|
| Murder on the Orient Express (1974) |
|
  (8/10)
|
Runtime: 128 |
| Public Rating: 8.00 (48 votes) |
Director: Sidney Lumet |
MPAA Rating:  |
| Genre: Mystery |
Year: 1974 |
| Writer(s): Paul Dehn and Anthony Shaffer,from the novel by Dame Agatha Christie |
| Distributor: 1 |
| Reviewed by: Friday and Saturday Night Critic |
| |
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.
(Other actors have played Poirot in the past thirty years on film and television. Most notable are two-time Oscar winner Peter Ustinov, and English actor David Suchet, in the recent and very enjoyable series for the BBC. In “Death on the Nile” and “Evil Under the Sun,” Ustinov’s Poirot has more dignity and humility. When he’s not accusing someone to her face, he likes to begin every sentence with a whiny noise and apology. Suchet is effeminate and delicate, and behaves as if he would be happy to use tweezers to pick up everything for the rest of his life.)
On the train with Finney are more than a dozen actors and actresses, many of whom, at one time or another, have been stars in their own right. Here, they all have secrets and mysterious connections, they shoot each other loaded glances that they don’t think Poirot will notice, and they never tell the truth on the first try. Of course one of them ends up dead and one of them is the murderer. To name a few, we have Ingrid Bergman as a soft-spoken, heavily-accented missionary, Sean Connery as a British officer returning from India with the stiffest upper-lip imaginable, a young Vanessa Redgrave as a slinky damsel with whom Connery is a little too cozy, Sir John Gielgud as a rigid, tuxedo-clad manservant, Richard Wydmark as a rich bully who wants Poirot’s help, Michael York as the kind of Brit who can wear an ascot and still be sort-of manly, an elderly Eastern European princess played by Wendy Hiller, and a stout German maid (Rachel Roberts) who gives off distinct lesbian vibes. And there’s Lauren Bacall, and anyone with a voice like hers has to be up to no good.
Christie loved putting her murders within closed systems, like country manors, in which no outsider could possibly be responsible. The early claim that the murder was committed by a mafia assassin that hopped aboard while the train was stopped is a delightfully obvious red herring. Lumet shoots Poirot’s investigation in mostly normal angles, but when we flashback to them later in the film, the actor’s faces are almost fogging the camera as they repeat their crucial lines robotically.
PG mysteries like this, in which murder is treated almost as a joke, don’t come across the big screen much anymore. Perhaps the saturation of television shows in the 1980s like “Murder She Wrote” temporarily wore the genre out. Even “Gosford Park,” Robert Altman’s splendid manor mystery, was in places grim and serious. The most Christie-esque film of recent years is probably Woody Allen’s “Manhattan Murder Mystery,” a cute combination of Dame Agatha and “Annie Hall,” in which investigating a neighbor’s murder is seen as a great way to spend a few afternoons.
“Murder on the Orient Express” was nominated for six Oscars in 1974—and why not? The movie has just the right spirit and is completely satisfying. See if you can guess who done it before the fat Belgian guy does.
Finished June 21st, 2003
Copyright © 2003 Friday & Saturday Night
|
 Printable Version
|
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
|
Do you agree/disagree with this review of Murder on the Orient Express (1974)? Let your opinions be heard in our forum.
|
Buy the Poster of Murder on the Orient Express (1974) (Click Here)
|
|
|
|
