There are, that I know of, three other film adaptations of Agatha Christie's novel and this is the grimmest and truest of them. Ten people -- two servants and eight guests, all strangers to one another -- are invited to a weekend on an isolated island. This is the bleakest, jaggedest, rockiest island you ever saw, even though it was filmed on some headland, not an island at all. After dinner, a record player addresses the trapped ten, one by one, accuses each of them of a murder, and announces that they will pay for their crimes.
The guests are a varied lot -- a doctor, a private detective, a secretary, an explorer -- but no matter who or what they once were, they are toast now. They are picked off seriatim -- shot, poisoned, crowned, drowned, chopped up, and hanged. The boat that will arrive in another day or two will find ten corpses on an isolated clump of rocks.
I won't give away any more of the plot because the whole thing is plot. To give away more would empty the coffer. The characters don't count for much, except for that pouty young secretary, Miss Claythorne, which the subtitles render "Klaisern," there being no voiceless "th" in Russian. Some of the men are almost indistinguishable, although two look alarmingly like James Carville.
Well -- it's not exactly light hearted. Next to this, "Boris Gudonov" seems like comedic froth. Hardly anyone smiles. No one laughs. There is no charm, either in the setting or the characters. The most amusing moments come from reading the English subtitles. A terrified Miss Klaisern, thinking she is about to be murdered, is pointing a trembling gun at Mr. Lombard. He leaps at her and shouts, "Now listen to me attentively!" (Bang.) There isn't much of a musical score but Dr. Armstrong bangs out a neat "My Baby Just Cares For Me" on the piano before getting into Hoagy Carmichael. The thematic music leads us to expect to see the Huns attacking Alexander Nevsky and his small band.
I haven't seen the 1974 version with an immodest Elke Sommer for years. But this version is an improvement over the version with Hugh O'Brien on the mountaintop, even though that has Shirley Eaton simmering in oestrus. In many ways, the most enjoyable treatment of the novel is the original 1945 film with people like June Duprez, Walter Huston, and the unforgettable Barry Fitzgerald as the magistrate who is all he seems to be. They're all cop outs, of course, compared to this Russian work, but I can't help thinking that Dame Agatha might have preferred a bit of gaiety and comic irony. She was never one to cry over spilt blood.
It's the only version that sticks to Agatha Christie's original and somewhat bleak novel. We will leave it at that.
The guests are a varied lot -- a doctor, a private detective, a secretary, an explorer -- but no matter who or what they once were, they are toast now. They are picked off seriatim -- shot, poisoned, crowned, drowned, chopped up, and hanged. The boat that will arrive in another day or two will find ten corpses on an isolated clump of rocks.
I won't give away any more of the plot because the whole thing is plot. To give away more would empty the coffer. The characters don't count for much, except for that pouty young secretary, Miss Claythorne, which the subtitles render "Klaisern," there being no voiceless "th" in Russian. Some of the men are almost indistinguishable, although two look alarmingly like James Carville.
Well -- it's not exactly light hearted. Next to this, "Boris Gudonov" seems like comedic froth. Hardly anyone smiles. No one laughs. There is no charm, either in the setting or the characters. The most amusing moments come from reading the English subtitles. A terrified Miss Klaisern, thinking she is about to be murdered, is pointing a trembling gun at Mr. Lombard. He leaps at her and shouts, "Now listen to me attentively!" (Bang.) There isn't much of a musical score but Dr. Armstrong bangs out a neat "My Baby Just Cares For Me" on the piano before getting into Hoagy Carmichael. The thematic music leads us to expect to see the Huns attacking Alexander Nevsky and his small band.
I haven't seen the 1974 version with an immodest Elke Sommer for years. But this version is an improvement over the version with Hugh O'Brien on the mountaintop, even though that has Shirley Eaton simmering in oestrus. In many ways, the most enjoyable treatment of the novel is the original 1945 film with people like June Duprez, Walter Huston, and the unforgettable Barry Fitzgerald as the magistrate who is all he seems to be. They're all cop outs, of course, compared to this Russian work, but I can't help thinking that Dame Agatha might have preferred a bit of gaiety and comic irony. She was never one to cry over spilt blood.
It's the only version that sticks to Agatha Christie's original and somewhat bleak novel. We will leave it at that.