Language: English
Kenneth Branagh’s Death on the Nile, the second instalment of the Branagh-Poirot Universe, begins with an origin story – one that is set in the early months of World War I (October 1914, to be precise). Shown in black and white, it’s literally set in the trenches of war. It is a brief, but impactful sequence - perhaps my favourite in the film.
No, this introductory bit doesn’t particularly delve into the genius of the ‘world’s greatest detective’, but rather the origins of Hercule Poirot’s famous whiskers. It also attempts to take a scalpel to the psyche of the relentlessly professional, high-functioning (and immodest) sleuth (then a young soldier), to reveal that he might have once had a semblance of a heart after all. Admittedly, that would have been a far more interesting story to follow. The matters of Poirot’s lovelorn heart remain one of the most memorable aspects of this film, though it is relegated to being a minor one.
Instead, decades later in 1937, Poirot is drawn into a case set amid the sprawling ruins of Ancient Egypt. While he is there with the hope of getting a perfect view of The Great Pyramids, some other rich people have congregated to celebrate the marriage of a rich, popular and wholesomely spectacular heiress Linnet Ridgeway (Gal Gadot) to a poor-but-charming fellow, Simon Doyle (Armie Hammer). There is a dodgy group of fellow socialites and wealthy friends of the couple in tow, all of whom end up on a yacht, traversing the great river Nile and soaking in its pleasures and treasures. Obviously, murder is around the corner, and Poirot is inevitably the only one who can solve it.
If you haven’t read the book or seen the earlier film based on the same Agatha Christie novel, then it’s unlikely you know who the victim is, because the trailer doesn’t reveal it. I won’t spoil the fun, but I will say that one murder leads to more, right under Poirot’s nose. The plot thickens and twists while Poirot undoes the knots, as he is wont to do.
Here’s the thing about Hercule Poirot - if you’re familiar with him through the novels, the cinematic versions of him are rarely more than passing fun at best. He is predictable in personality and approach, though he certainly solves murders with flair. But movies tend to suck the fun out of the written layers of the source text, and thus often expose him as a protagonist you’ll care little about. It is left to the victims and suspects to make the story worth following, not to mention the mood cinema can create.
The first part here is taken care of with reasonable ease - most characters here have personality, and the actors playing them largely do a competent job across the board. I’m unable to take Armie Hammer seriously, but perhaps that’s just me. Gal Gadot’s presence is breathtaking as always, let’s just leave it at that. But the top honours are easily stolen away by Sex Education’s Emma Mackey. Here, she plays Jacqueline De Bellefort, former best friend to Linnet Ridgeway; ‘former’, because Jacqueline was supposed to marry Simon Doyle, before Linnet stole him away. Mackey’s take on this complex character is achingly good.
Ali Fazal is hammy but effective as the seedy cousin Andrew Katchadourian, though I’ve always wondered how he goes about settling on the varied accents he uses in these English movies he often does. My underdog favourite was the terrific Rose Leslie, who played Jon Snow’s first love Ygritte on Game of Thrones. Here, she plays a handmaid with suspicious intentions. Props also to Letitia Wright as Rosalie, niece-cum-manager to a jazz singer named Salome Otterbourne (Sophie Okonedo). The ensemble cast is largely fun to watch, even if all their shenanigans and Poirot’s careful deductions don’t always add up to a convincingly thrilling whodunit.
Kenneth Branagh, who is undeniably committed as both actor and director, has a way of making massy fiction seem Shakespearean in scale. I’ve rarely cared for any of the various Poirot screen adaptations before this, but I’ve rooted for him through both of his Poirot films. The problem lies in the fact that times have changed, and this kind of tale with a familiar telling no longer surprises the audience anymore. And when there’s some amount of compromise on the immersiveness of the story, that’s the final nail in the coffin. In that regard, Murder on the Orient Express had a more chilling vibe. Here, it’s debatable.
On the mood and feel front, the film does fall short, despite being consistently good to look at. I searched for conclusive evidence that at least some of the film was actually shot where it is set, but I’m sorry to report that there seems to be almost none. The lighting and backgrounds reveal the over-reliance on sets, real and virtual. I imagine it would be wholly more immersive if they could have attempted to shoot large portions of the film on location, rather than relying on post-production magic. The difference is subtle but palpable, especially on the big screen.
More than anything else, the template of this film isn’t an unfamiliar one at all - if anything, it is probably just dead in the water.
Rating: 2.5/5
Pradeep Menon is a Mumbai-based writer and independent filmmaker.
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