Remakes of classic films–and worse yet, classic films based on equally as classic books–tend always to be dicey. And even with Kenneth Branagh’s faithful rendering of everything he adapts, from Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein to Macbeth, there can be no denying that, as Christopher Orr of The Atlantic put it, “Murder on the Orient Express is not a bad movie per se, merely one that feels self-indulgent and thoroughly unnecessary.” But can’t that be said of any remake? Except the one of Some Like It Hot that never got made–an idea commissioned by Madonna to put Mike Meyers and Dana Carvey in the starring male roles and Sharon Stone in the part of Sugar Kane. M herself would have taken the female bandleader’s place, with her first order of business being to fire Sugar.
The bottom line is, if you’re going to see Murder on the Orient Express, you’ve probably already gotten over the hurdle that, yes, there’s no need to fuck with the already present perfection of the 1974 version, with a cast so formidable that Ingrid Bergman had to be given an Academy Award for all of them, essentially. Still, Branagh has managed to wrangle an almost equally as impressive cast, with Johnny Depp portraying the murdered Edward Ratchett and Michelle Pfeiffer as the aging “husband chaser,” Caroline Hubbard. Then, of course, there are the stunning visuals, with the opening scene falling on Jerusalem’s Wailing Wall as Hercule Poirot (Branagh) solves the case of a stolen religious relic rumored to be taken by either the rabbi, the priest or the imam. Of course, the case is far more complex than that, which is what requires Poirot’s unique expertise and ability to see every imperfection via his compulsion for excellence.
After solving the case, amid much controversy over the reveal, naturally, Poirot heads to Istanbul, where he runs into Bouc (Tom Bateman), the director of the the Orient Express, in the midst of a dalliance he’s trying to initiate with a prostitute. As they exchange their pleasantries, a telegram comes for Poirot, one he doesn’t even need to open to know that he’s due in London and must get on the Orient Express immediately. Pulling a few strings to make room for him on the fully booked train, Bouc welcomes him aboard happily.
So it is that Poirot was never supposed to be present for the gruesome round of twelve stabbings through Ratchett’s chest and stomach. Written by Michael Green, no stranger to the blockbuster genre with his recent penning of Logan and Blade Runner 2049, one could argue that there had to be some sort of Sex and the City connection based on the episode, “The Big Journey,” in which Samantha makes tongue in cheek reference to the book by remarking of the accommodations, “I’m starting to understand why there was murder on the Orient Express.” And lo and behold, Green wrote an episode for the show in season one (it would have been too on point for him to have done “The Big Journey,” thus it was “The Drought”).
In this particular rendering of the story, there seems to be more digs at America and its associated lifestyle, with several of the suspects and Poirot himself throwing shade at it. “I went to America to confirm a suspicion,” Edward (Derek Jacobi) tells Poirot while being questioned. Poirot asks, “What was that?” Without missing a beat, Edward replies, “That I wouldn’t like it.”
Elsewhere, Poirot assures governess Mary Debenham (Daisy Ridley) when he unearths her romantic relationship with the black doctor, Arbuthnot (Leslie Odom Jr.), “This isn’t America, there’s no crime against how you feel.” But the contempt for the U.S. isn’t half as jarring as the seemingly endless amount of clues presented to Poirot on a silver platter, from a detached conductor’s uniform button to a red kimono (red, of course, because it’s a red herring–Agatha Christie loved those as a means to toy with her audience’s emotions and intelligence). Nothing about the murder feels right to Poirot, unable to fathom the gray area that’s about to envelop him as his old mantra, “There’s right and there’s wrong. There is nothing in between,” gets shot to shit. But oh how there is an in-between, especially as Poirot uncovers the ties each passenger has to the very case he was traveling to London to help resolve: that of Colonel Armstrong, a man whose infant child, Daisy, was abducted for ransom and then found murdered in the woods (yes, it was inspired by the Charles Lindbergh incident, if you can call what happened a word so light-hearted). Penelope Cruz, who fills in for the role that won Bergman her Oscar in 1975, is one of the few characters who does a lot with the few lines of dialogue she’s given. As does Judi Dench (are you surprised?) in the part of Princess Dragomiroff, with the intensity of her bitchery and fastidiousness being one of the most entertaining aspects of the film. With her servant Hildegarde Schmidt (Olivia Colman, you know, Sophie from Peep Show) in tow, Princess Dragomiroff finds no shortage of methods to criticize, including the handling of her precious canine.
And it is, of course, the details that make Murder on the Orient Express most interesting to watch–from the way tables are set to adhere to precise measurements to Poirot’s obsession with getting two hardboiled eggs of exactly the same proportions. Well, he’s obsessed with that and Katherine–or a picture of her. His only love whom he looks to for guidance when the case throws him for a loop. It is because of her that he is prompted to tell the train’s conductor, “Romance is not without its punishment,” ergo his according statement to Ratchett, “I’m at my happiest when I’m alone.” To be sure, Poirot remains one of the most interesting literary characters ever created, and to be quite honest, far more endearing than Sherlock Holmes when one gets right down to it.
If nothing else, this remake will perhaps at least make a subsequent generation become attuned to how little they themselves are in touch with any sense of perfectionism or pride. In this regard, the new incarnation of the beloved 1930s narrative is not without its merits.
