C | A man is found murdered on a train that has the world's greatest detective as a passenger. Directed by Kenneth Branagh Starring Kenneth Branagh, Johnny Depp, and Michelle Pfeiffer Review by Jon Kissel |
The trope of the detective whose mental irregularities manifest as brilliance has mostly been a part of recent television, since it provides an easy way into the protagonist as anti-hero, another preferred path for ‘prestige’ TV. House, The Good Doctor, Sherlock, Monk, even my beloved Hannibal are all examples, and Kenneth Branagh provides a cinematic equivalent in his adaptation of Murder on the Orient Express. A story that has many versions, I don’t know if earlier ones needed to find a reason for star detective’s Hercule Poirot’s forensic genius, but it’s 2017 on this version’s release, so Poirot is portrayed as being crippled with the burning need to have everything in its right place, which therefore makes him adept at finding irregularities. Whether or not this added depth of character makes Branagh’s version better or worse is an open question, and one the film doesn’t spend enough time caring about. As much as Branagh attempts to update Agatha Christie’s mystery for the present, there doesn’t seem to be much to justify its existence beyond a popular taste for true crime stories.
The biggest sin of Murder on the Orient Express is how little it gets the viewer to care about the mystery. In a prescient bit of casting, a villainous Johnny Depp plays the murder victim Ratchett/Casetti, a current forger in hock to the mob and a former child murderer. Depp was able to instill a character like Whitey Bulger with the barest minimum of pathos, and for him to play Casetti, an unalloyed monster, at this moment of his career is a fun aside with 18 months of hindsight. With his skill at playing the heel of heels, Depp dooms the film he has a small but integral part in, because the film needs to make the case this murder is worth investigating. Poirot, played by Branagh, has one small aside about justice and vigilantism and an overwrought feint to racism, and that’s it. The detective’s arc is perhaps to go from Manichean good-evil to gray, but this guy’s been working for decades. He never busted a thief who was trying to feed his family, or caught someone trying to subvert one of the many crooked systems of early 20th-century Europe?
Casetti deserves to die and Poirot doesn’t make the case that he must stand trial, so what comes in between are the workmanlike paces of a mystery. Each of the twelve suspects needs to be withholding something that makes them look suspicious or motivated or just shifty, both to reinforce Poirot’s brilliance and to differentiate their characters. There’ll be a red herring or two before the big j’accuse moment, this time not in a smoking parlor but under a snowy train tunnel in an admittedly elegant Last Supper homage. As written by Christie, the creator of many of these tropes, the story understands the limited number of subversions available to it, so everyone’s guilty together, led by Michelle Pfeiffer’s Linda Arden, pulling off her disguise like she was a Scooby Doo villain.
Though the events and mechanics of the film don’t move me, the underlying theme and many of the performances do. Interrogation scenes and confession scenes offer moments for the actors to shine, and while Murder on the Orient Express doesn’t require great actors for what are mostly minor parts, Branagh assembled them anyway. Himself a legendary Shakespearean master, Branagh is hampered by the overdone accent and a personal peeve of mine, wherein an English-as-a-second-language character speaks in English when they’re alone instead of the language that their accent is based on. His supporting players are far better, with Willem Dafoe, Penelope Cruz, and a resurgent Pfeiffer standing out. The film breaks down the idea of a crime ending when its perpetrator is caught, as the start of this story is years earlier when Casetti first murdered a little girl with connections to all the suspects. The suspects are all collateral on any given Law and Order episode, but here, their pain and grief are open wounds that remain so even after the film ends.
Murder on the Orient Express is a classic story that I’m glad to have seen in a passable incarnation. It’s got some structural flaws, I don’t like Josh Gad playing so baldly against type, and I have no idea why that Russian diplomat was fighting dudes off three-deep in a Turkish train station, but it moves quickly enough and has top-rate actors taking their work seriously. Branagh’s not setting the world on fire, and I won’t be racing out to see the forthcoming sequel. This was… fine, and I’m surprised I was able to write this much about it. C
Casetti deserves to die and Poirot doesn’t make the case that he must stand trial, so what comes in between are the workmanlike paces of a mystery. Each of the twelve suspects needs to be withholding something that makes them look suspicious or motivated or just shifty, both to reinforce Poirot’s brilliance and to differentiate their characters. There’ll be a red herring or two before the big j’accuse moment, this time not in a smoking parlor but under a snowy train tunnel in an admittedly elegant Last Supper homage. As written by Christie, the creator of many of these tropes, the story understands the limited number of subversions available to it, so everyone’s guilty together, led by Michelle Pfeiffer’s Linda Arden, pulling off her disguise like she was a Scooby Doo villain.
Though the events and mechanics of the film don’t move me, the underlying theme and many of the performances do. Interrogation scenes and confession scenes offer moments for the actors to shine, and while Murder on the Orient Express doesn’t require great actors for what are mostly minor parts, Branagh assembled them anyway. Himself a legendary Shakespearean master, Branagh is hampered by the overdone accent and a personal peeve of mine, wherein an English-as-a-second-language character speaks in English when they’re alone instead of the language that their accent is based on. His supporting players are far better, with Willem Dafoe, Penelope Cruz, and a resurgent Pfeiffer standing out. The film breaks down the idea of a crime ending when its perpetrator is caught, as the start of this story is years earlier when Casetti first murdered a little girl with connections to all the suspects. The suspects are all collateral on any given Law and Order episode, but here, their pain and grief are open wounds that remain so even after the film ends.
Murder on the Orient Express is a classic story that I’m glad to have seen in a passable incarnation. It’s got some structural flaws, I don’t like Josh Gad playing so baldly against type, and I have no idea why that Russian diplomat was fighting dudes off three-deep in a Turkish train station, but it moves quickly enough and has top-rate actors taking their work seriously. Branagh’s not setting the world on fire, and I won’t be racing out to see the forthcoming sequel. This was… fine, and I’m surprised I was able to write this much about it. C
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