☆☆☆
Like an old bathrobe or a favorite chair, Murder on the Orient Express has an easy familiarity to it, a they-don't-make-them-like-this-anymore vibe that makes movie fans of a certain age smile.
Of course, they used to make them like this, nearly a half-century ago. That was when Bette Davis and Ingrid Bergman and David Niven didn't really have careers anymore and could be wooed by high-paying producers to travel to exotic locations and get the full-on movie-star treatment in extravagant productions based on Agatha Christie novels.
There were a spate of these films, which succeeded the mega-budgeted, star-studded disaster films that had lost their appeal, and which prevented the stars themselves from fading completely. Ultimately, of course, those epic Christie mysteries lost their appeal, as well, and Hollywood movied past that and into the age of superstars like Julia Roberts, Mel Gibson, Eddie Murphy and, ironically enough, Johnny Depp, who could commend $20 million a picture. In those days, it seemed that maybe the star-in-every-role movies would never be seen again; there was no way a producer could spend $200 million on salaries alone.
But, of course, stars fade and popularity wanes and now here's Depp himself playing a supporting role amid a passel of stars both young and, ahem, old. Murder on the Orient Express almost delights in bringing back this old-timey conceit of shoving together a bunch of arguably fading actors and seeing what happens. Michelle Pfeiffer, Penelope Cruz, Kenneth Branagh, Willem Dafoe -- for a moment, sometimes longer, they were all huge, and Murder on the Orient Express, which Branagh himself directed, luxuriates in the idea that they still are. (Derek Jacobi and Judi Dench are also on board for an extra-classy touch.)
They are but mere co-stars, however, alongside younger actors like Daisy Ridley, Josh Gad and Leslie Odom Jr., who are to this film what, say, Jacqueline Bisset, Mia Farrow and Simon MacCorkindale (remember him, "Manimal" fans?) were to the earlier generation of these murder-mystery sagas. Whether Pfeiffer, Cruz, Dafoe and their contemporaries have quite the marquee appeal that the previous generation had is questionable at best, but Murder on the Orient Express suspects that it will be a delight to see them, and it guesses correctly.
It is almost irrelevant whether the film itself is any good, and it is a bit of a relief to report that it's almost every bit as entertaining as those earlier movies. It is richly appointed, beautifully shot, lovingly crafted. It looks phenomenal, with costumes and sets that recall more lavish days.
As a director, Branagh loves his actors, none more than himself, though not in a particularly egotistical sort of way. It's just that Branagh knows that if there is a star in these star-studded mysteries, it has to be the detective himself, and he wants Hercules Poirot played in a specific way -- so specific, it makes sense that only the director could play the part.
The story has the same basic setup as Christie's novel and the 1974 film by Sidney Lumet: Poirot, the world's greatest detective, boards the Orient Express after a particularly exhausting case, but instead of the expected R&R he gets, naturally, another murder to solve. This one is a particularly befuddling one since it takes place in an enclosed location with a limited number of witnesses ... or suspects. How did the slimeball "businessman" Samuel Ratchett wind up dead in his locked-from-the-inside cabin?
Poirot investigates, giving each of the movie's actors, whether big name or small, about four minutes of quality screen time to tell her or his story before moving on. Poirot listens. He observes. He deduces. And, ultimately, solves the case.
Whether the solution is the same as it's always been or different this time around is not something anyone should give away, but does it matter? Those who might not know the outcome of the previous film or original novel will look for all the clues; those who remember the original well will delight in all of the visual aspects of the movie -- and the non-visual ones, too, for it boasts a wonderfully full-blooded score by Patrick Doyle and dazzling cinematography by Hans Zambarloukos, along with luxurious costumes by Alexandra Byrne.
And like that bathrobe or chair, it's easy to enjoy and not care about its middling qualities, of which there are plenty. The script is both infinitely talky and sometimes maddeningly confusing: some characters still don't make a ton of sense even after you know the outcome. The acting, particularly by Cruz and Odom, is at times flat and uncompelling, while Branagh is frequently overzealous with the visuals -- there's too much obvious computer-generated imagery.
Then there's the structure, which relies almost entirely on Poirot moving from character to character and giving each suspect a few minutes to tell their story before moving on to the next. (The black-and-white flashbacks are, for my way of thinking, a touch that's slightly too old-fashioned and cheesy.) It becomes wearying, even though most of the actors are terrific and seem to love (as I did) the way Branagh films in long, uninterrupted takes. The scenery has got to taste a little better when they chew it that way. And chew they do, seeming to love every minute of it, and few of the minutes are quite as good as the initial meeting between Mrs. Hubbard (Pfeiffer) and Monsieur Poirot, which also shows off the train to full effect.
As the film ends, there's a heavy hint that if this one succeeds Poirot will be back in a remake of Death on the Nile, which would hardly be the worst thing in the world to see. Which former superstars will star in it? A resurgence of films like this could be a lot of fun -- and whodunit will be far less intriguing than who'lldoit.
Viewed November 10, 2017 -- ArcLight Sherman Oaks
1915
Of course, they used to make them like this, nearly a half-century ago. That was when Bette Davis and Ingrid Bergman and David Niven didn't really have careers anymore and could be wooed by high-paying producers to travel to exotic locations and get the full-on movie-star treatment in extravagant productions based on Agatha Christie novels.
There were a spate of these films, which succeeded the mega-budgeted, star-studded disaster films that had lost their appeal, and which prevented the stars themselves from fading completely. Ultimately, of course, those epic Christie mysteries lost their appeal, as well, and Hollywood movied past that and into the age of superstars like Julia Roberts, Mel Gibson, Eddie Murphy and, ironically enough, Johnny Depp, who could commend $20 million a picture. In those days, it seemed that maybe the star-in-every-role movies would never be seen again; there was no way a producer could spend $200 million on salaries alone.
But, of course, stars fade and popularity wanes and now here's Depp himself playing a supporting role amid a passel of stars both young and, ahem, old. Murder on the Orient Express almost delights in bringing back this old-timey conceit of shoving together a bunch of arguably fading actors and seeing what happens. Michelle Pfeiffer, Penelope Cruz, Kenneth Branagh, Willem Dafoe -- for a moment, sometimes longer, they were all huge, and Murder on the Orient Express, which Branagh himself directed, luxuriates in the idea that they still are. (Derek Jacobi and Judi Dench are also on board for an extra-classy touch.)
They are but mere co-stars, however, alongside younger actors like Daisy Ridley, Josh Gad and Leslie Odom Jr., who are to this film what, say, Jacqueline Bisset, Mia Farrow and Simon MacCorkindale (remember him, "Manimal" fans?) were to the earlier generation of these murder-mystery sagas. Whether Pfeiffer, Cruz, Dafoe and their contemporaries have quite the marquee appeal that the previous generation had is questionable at best, but Murder on the Orient Express suspects that it will be a delight to see them, and it guesses correctly.
It is almost irrelevant whether the film itself is any good, and it is a bit of a relief to report that it's almost every bit as entertaining as those earlier movies. It is richly appointed, beautifully shot, lovingly crafted. It looks phenomenal, with costumes and sets that recall more lavish days.
As a director, Branagh loves his actors, none more than himself, though not in a particularly egotistical sort of way. It's just that Branagh knows that if there is a star in these star-studded mysteries, it has to be the detective himself, and he wants Hercules Poirot played in a specific way -- so specific, it makes sense that only the director could play the part.
The story has the same basic setup as Christie's novel and the 1974 film by Sidney Lumet: Poirot, the world's greatest detective, boards the Orient Express after a particularly exhausting case, but instead of the expected R&R he gets, naturally, another murder to solve. This one is a particularly befuddling one since it takes place in an enclosed location with a limited number of witnesses ... or suspects. How did the slimeball "businessman" Samuel Ratchett wind up dead in his locked-from-the-inside cabin?
Poirot investigates, giving each of the movie's actors, whether big name or small, about four minutes of quality screen time to tell her or his story before moving on. Poirot listens. He observes. He deduces. And, ultimately, solves the case.
Whether the solution is the same as it's always been or different this time around is not something anyone should give away, but does it matter? Those who might not know the outcome of the previous film or original novel will look for all the clues; those who remember the original well will delight in all of the visual aspects of the movie -- and the non-visual ones, too, for it boasts a wonderfully full-blooded score by Patrick Doyle and dazzling cinematography by Hans Zambarloukos, along with luxurious costumes by Alexandra Byrne.
And like that bathrobe or chair, it's easy to enjoy and not care about its middling qualities, of which there are plenty. The script is both infinitely talky and sometimes maddeningly confusing: some characters still don't make a ton of sense even after you know the outcome. The acting, particularly by Cruz and Odom, is at times flat and uncompelling, while Branagh is frequently overzealous with the visuals -- there's too much obvious computer-generated imagery.
Then there's the structure, which relies almost entirely on Poirot moving from character to character and giving each suspect a few minutes to tell their story before moving on to the next. (The black-and-white flashbacks are, for my way of thinking, a touch that's slightly too old-fashioned and cheesy.) It becomes wearying, even though most of the actors are terrific and seem to love (as I did) the way Branagh films in long, uninterrupted takes. The scenery has got to taste a little better when they chew it that way. And chew they do, seeming to love every minute of it, and few of the minutes are quite as good as the initial meeting between Mrs. Hubbard (Pfeiffer) and Monsieur Poirot, which also shows off the train to full effect.
As the film ends, there's a heavy hint that if this one succeeds Poirot will be back in a remake of Death on the Nile, which would hardly be the worst thing in the world to see. Which former superstars will star in it? A resurgence of films like this could be a lot of fun -- and whodunit will be far less intriguing than who'lldoit.
Viewed November 10, 2017 -- ArcLight Sherman Oaks
1915
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