Film review: Murder on the Orient Express

Kenneth Branagh’s star-studded adaptation of the Agatha Christie novel adds plenty of fizz to the story. But does he pull it off?

In chapter one of Murder on the Orient Express, Agatha Christie describes Hercule Poirot as “a little man with enormous moustaches”, so we can hardly blame Kenneth Branagh for giving the Belgian detective such a terrifyingly bushy expanse of facial hair. Not for him the modest squiggle sported by David Suchet and Albert Finney when they played Poirot in adaptations of the same novel. Instead, it looks as if Branagh couldn’t choose between the six different fake moustaches offered by the make-up department, so he decided to stick them all on in a row, and then put another one beneath his mouth, just to be on the safe side.

The resulting moustache - or moustaches - is typical of the film’s go-for-broke flamboyance and scale. Branagh, the director as well as the leading man, has tried to turn Christie’s intricate puzzle box into a lavish and dynamic blockbuster, shot on sumptuous 65mm. It’s this generous, crowd-pleasing impulse that makes Murder on the Orient Express so fizzingly enjoyable. But it’s also one reason why that enjoyment tails off, and the film runs out of steam before it reaches its destination.

Branagh and his screenwriter, Michael Green, even include some sleuthing that isn’t in the novel. They open with Poirot showing off his cleverness on the bustling streets of Jerusalem in 1934. It’s a sprightly comic sequence, reminiscent of Guy Ritchie’s Sherlock Holmes films, but it also brings more depth and poignancy to the character than most Christie adaptations ever do. As well as being courteous and kind, Branagh’s Poirot is a tortured perfectionist who is so obsessed by symmetry that when he accidentally puts one foot in a heap of manure, he has to put in the other one, too, for the sake of balance.

Once he has cleaned his shoes, he is summoned urgently to London, and has to book a last-minute berth on history’s most famously luxurious train, the Orient Express. His fellow engers are an intriguing bunch. Among them are a scar-faced, pistol-toting wheeler-dealer (Johnny Depp) who is travelling with his put-upon secretary (Josh Gadd) and reserved valet (Derek Jacobi); a brash blonde (Michelle Pfeiffer) who calls herself a “husband hunter”; a snooty Russian princess (Judi Dench) and her German maid (Olivia Coleman); a racist Austrian professor (Willem Defoe); a Spanish missionary (Penelope Cruz); a pert British governess (Daisy Ridley); and more.

With so many compelling characters and illustrious actors onboard, it’s a pity that they don’t all have more to do. Green gives them speeches about their backgrounds and their politics, but none of them gets more than a handful of lines. Dench must have spent more time putting on her opulent costumes than she did delivering her dialogue.

Still, there is a lot to love about these early scenes. The non-stop movement, both of the camera and the train, charges Branagh’s Murder on the Orient Express with the whirling energy that was missing from Sydney Lumet’s 1974 version. And first-class steam-age travel has never seemed more glamorous. It’s worth buying a ticket just to savour the alpine scenery, gleaming art-deco fittings, foot-tapping jazz, and mouth-watering catering. Only some clumsy chocolate company product placement leaves a sour taste in the mouth.

Then comes the titular murder, a stabbing that occurs just before the train is stopped by a snowdrift. That is, it’s a snowdrift in the book. In the film, of course, things are more dramatic. A lightning strike sets off a thunderous avalanche, and the Orient Express is derailed. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that the film itself is derailed, too, but it never quite picks up speed again.

Perhaps this loss of momentum was inevitable. In both the novel and the film, all that happens after the murder is that Poirot agrees to investigate, and then talks to the other engers, one by one. It’s just not very cinematic, and Branagh’s efforts to convince us otherwise only make matters worse. He sets the interrogations in different sections of the train, he wanders outside, he adds a pointless chase scene and some ludicrous business with a gun and a dagger. And while you can see why he wanted to throw in a bit more jeopardy and violence, you can also see these changes for what they are: contrivances that have nothing to do with the story.

Branagh would have been better off concentrating on the working of Poirot’s famous “little grey cells” - and getting the viewer’s little grey cells working, too. The delight of reading the novel is in spotting the clues and then marvelling at the deductions which the hero goes on to make. But the film-makers hurry past many of these clues, or miss them out completely. Not even Poirot could solve the mystery based on the evidence we are shown, so he has to resort to a combination of wild guesswork and furious shouting.

Naturally, Branagh gives the shouting his all. His Poirot is far more upset by the crime than his literary counterpart - and in general he is such a rich and beguiling character that I hope he returns for the sequel that’s hinted at in the final scene. But it was wrong of the film to be so slapdash about the details of the case. Christie’s whodunnits are beloved because they have ingenious plots, not because they have men with big moustaches running angrily through the snow.

★★★☆☆ 

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