When Agatha Christie watched Sidney Lumet’s celebrated 1974 adaptation of Murder On The Orient Express she said that while she liked it, she felt that Hercule Poirot’s moustaches were not quite luxuriant enough. If she’d lived to see Ken Branagh’s adaptation she would have been delighted with the bristles; Poirot’s ’tache lies atop his lip like a silvery feathered boa.
We can see the final destination long before the journey’s end.
As for her opinion on Branagh’s retelling of her murder-mystery, it’s hard to second-guess. The mystery that Branagh has to solve as director (and leading man) is how to recount a murder story from 1934 in a manner that appeals to a contemporary audience, many of whom have such a deep knowledge of the genre. As with most mystery tales, the answer lies in the details, which are always on show, and Branagh proves as meticulous as the man he plays on screen.
Like the finicky Belgian investigator, he revels in the opulence and glamour of the era. He shoots on lush 65mm stock and the wonderful cinematography — including one lengthy single shot in the aftermath of the film’s climactic moment — gives the piece an epic feel. These scenes are juxtaposed with moments that unfold in corridors, sleeping berths and the dining car, a confined setting always helping to ratchet up the tension. It is a shame, then, that this tension dissipates so soon, as Poirot hints at his conclusions relatively early in the piece. We can see the final destination long before the journey’s end.
There are strong emotions on display, the film exploring collective and individual senses of grief and loss, and there are many fine performances — most notably from a delightfully complex Michelle Pfeiffer, an excellent Josh Gad and an evergreen Derek Jacobi. Branagh adheres to Christie's ideal with his performance but remains in the shadow of TV's David Suchet.
The film’s starry cast certainly matches Lumet’s in its lustre, though Depp feels too much the caricature gangster drawn from a pulp fiction, while the likes of Judi Dench, Penelope Cruz, Derek Jacobi, Willem Dafoe and Daisy Ridley (largely untested in a galaxy closer to home) get little opportunity to strut their stuff. They don’t make too many classic ‘whodunnits’ like this anymore. Given modern tastes, there is probably a reason for that.
