by an avalanche and when one passenger, art dealer Ratchett (Johnny Depp), is found stabbed to death.
Like the original film, much of the runtime sees Poirot juicing truth out of half-truths or outright lies from questioning Geography teacher Mary (Daisy Ridley), one Dr. Arbuthnot (Leslie Odom, Jr.), car salesman Marquez (Manuel Garcia-Rulfo), missionary Pilar (Penélope Cruz), German professor Hardman (Willem Dafoe), widow Caroline (Michelle Pfeiffer), conductor Pierre Michel (Marwan Kenzari) and three duos — Princess Dragomiroff (Judi Dench) and her maid Hildegarde (Olivia Colman), Count Andrenyi (Sergei Polunin) and his love Elena (Lucy Boynton), plus Ratchett’s secretary MacQueen (Josh Gad) and manservant Edward (Derek Jacobi). With slight characterization changes and logical combining or unique staging of the interrogation sequences, Green makes this aspect of this Murder stays semi-refreshing before the wave of déjà vu rolls in. Of course, that “semi” part could have been excised had Branagh asked editor Mick Audsley to refrain from zipping to the next milestone in the investigation or composer Patrick Doyle to adorn rather than inundate the environs. The style of their contributions dilute the menace until there is nearly none and turn the “I see evil on this train” quote from Poirot — the paragon of truth — into falsehood.
The zippy cutting and incessant scoring (read: attempts to — unnecessarily — give this Murder a blockbuster tinge) hurt the performances as well, especially the supporting ensemble that is already burdened with modest screen time. Sidney Lumet’s film is the gold standard in this department, holding the camera onto either the interrogator or interrogated and inviting us to surmise the discrepancies between what is said and what is being thought of. In a just world, a kind YouTube soul has the Ingrid Bergman Oscar-winning one-take uploaded somewhere. Still, from the visible bits, no one tenders an icy turn. Among the youngsters, Gad and Ridley surprise; his dramatic pitch is as delightful as her interpretation of being sharp-witted. There’s much to love about the Dench’s fusion of acid into the princess, but Pfeiffer easily leads the screen veterans with her trademark fashioning of sultriness as a defense mechanism — now amplified tenfold due to her character’s experience around, and with, men.
Not even the director’s lead is spared. Not until that (again-)unnerving conclusion does Branagh’s notably athletic, stern and pensive Poirot truly radiates as the world is now steadier, the alpine gusts’ occasional howls are the only thing heard. It’s in those intermittent periods of control that Murder induces joy to the heart and our own grey cells — a righteous second course after the eyes are already enchanted with Haris Zambarloukos’ thoroughly cinematic lensing despite the confined spaces, Jim Clay’s luxe sets, and Alexandra Byrne’s chic garbs.
Speaking of seconds, perhaps those recalls to Poirot’s love, Katherine, will be better integrated in the next outing? Who knows if the numbers will please Fox enough to green light Murder on the Nile, but it’s a guarantee that the train will go farther than — gulps — The Snowman.
Grade: C+