Slightly derailed
Star-studded, lavish, glitzy ‘Murder on the Orient Express’ gets a bit cluttered
Detective Hercule Poirot’s greatest case is anything but pedestrian. It’s locomotive. There’s a baker’s dozen suspects — all with plausible cause to loathe a loathsome victim — and a riot of clues spilling from every berth.
The upscale passengers paid for luxury but get a bumpy ride in “Murder on the Orient Express,” Agatha Christie’s warhorse mystery dusted off for another run with Kenneth Branagh in the saddle.
Mr. Branagh is both the director and the Poirot of this glitzy new version, set in the time period when it was written (1934). The train itself is as lavishly appointed as the exotic-romantic locales: We’ll be traveling first class (most of us, at least) from Paris through Germany, Switzerland, Romania, Turkey, etc., once we meet, greet and get the 13 characters all aboard — no mean feat in itself. Chief among them:
• The imperious Princess Dragomiroff (Judi Dench), with her dogs and her German maid (Olivia Colman).
• Wealthy widow Mrs. Hubbard (Michelle Pfeiffer), whispered to be husband hunting.
• Crude, thuggish Ratchett (Johnny Depp), the Yankee highroller who — much to Poirot’s annoyance — keeps calling him “HER-culees” like the Greek god instead of “Er-COOL” like in French.
• Ratchett’s nervous amanuensis Hector MacQueen (Josh Gad).
• Ratchett’s humble butler (Derek Jacobi).
• Reticent governess Mary Debenham (Daisy Ridley).
• Upright Dr. Arbuthnot (Leslie Odom Jr.).
• Pious missionary Pilar (Penelope Cruz).
• Russian Count and Countess Andrenyi (Sergei Polunin, Lucy Boynton).
• Dubious diplomat Gerhard Hardman (Willem Dafoe).
Which one’s gonna get killed, and which one did the dirty deed?
It’s star-studded, to be sure, if not quite the advertised “dream cast” — or the one assembled by the late great Sidney Lumet for his 1974 rendering of the tale. The good performance news first: Mr. Depp is wonderfully dark and quirky, as always. Dame Dench can’t be beat as the dowager princess. Ms. Pfeiffer — now looking “a certain age” — outdoes even Lauren Bacall when purring-growling, in response to Mr. Depp’s first leer: “If your eyes linger any longer, I’ll have to charge rent.”
But Ms. Ridley, Mr. Gad, Mr. Odom and Ms. Cruz are no match, respectively, for Vanessa Redgrave,
Anthony Perkins, Sean Connery and Ingrid Bergman, who played their roles in the ‘74 film. (Ms. Bergman won an Oscar for that part.)
Mr. Branagh holds his own in comparison with Albert Finney’s 1974 Poirot and, as director, deserves much credit for capturing the style and spirit of the thing — the fashions, the cars, the food, the posh clubs and bars, the glorious Istanbul steamboats and cathedrals, the breathtaking scenery along the way of the Express’ journey.
He is immeasurably aided in this by the brilliant cinematography of Haris Zambarloukos, whose mobile camera transports us to and through the mountains with magical snow scenes to rival “Polar Express” — best of all, the terrific Alpine avalanche and derailment sequence that stalls the train and its jittery passengers there, giving Poirot time to investigate and evaluate the relevance of theirwhite and black lies.
This “Murder” is a rare film(for this decade) to be shot on 65 mm film and projected insumptuous widescreen. Recurring overhead shots of the crime scene are both funny andutilitarian, given the tight confines of a train compartment — almost as claustrophobic as the Marx Brothers’ stateroom scene in “Night at theOpera”!
Not least of the Poirot character’s historical virtues is that it inspired Peter Sellers’ comic alter ego, Inspector Clousseau. But don’t look for much humor in Michael Green’s ever-soserious screenplay here — less witty and more moody than the ‘74 version — with one exception: Poirot’s iconic mustache comes equipped with a hilarious nighttime sleep protector.
Overall, though, there are too many characters to keep straight or become emotionally involved with. A complex back story akin to the Lindbergh kidnapping case doesn’t help. By the time we get to the brilliant denouement, it feels more like the local than the express.
After all these years, Agatha’s immortal “Orient” trip seems still — perhaps always —better on the page.