For the hero of a film to utter such a line and not elicit laughter from the audience would be a marvel. It made me chuckle, heck, who wouldn't? MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS is the famous Agatha Christie "whodunnit" where the final reveal is probably the least exciting aspect. What this film fails to see, unlike the marvelous 1974 film starring Albert Finney, is that the charm of this story is the wild characters (like Poirot) who inhabit this train, a micro-chasm of a world. It's one step removed from having characters named Mrs Peacock and Mr Green... The problem here comes with my first point: this movie doesn't know how to laugh at itself.
The story is set in the 1930's as world-famous detective Poirot (Kenneth Branagh, also the director), settles a case and decides on taking a long holiday through the orient. He's instantly recognizable and sports one of the cinema's great moustaches - I've never seen anything like this thing. One thing leads to another, and he is called back to London to work on another mystery. The fastest route is a luxury sleeper car - the Orient Express. We meet the band of cooky characters little by little: the gangster-turned-art dealer (Johnny Depp), the religious nut (Penelope Cruz), the doctor (Leslie Odom, Jr), the Princess (Judi Dench), etc... The train departs and off we go.
Who gets murdered, well you can venture a likely guess based on the trailer. Who killed them? You'll have to wait and see. Branagh directs this film with a distinct visual style that attempts to overcome a clunky script with no clear development, passion, or care. We recall the shot from the original teaser trailer in which the camera slowly moves through the car and each character admits their alibi. It worked fine to introduce us to these people for a preview, but in the film it feels a bit more forced. Likewise we listen to each of these characters speak. Some of them (Branagh especially) can manipulate the words to feel original and fresh. Others (not saying names) are all but reading off cue cards just off screen.
The train is caught snowbound on the very night of the murder, thus the stage is set. One by one, Poirot interviews the passengers, asks them their story, etc. Each is more slithery than the last, and it's a wonder he doesn't solve the case even quicker than we would expect. This being a modern adaptation of a classic book, we need a couple action scenes and some moments of peril. How would the audience stay engaged otherwise? Even thus, the film feels segmented, flat, a bit overworked and a bit under realized.
I remember the 1974 film more vividly for its wild characters and it's attention to tone. A movie like this shouldn't be so sober, and with such an iconic finale, why NOT have some fun along the way? The closest we get is Branagh (can I mention him any more? He's the one shining star in a cast full of icons) playing a detective who is as giggly as he is somber. For the man to have directed himself to such a fine performance, you would think it would have been more infectious among the cast. Even now writing a review 12 hours later, I can barely remember a single face from the cast or one line they spoke. This is the most extravagant cast of the holiday season, and the film lets it all go to waste.
I didn't adamantly hate this movie, but there are so many better written and acted films out there now. Did we need a remake of Murder? I would argue yes. I doubt not a single movie-goer today would recall Albert Finney or Ingrid Bergman in the first onscreen adaptation, and this is a story that has a massive appeal in the setting, mystery, and appeal of death and gore. I only wish that the final result could have been more compelling. As it is - go to see this movie for Mr Branagh, but feel free to take liberal bathroom breaks throughout. You won't be missing much.
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