If ever David Suchet "mailed in" a Poirot performance, it was this one. In fact, the whole episode -- running a little over 1 hr. and 20 min. (no commercials)?! -- seemed designed to get the whole story over with as soon as possible. There's no development. People just stand there within their blocking and say their lines to each other.
Christie's stories pretty much tell themselves. If one leaves them alone and lets the actors act and lets the arts staff revel in the period piecework, then viewers can have a comfortable, enjoyable -- and, most importantly, FUN -- night of Mystery Theater. But, alas, for the past decade we've had to suffer through amateurish directors, hack writers, and intrusive music scores.
This episode is not so bad, albeit rushed (as I've said), though there are some hackneyed touches: the cards falling down the screen infront of Suchet's face; the bright halo on the screen of things the director wanted viewers to take note of; the screaming patients at the mental ward. (See "The A.B.C. Murders" for a masterful use of these types of film conceits.)
I have to say, except for the silly transposition of Poirot into the 1980's, I would much rather sit down and watch the Peter Ustinov version of this book. It patiently tells the story. But, more importantly: It has fun telling the story and laying out the conundrum of a harmless, old minister who was apparently poisoned . . . then, not poisoned . . . then, yes, actually poisoned . . . but, why?
And, as an outsider, I must say that British T.V. filmmaking has become much, much, MUCH too dreary. Now, every episode of Poirot has to be some kind of re-make of "Gosford Hall."
So, while not as horrendously, stupendously, magnificently, shambolically, atrociously, like-vomit-in-a-baby's-diarrheal-diaper-sprayed-with-skunk-juice bad as Suchet's "Murder on the Orient Express," this episode is nonetheless not that great, either. Indeed, a quick, unmemorable yawn.
Get the Peter Ustinov version; make a bowl of popcorn; and, enjoy a good telling of this mystery yarn from one of the best: Dame Agatha! You'll thank me.
Christie's stories pretty much tell themselves. If one leaves them alone and lets the actors act and lets the arts staff revel in the period piecework, then viewers can have a comfortable, enjoyable -- and, most importantly, FUN -- night of Mystery Theater. But, alas, for the past decade we've had to suffer through amateurish directors, hack writers, and intrusive music scores.
This episode is not so bad, albeit rushed (as I've said), though there are some hackneyed touches: the cards falling down the screen infront of Suchet's face; the bright halo on the screen of things the director wanted viewers to take note of; the screaming patients at the mental ward. (See "The A.B.C. Murders" for a masterful use of these types of film conceits.)
I have to say, except for the silly transposition of Poirot into the 1980's, I would much rather sit down and watch the Peter Ustinov version of this book. It patiently tells the story. But, more importantly: It has fun telling the story and laying out the conundrum of a harmless, old minister who was apparently poisoned . . . then, not poisoned . . . then, yes, actually poisoned . . . but, why?
And, as an outsider, I must say that British T.V. filmmaking has become much, much, MUCH too dreary. Now, every episode of Poirot has to be some kind of re-make of "Gosford Hall."
So, while not as horrendously, stupendously, magnificently, shambolically, atrociously, like-vomit-in-a-baby's-diarrheal-diaper-sprayed-with-skunk-juice bad as Suchet's "Murder on the Orient Express," this episode is nonetheless not that great, either. Indeed, a quick, unmemorable yawn.
Get the Peter Ustinov version; make a bowl of popcorn; and, enjoy a good telling of this mystery yarn from one of the best: Dame Agatha! You'll thank me.