*** (out of ****)
Starring Albert Finney, Lauren Bacall, Ingrid Bergman, Sean Connery, Sir John Gielgud, Vanessa Redgrave, Jacqueline Bisset, Wendy Hiller, Michael York, Jean-Pierre Cassel, Anthony Perkins, Rachel Roberts, George Coulouris, Martin Balsam, and Richard Widmark
Directed by Sidney Lumet & written for the screen by Paul Dehn and Anthony Shaffer,from the novel by Dame Agatha Christie
1974 PG
In his book “Making Movies,” and I paraphrase, director Sidney Lumet says that he does not make a movie until he can decide what it is “about,” and from then on, every decision made on the picture must contribute to what it’s “about.” By “about,” he doesn’t mean whether or not the girl gets the boy or the hero defuses the bomb, but the meaning behind the movie.
In the case of his adaptation of Agatha Christie’s “Murder on the Orient Express,” the movie is about nostalgia. Nostalgia is different than simply recreating a bygone era, but is defined as a bygone era that may have never existed, seen in a romantic light. The look, feel, and even the particular sense of justice exercised at the end of the film are enamored with the idea of the 1930s. Is the movie historically accurate? It doesn’t need to be; the train of the title is comprised of cars from different countries and eras, the women arrive at the station overdressed, and the movie begins with a crime reminiscent of the kidnapping of the Limbergh baby. But everything sure feels like the 1930s.
On the matter of meaning, Dame Agatha had this to say (again I paraphrase): readers don’t like mysteries, they like solutions. Gritty police procedurals and hard-boiled detective stories are as much about the effect of crime on victims, perpetrators, investigators, and society in general, as they are about clues and motive. Think of “Seven,” “L.A. Confidential,” and “Memento,” some of the finest movies of recent years, all of which have relatively simple mysteries in order to make room for other complexities. But Christie wrote playful puzzles and was a genius at them, always involving obscure, almost campy clues like broken clocks and complex timetables about which suspect saw what thing when. Grieving victims and brooding investigators would be too dour and heavy; instead, Christie populates her stories with characters who are at best mildly perturbed that someone has been killed. To them, murder is an affront to their collective dignity, but not as much as being questioned about murder is.
Dame Agatha also likes to satirize the members of the English upper class. Always involved in the murder, however indirectly, they are always deflecting their guilt onto poor people and foreigners. Her mysteries always end with the detective gathering all the suspects together to explain the crime (TV’s “Futurama” cleverly parodies this with the line “have everyone meet me in the accusation parlor!”). In explaining things, he smacks his lips and deliciously lectures the suspects, one at a time, on what awful people they are just before exonerating them, ending each tirade by saying “no, you’re not guilty of this particular crime, although you are a pretty lousy human being.” Despite suffering the indignation of all the suspects, the detective is always morally and intellectually superior to them, even if he doesn’t admit it. Dame Agatha’s septuagenarian sleuth Miss Marple would never admit it. But Christie’s most famous creation, Belgian detective Hercule Poirot, does so at regular intervals.
So far this review could apply to any well-made Poirot mystery, whether for film or television. But back to Lumet and the Orient Express. “Murder on the Orient Express” has probably the best production values of any Christie adaptation, including the train, the costumes, and the snowy scenery, and director Lumet (“Serpico,” “Network,” “12 Angry Men”) brings a lively, uncluttered visual style to Poirot’s investigation. Lumet has gathered one of the finest casts ever assembled to just have a good time, headed by Albert Finney as Poirot. Poirot is, as always, middle-aged, cultured, refined, a little effeminate, and a little overweight. Finney portrays him as something of a comically stooped heavy-breather with an absurd moustache, skulking about the train like Igor. In the final accusation scene he gets so worked up with chastising his suspects we half-expect saliva to bubble at the corners of his mouth.
Page two of "Murder on the Orient Express." Back to archive.