By 1930, Agatha Christie was fed up of the highly storied, but by-then "insufferable" Hercule Poirot. Yet her audience clamoured for more, prompting a reluctant Christie to churn out more of Poirot's cerebral, holmesian outings. It would seem history has repeated itself, people still want Poirot; but what we really need is something completely new from the drawing board. Christie would (probably) grimace to think that Poirot is getting a "Poirotverse" for-profit film series quarter way into the 21st century. Maybe the hunky, eccentric Benoit Blanc is a better sleuth-in-vogue or, dare one say, give the limelight to a fresh faced, budding whodunnit author. Instead, Branagh is eagerly sinking his teeth into what looks like a long dreary commercial march through 33 novels and 51 short stories of source material.
This film sets out to combine the whodunnit with the horror genre and misses the mark on both. The meticulous, verbose, people-focused nature of the Christie-style whodunnit struggles to pair well with the timely, atmospheric build-ups of horror. Both needed time to deliver their respective punchlines. Neither had the scope to do it, and the waters became quickly muddied. The musical score (snore) is notably absent; sometimes using gaps of silence can be eerie and build tension, but here it's so overdone that the effect falls flat. The Dutch angle is used excessively and jarringly, and the film's direction just feels overall disjointed as Branagh both acts and directs. The screenplay is lifeless, the setting is dark and lifeless, the plot's culmination is lifeless. No joie de vivre, no buoyancy. One highlight would be Michelle Yeoh.
If you're a Christie fan or devotee, you'll likely be pleased just seeing a depiction of Poirot on-screen, I'm sure. But for most people, I'd imagine this may disappoint.
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