Thank you, Kenneth Branagh. Apparently I needed a few naps.
I know, I know. Many people thoroughly enjoyed watching the latest film adaptation of Agatha Christie’s oh-so-popular mystery novel of the same name. The film has made money. And I looked forward to it for personal reasons. Alas, the sweeping but painfully slow music, the monotone dialogue necessary to set the backdrop but that felt too staged, and the warm theater won: I couldn’t help but nod off. Several times.
That personal reason that sparked my interest involved the original storyteller in my life: my daddy. My father was a master storyteller. Often when my sister and I were traveling with him on a long drive, he would weave a tale, entertaining us immensely and passing the time to make it feel there never was enough time on those drives. The stories almost always began the same way: “Once upon a time, a long time ago, in a far away land, there lived – – Two. Little. Girls.” (The intro changed only if she or I had a friend with us; then, there had lived two little girls “and their friend.”)
One day, years after those stories, I caught a movie on television that rang familiar. Finally I figured it out: this was one of my father’s stories! I corrected myself and realized, of course, that this was actually Agatha Christie’s story and that my father had used the plot for his own tale. Oh, Daddy. 😉 So when I was invited to go see Murder on the Orient Express, thinking that might be that same story my daddy told forty or so years ago, I said yes. (Yes, this is the movie my companion and I originally planned to see before seeing The Florida Project. Having been foiled by ticket sales on our first attempt, we tried again the next afternoon, tickets purchased in advance.)
The movie is fine. And it provides an interesting-enough mystery for this curious Detective Poirot to solve. As a period piece, it is visually appealing. The costumes too create quite the embellishment to the lavish train cars. (I still, though, am bothered with just how few train cars there were, lavish or not.) The mystery involved in the story presents Poirot a solid puzzle. But the method to investigate, that is, using these overly-staged interviews, just wore on too long. The film felt like it slogged through this part as a necessity to get to the ending. And that ending felt too staged (literally) in the manner Branagh directed it.
The movie is sold on its “all-star cast.” Yes, the cast was packed with stars, but to me their ensemble felt more like many famous people getting together to play dress-up; too few had enough meat in their roles for rich character development. Any such character development had to be framed around Poirot’s detective work that springs forth when the murder happens aboard the train. (This isn’t a spoiler folks; keep in mind the title of the film.) Thus I found I never really cared about any of the players in this cast. Without caring about the characters, it was difficult to care about the film.
My personal tie to the film was also absent. Somewhere early on, I concluded this was not the same tale Daddy told to us. I suspect now it might be Death on the Nile. As Murder on the Orient Express ends, of course, Poirot is told of a murder on the Nile. So maybe I’ll have to see that one. Or maybe I’ll simply rewatch that original film and be just as pleased.
(This is one of those times I wish I had a half star, for three stars are too many for me. But two stars are too few. As usual, though, I’m willing to round up. 😉 )