In trying to divine how, in the superhero era, a major studio would peel off $145M on two Agatha Christie adaptations, I picture a conference room on the Fox lot around the year 2015. A flummoxed puppy dog of a development executive squints in open-mouthed confusion as then 5-time Oscar nominee Kenneth Branagh pitches a big-screen adaptation of Christie’s 1934 Hercule Poirot mystery, Murder on the Orient Express. This studio urchin wasn’t even born when Sidney Lumet’s all-star version was released in 1974. And then, in my completely imaginary account of this fateful meeting, Branagh, trying to save his project from a Peloton-enhanced TikTok enthusiast who can’t believe women used to be named Agatha, whispers the two magic words that get any contemporary studio honcho salivating: intellectual property. Belgian detective Hercule Poirot, you see, is IP. Just like Spider-Man and Harry Potter! With the executive finally hearing two words he actually understands, congratulatory selfies are snapped and an unlikely film franchise is born.
The first entry in the series, 2017’s Murder on the Orient Express, was not a light on its feet, star-studded lark of the sort we’ve come to expect from Agatha Christie adaptations. It was more traditional, some called it staid, and less eager to please. But it worked. It was shot in gorgeous 65mm that betrayed every slightly-raised eyebrow and sweaty upper lip of the train’s suspicious passengers. While Lumet stocked the pond with Hollywood royalty (including Lauren Bacall, Sean Connery and Ingrid Bergman), Branagh, knowing that such star wattage is a thing of the past, delivered as best he could with Johnny Depp leading the charge. Branagh himself played Poirot as an ultra-serious, prickly and arrogant obsessive, ditching Albert Finney’s oily-haired, silent film demeanor and Peter Ustinov’s buffoonish interpretation. Murder on the Orient Express was a surprising and very welcome hit, a studio-financed throwback that didn’t assume the entire film industry launched with 2008’s Iron Man.
The release of the mixed-bag sequel, Death on the Nile, was delayed multiple times by the Covid pandemic and it suffered a bout of rancid PR when star Armie Hammer was accused of sexual assault and abuse. Those real-life, and way more consequential, issues resulted in a crucial loss of series momentum and as Death on the Nile finally hobbles into theaters our excitement risks being severely drained. But one look at Poirot’s majestically-winged feather duster and we’re back in Branagh’s thrall. When the deadly proceedings begin, however, Poirot has no moustache. Instead he sports a military uniform and thick layer of dirt during a World War I-set prologue that explains the origin of the moustache and the subsequent romantic tragedy that would drive him towards a solitary career in detective work.
It’s a dangerous game that returning screenwriter Michael Green plays, adding depth and backstory to a character who has survived just fine for over 100 years with only one defining personality trait: a restless and probing intellect that that can get to the bottom of any murder. But we buy it because Death on the Nile is about crimes of the heart as much as crimes against the flesh. This gives Branagh more to work with yet thankfully he doesn’t overplay the melancholy notes of recognition and regret that were never a hallmark of the Poirot character.
The story proper begins at a London nightclub in the 1930s, where Poirot meets two lovebirds, the arrogant and louche Simon Doyle (Hammer, whose wooden performance and unconvincing cries of sorrow auger a future Razzie nomination) and his madly-in-love fiancé, Jacqueline (Emma Mackey). When Jacqueline makes the ill-fated decision to introduce Simon to her gorgeous and wealthy childhood friend, Linnet (Gal Gadot who still hasn’t been as commanding as she was in the first Wonder Woman), Simon dumps his bride-to-be and heads to Egypt with his rich new fiancé for a destination wedding on a two-tiered steamer. Also on the boat, a .22 nestled in her purse, is Jacqueline, who is still head over stiletto-heels in love with Simon. It’s a love triangle rife with murderous possibilities although propped up by only one side: Gadot and Hammer have little chemistry leaving it to Mackey, clearly a future movie star, to provide the dangerous spark the picture otherwise lacks.
Death on the Nile is not as confined to tight quarters as the previous film but returning DP Haris Zambarloukos’ attempt to add scale and grandeur are oftentimes bafflingly inadequate. The Egyptian exteriors are so burnished and orange it’s as if they shot the film on the sun. The green screen shots feel awfully cheesy, a look only exacerbated in 65mm. The scene where Poirot’s tranquil teatime in front of the Pyramids is interrupted by the appearance of his friend Bouc (Orient Express holdover Tom Bateman) features shockingly bad CGI, denying us the pleasure of sinking into a glamorous old school adventure shot in exotic locales. Even the computer-generated crocodile that chomps on a bird, an unsubtle reminder of the dangerous waters upon which our passengers languidly float, reminds us we’re hardly in Egypt.
Languid is certainly one way to describe the pacing throughout Death on the Nile. Setting up the pieces takes too long and it’s about an hour before the movie delivers on the promise of the title’s first word. Editor Úna Ni Dhonghaíle keeps things lumbering along at a too-steady pace, failing to sufficiently quicken the pulse even when the bodies start piling up and Poirot starts closing in on a suspect. And there’s no lack of suspects with a connection to Simon or Linnet including Bouc’s mother (Annette Bening, looking unsure of what she’s doing there), a doctor who is also Linnet’s former lover (Russell Brand, playing it straight and boring) and two welcome nods to inclusion; the sultry jazz singer (Sophie Okonedo, masticating each line to excess) and her strong-willed niece and manager (the terrific Letitia Wright).
Death on the Nile is a lumbering vessel that could have used more horsepower but it stays afloat by virtue of being an old fashioned whodunit fully loaded with tantalizing clues, shocking twists and shifty-eyed suspects. And the giddy jolt of anticipation we feel as Poirot gathers everyone into one room for his big speech where he reveals the killer and explains how he figured it out cannot be denied. Branagh clearly relishes playing Poirot, finding new dimensions to explore that don’t undermine what is so satisfyingly uncool about an early 20th century, middle-age Belgian detective. Indeed, viewers who prefer their mysteries more playful, witty and modern are directed towards Rian Johnson’s absolutely terrific Knives Out. Otherwise, Hercule Poirot is perfectly happy with his tea, his sweets and another murder to solve. Why he, or us, would need anything else is a mystery.