(Other actors have played Poirot in the past thirty years on film and television. Most notable are two-time Oscar winner Peter Ustinov, and English actor David Suchet, in the recent and very enjoyable series for the BBC. In “Death on the Nile” and “Evil Under the Sun,” Ustinov’s Poirot has more dignity and humility. When he’s not accusing someone to her face, he likes to begin every sentence with a whiny noise and apology. Suchet is effeminate and delicate, and behaves as if he would happy to use tweezers to pick up everything for the rest of his life.)
On the train with Finney are more than a dozen actors and actresses, many of whom, at one time or another, have been stars in their own right. Here, they all have secrets and mysterious connections, they shoot each other loaded glances that they don’t think Poirot will notice, and they never tell the truth on the first try. Of course one of them ends up dead and one of them is the murderer. To name a few, we have Ingrid Bergman as a soft-spoken, heavily-accented missionary, Sean Connery as a British officer returning from India with the stiffest upper-lip imaginable, a young Vanessa Redgrave as a slinky damsel with whom Connery is a little too cozy, Sir John Gielgud as a rigid, tuxedo-clad manservant, Richard Wydmark as a rich bully who wants Poirot’s help, Michael York as the kind of Brit who can wear an ascot and still be sort-of manly, an elderly Eastern European princess played by Wendy Hiller, and a stout German maid (Rachel Roberts) who gives off distinct lesbian vibes. And there’s Lauren Bacall, and anyone with a voice like hers has to be up to no good.
Christie loved putting her murders within closed systems, like country manors, in which no outsider could possibly be responsible. The early claim that the murder was committed by a mafia assassin that hopped aboard while the train was stopped is a delightfully obvious red herring. Lumet shoots Poirot’s investigation in mostly normal angles, but when we flashback to them later in the film, the actor’s faces are almost fogging the camera as they repeat their crucial lines robotically.
PG mysteries like this, in which murder is treated almost as a joke, don’t come across the big screen much anymore. Perhaps the saturation of television shows in the 1980s like “Murder She Wrote” temporarily wore the genre out. Even “Gosford Park,” Robert Altman’s splendid manor mystery, was in places grim and serious. The most Christie-esque film of recent years is probably Woody Allen’s “Manhattan Murder Mystery,” a cute combination of Dame Agatha and “Annie Hall,” in which investigating a neighbor’s murder is seen as a great way to spend a few afternoons.
“Murder on the Orient Express” was nominated for six Oscars in 1974—and why not? The movie has just the right spirit and is completely satisfying. See if you can guess who done it before the fat Belgian guy does.
Finished June 21st, 2003
Copyright © 2003 Friday & Saturday Night
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