In this current climate of mega sequels and connecting universes, there’s something reliably old fashioned about Kenneth Branagh’s continuing attempts to bring Agatha Christie back to the big screen. However, an argument could be made that by adapting the two most famous Hercule Poirot tales (Murder Of The Orient Express and Death On The Nile, respectively), Branagh might have done himself a slight disservice as a certain portion of the audience might already be familiar with how it ends – something of of drawback when one of the greatest weapons a whodunnit has is the elememt of suprise.
However, in his latest endeavor behind both the camera and the vainglorious facial hair of the Belgian sleuth, Branagh has decided to switch gears and do something a little different first by adapting a lesser know story (Hallowe’en Party) and then switching up the genre slightly to mix things up a little.
We rejoin tortured, super-detective, Hercule Poirot in a state of retirement as a career of deducting murders after the fact has left him in state of faithless flux. Having retreated to Venice and employing a bodyguard to keep anyone wanting Poirot to solve their unsolvable crimes, the man has withdrawn from society altogether and that’s they way it’s apparently going to stay.
However, one person who manages to infiltrate his inpenetrable, antisocial bubble is old friend and novelist Ariadne Oliver, who is somewhat responsible for Poirot’s fame after basing her books off his adventures. It seems that Ariadne’s book sales are on the wane and she wants her friend to accompany her to a Halloween séance in order to debunk respected medium, Joyce Reynolds, in order to get some juicy, new material.
The séance is for the benefit of retired opera singer Rowena Drake who has never truly gotten over the suicide of her beloved daughter, Alicia and is desperate to hear from her again at any cost. However, the list of people attending seems like a sure-fire recipe for drama as among the various guests is traumatised family doctor Leslie Ferrier; his creepy son, Leopold; Alicia’s volatile ex fiance Maxime Gerard and superstitious housekeeper Olga Seminoff and all of them have a direct link to the dead girl they’re here to commune with.
After a spirited show (pun intented), the once reluctant Poirot snaps into action, instantly exposing some of Reynolds’ tricks with a minimum of fuss – however, after displaying some further bursts of supernatural abilities, the medium turns up dead, shoved from a balcony to be impaled on a statue in the courtyard. Before you know it, Poirot has commanded that the entire place be locked up and that no one leaves until he’s cracked this latest mystery while a violent storm rages outside, however, not only is Hercule’s super synapses a little rusty, but he seems to be hearing the wailing of children when no one else can. Is the tragic history of the building providing actual paranormal experiences that not only the great Hercule Poirot can explain?
To be honest, as long as Kenneth Branagh keeps making these slick, little whodunit I’ll keep watching them as they’ve all been legitimately enjoyable pursuits that’s passed the time with an old school flourish. However, with this third outing, the filmmakers have gotten wise to how to wring some longevity out of this unassuming franchise by choosing to pick the kind of lesser known Poirot story that allows the screenplay to take some liberties that don’t interfere with the main thrust of the tale. While Death On The Nile floundered at times due to the apparent need to expand unnecessary backstories (such as an origin story for Poirot’s moustache), A Haunting In Venice contains far more subtle padding that blends into the tale in a far more organically that allows matters to flow way smoother than they have in more familiar tales. Also, Branagh decides to change things up significantly when it comes to the tone of the piece, shifting from the bright, CGI expanses of the Egyptian sun to the dark, gothic architecture of the venice canals – simply put, the movies endeavors to plonk its Belgian crime buster slap bang in the middle of a horror film with all the random tropes that come with it. You can tell that that our Ken has been itching to add some shadowy corridors and glaring jump scares to his repertoire and before you know it, he’s busted out his old fallback from his Thor days as he assaults your equalibrium with endless dutch angles and he adds split focus, wide angle lens and even that old trick of strapping a camera to Branagh himself to further heighten Poirot’s (and our) unease. It’s hardly subtle and hardly scary, so A24 hasn’t gotten anything to worry about just yet, but the constant use of sudden loud noises will work a treat on the easily startled. Outside the gothic confines of the palazzo, Venice is also lovingly shot, which makes you think that a more suitable renaming of this murder mystery could have easily been Here Today, Gondola Tomorrow and the Halloween period also serves to put a novel spin on the material.
However, when it comes to the cast, things become a little less memorable as the ensemble all blend into cloying dark. With the lack of a Gal Gadot, a Michelle Pfeiffer or a Johnny Depp, the cast certainly feels more genuine and less gimmicky, but only Tina Fey’s hugely enjoyable author, Michelle Yeoh’s weird medium and Kelly Reilly’s breathy opera singer only truly make an impact in the shadow of Branagh’s still-witty, yet noticably damaged performance. Yet while Jaime Dornan’s war frazzled doc, Riccardo Scamarcio’s ex-cop and Kyle Allen’s hot headed cook kind of slip between the cracks, the young Jude Hill impressively capitalises on his performance in Branagh’s Belfast by delivering a creepy, Poe reading child who is one part Damien Thorn to two parts Wednesday Addams.
However, those who prefer the more flashier, post-modern hijinks of Rian Johnson’s Benoit Blanc might find that Branagh’s more classical leanings a bit samey, with not much to differentiate the core aspects of the trilogy from one another aside from the location or tone. As a result, A Haunting In Venice might feel a little too disposable in the grand scheme of things and while it’s certainly more fun than the slightly muddled Death On The Nile, it’s not quite as a comforting revelation as Murder On The Orient Express.
Still, the proof in the pudding and when we get down to the brass tacks, the melodramatic denouement may be a little easy to predict but some other plot strands supply the shocks the main twist might lack. As a result, Poirot’s latest case might not be the most memorable film you’ll see this year, but it has enough jumps and quirks to make you exclaim “mon deiu!”.
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