Murder on the Orient Express

I must confess that the 1974 Sidney Lumet-helmed extravaganza "Murder on the Orient Express" is one of my favorite films, and I have seen it a ridiculous number of times. Albert Finney's Hercule Poirot is a genius combination of aloofness, deliberate exaggeration, self-confidence, and self-satisfaction. He may have been too young for the role, but what he lacks in age he made up for in sheer artistry. The actors in that gem are uniformly brilliant with particularly outstanding work by Lauren Bacall, Martin Balsam, and Ingrid Bergman, (who won her third Oscar). And Paul Dehn's adaptation of the popular Agatha Christie novel proved deft, clever, infinitely engrossing and deliciously entertaining.

Besides a negligible 2001 American TV version and a 2015 Japanese TV version, the most prominent incarnation (besides the '74 classic of course) was an episode of "Agatha Christie's Poirot" on U.K TV in 2010 starring a lackluster David Suchet as the Belgian sleuth. It did feature a strong cast that included Jessica Chastain, Barbara Hershey, and Eileen Atkins, and I was impressed with its dark and gritty approach. But there was a misguided attempt to give Poirot a pompous nobility that felt incongruous with the Christie creation.

A stage production adapted by Ken Ludwig premiered last year at McCarter Theater in Princeton, NJ, and there's even a "MOTOE" computer game.

I mention all of the above to not only show just how steeped in world culture the work is, but also to explain the trepidation with which I watched the 65mm projection of Kenneth Branagh's "Murder on the Orient Express"" unspool.

The good news is that the latest film, from 20th Century Fox, is a charming and engaging cinematic experience. And while it doesn't come close to the brilliance of the Lumet version, it's a worthy effort introducing this fascinating tale of revenge to a new generation.

The basic plot can be found in the film's title. It's 1934, and a host of gorgeous and elite passengers are aboard the famous luxury train as is, by coincidence, Poirot, the greatest living detective. Someone on board is killed, and since the train has sped into a snow bank, it is up to the Belgian wonder to solve the crime. But this is no ordinary murder; there is something more sinister afoot. Every passenger seems to have some relationship to the victim -- or should I say the victim's crimes -- which includes the kidnapping and murder of a small child.

And by the time we get to the big reveal... do you really not know how it ends? Well, I will not give any more away. (BTW, knowing the ending does not take away from the enjoyment.)

Director Branagh and screenwriter Michael Green certainly keep things moving quite swiftly (for the ADHD gen) along with the train, which does not have the majesty of Lumet's waltzing locomotive (Richard Rodney Bennett's Oscar-nominated score went a long way in helping to create that particular magic). And he has hired great craftsmen for a perfectly opulent look and menacing feel.

Also, Branagh has put together a wonderful cast (again not quite as impressive as the Lumet) that boasts Michelle Pfeiffer, Judi Dench, Johnny Depp, Penelope Cruz, Willem Dafoe, Daisy Ridley, Derek Jacobi, Olivia Coleman and Josh Gad, to name a few.

Certain changes have been made that do not hurt the film, although some feel like they were made to diametrically oppose things in the Lumet version.

Character alterations include reconceiving Dr. Arbuthnot as a black man (Leslie Odom, Jr.), which feels more like a last-minute attempt to toss racial injustice into the already crowded mix of themes. They've also changed the nationality of the whacky missionary Ingrid Bergman played and given her a bit of an edge. (Cruz plays her in this version.)

The most potent addition to the story is that even Poirot now has a relationship, however indirect, to the victim's victim.

The assembling of the suspects for the big reveal now takes place outside instead of in the dining compartment, and allows Branagh his reverse-class "Viridiana" Last Supper moment. Fans of Luis Bunuel will know what I am referring to; otherwise, suffice to say it's a double allusion -- both filmic and religious.

Branagh, himself, is the most problematic and paradoxical character, both as actor and director. As an actor, he is certainly immersive, but has chosen to wear an eyesore of a mustache that is truly giggle-inducing, so it's hard to take him that seriously. And while his Poirot does grapple with the moral dilemma's the solution forces, the focus seems to always revert to Poirot, instead of the suspects and their stories.

As director, he must be faulted for gathering such talent and not insisting the screenplay provide meaty roles for each actor (as Dehn did in 1974). Instead, we are given the Branagh show, starring Branagh and featuring some others, but with a constant spotlight on Branagh. The mind reels at the massive ego.

Two actors are able to fight off the Branagh juggernaut just enough to eke out actual performances. The stunning Michelle Pfeiffer is glorious and has a truly stirring eleven o'clock moment (shockingly left intact by Branagh). Tom Bateman makes the most of his comic relief quips as the young English manager of the Orient Express and the only person who appears to be having a good time.

Incidentally, Christie, who was never very happy with Hollywood adaptations of her work, was a great fan of the Lumet film but was disappointed in Finney's mustache. Poirot, she wrote, has "the finest moustache in England." I wonder what she would have thought of Branagh's facial monstrosity?