Ever Agatha

 

The great Agatha Christie, known as Lady Agatha in her closing years as so many of her peers, passed nearly half a century ago, closing a final page on a literary career begun over another half before with Curtain and Sleeping Murder (and a number of less-read short stories), cutting short a career as extensive as her own... two, including the slightly less iconic and extensive one of the ever-Miss Marple (herself never a Lady) and, quite complimentary, immortalised by an almost cancerous stream of adaptations, second only to her peer, colleague (their publishing overlapping, in fact) and countryman Sir Conan Doyle, a name used (perhaps unintentionally, although her style and sense of detail may preclude only a direct intent on her part, if we are to judge the queen of murders by her own standard) in Death on the Nile. 

As Kenneth Branagh . I must confess to not liking this strongly, although I felt a certain glee against my poor expectations (either a good or a bad feeling, depending on your personality) that it felt, above anything, to be complimentary to its nearly insurmountable 1974 predecessor, which even the talented Branagh could impossibly have rushed to shoot himself, much less playing the iconic lead (doing both, to this Lumet-Finney backdrop, is impressive enough). As I rewatched it, with its competing (or, diplomatically, complimenting) movie siblings I found these strengths played stronger, and having re-read the book it is indeed both surreal and quite charming. More beautifully shot, but with some crazy, hence not too impressive CGI imagery, with a cast intending to , . 

Sadly, some (inescapable, but here almost deliberately obvious) anachronisms are glaring from the letter, specifically relating to current-day, or perhaps eternal, questions of ethnicity and gender. The considerations of an exiled white Russian noblewoman for the possible (and then quite noticeable) ascent of an American actress to a directorial position, however personally explicable through the relationship therein exposed, is plain ridiculous, if overshadowed (at least in terms of very contemporary American political discourse) by the assumption that royal Yugoslavian police would, naturally, slate a Hispanic passenger for judicial murder. Really? Not the Italian, Austrian? How about, just for sake of variation and anticlimax, pose the danger of the police covering the thing up? The addition of Johnny Depp, among no less impressive contemporaries (here seemingly pressed by things current, and about to come flailing in his face the following years, but to no damage to his take on the obnoxious American, as if he were - in the words of Fantine - already dead) . On the subject of overacting, the action sequences. Overplay? Sure, though perhaps . On the note of action; if Branagh's Poirot, undeniably more physical and athletic than his illustrious predecessors - and, as the script very clearly puts out, a former policeman at that. -he might as well match the over-dramatic, almost perversely decadent moustache with some physical discipline. As far as , the clear departure from the Finney, and more so Suchet (Agatha's favourite, for my money) adaptions, 

 

One of many incarnations. Ken's Poirot and Daisy as Mary Debenham, previously viewed by millions of fans of the 1974 picture cherished even by Christie herself (a rare gem) and the 2010 installment in the series - bearing her name - by Albert Finney, Vanessa Redgrave, Jessica Chastain and the David Suchet. 

The following adaption, just as audaciously chosen to be Death on the Nile, one of the favourites certainly of the post-Christie era, and just as undeniably a 1970s cinematic classic, and . This I liked a bit more, although if failed, more so upon rewatch, to live up to the illustrious mark. Adding to the 1978 classic, which was decadent and elephantine in its magnitude if nothing else, but with certain narrative perplexities (such as the continuity in the moment of Doyle's solitude, and the subtle cut to his widower status) and ultimately Ustinov's ability to supplant Finney as a credible Poirot, doing so by playing to a different character. The Suchet adaption is, adding to this, magnificent in its own right and, while with a smaller budget (even in dollar figures) and fewer minutes, admittedly also with less famous actors (although Emily Blunt would certainly eclipse Gadot or Lois Chiles eventually). Suchet, although then very established in the role since Ustinov's twilight, added , with even some sadistic impulses unleashed quite coldly on the breaking culprit.