‘Murder on the Orient Express’ is a real train wreck.
Branagh’s ‘ Murder on the Orient Express’ does no justice to Agatha Christie’s classic tale
Be forewarned before you hop aboard themind-numbing new “Murder on the Orient Express.”
What might have been a ravishing remake, lit by some of the most sumptuous cinematography in recent memory, instead goes off the rails almost from the start.
Make no mistake, Kenneth Branagh’s lavish adaptationof theAgatha Christie classic is dressed to the nines, from the stunning period costumes to the spectacular scenery of the snow- capped Alps. Alas, the lackluster performances and stilted direction falls far short of the visuals (cinematography byHaris Zambarloukos). This lumbering and belabored “Orient Express” spins its wheels until it loses all steam.
Branagh, for his part, makes a strangelymelancholy Hercule Poirot, the iconic Belgian detective whose little gray cells crave the agitation of a whodunit. The classically trained actor is as thoughtful as ever but he lacks the quirky specificity that marked David Suchet’s indelible take on the role. The backstories inserted here, such as suggesting that Poirot suffers from something such as Asperger’s syndrome, aren’t compelling. He also has a rather Chewbaccaesquemustache that seems poised to devour his face.
But the true failing in this movie is the utter lack of pacing and suspense. Though the film is studded with shining stars, from the venerable Dame Judi Dench to the emerging Daisy Ridley, there are very few memorable moments bracketed by endless flat patches. In terms of goose bumps and gasps, it’s a train wreck. There’s no delicious sense of mounting tension as the mystery unravels.
Michelle Pfeiffer does cast a few sparks, slinking about the cabin encased in skintight gowns and steeped in booze as the merry widow Mrs. Hubbard. She saves more scenes than you would have thought possible with her brassy strutting. Derek Jacobi also leaves an indelible mark on his small turn as the dead man’s valet.
But the rest of the actors mostly go through the motions. Ridley barely registers as the ingenue governess Mary. The same fate befalls Josh Gad as the often- sauced secretary and Leslie Odom Jr. as the doctor.
Johnny Depp doesn’t seem to know what to do if he can’t go Captain Jack on a part. His turn as the mafia- connected brute Ratchett feels so wooden it’s a shame.
Even the redoubtable Dench, as the imperious Russian princess, and the usually appealing Olivia Coleman (“Broadchurch”) as her long sufferingmaid, feel wasted here.
Overall this old school picture simply doesn’t deliver on its juicy promises. If there was more suspense, the film might have transported us away from our mundane age and into the glamorous era of the famed train’s heyday.
The plot is as juicy as ever. Stranded in the snow, embroiled in a bloody murder plot, these strangers on a train must bare their darkest secrets for Europe’s most famous private eye.
Unfortunate ly , Branagh’s weakness for fussy tracking shots or overhead filming only heightens the picture’s static feel. At times the viewer feels as stuck as the train.
Christie purists may also take umbrage at the changes made to the plot, including some heightened racial overtones. That wouldn’t matter to me if the tension hadn’t died before the murder victim.
If you are new to pleasures of Poirot, I won’t reveal the Last Supper- style ending but suffice to say that in this version, the only thing that doesn’t feel anti- climactic is the scenery. As for this reviewer’s little gray cells, they almost fell asleep.