Assassinato no Expresso Oriente

This whodunit story by Dame Agatha is excellent. She has always been my favorite writer of detective fiction. I keep returning to the film version, however, not because of the story but because of the film's sheer elegance and style. It is awash in elegance ... the majestic cinematography; the glamorous clothes; the delightfully eccentric aristocratic characters; the mysterious yet refined musical score. The film is so theatrically regal I'm surprised that it did not feature a representative of British royalty.

The setting is Europe in the 1930's. The pace is slow and relaxed. And while the dialogue is in English, the film has a deliciously international flavor, with a mix of interesting accents and word pronunciations. Heavy on dialogue, the film never seems overly talky, the result of a clever screenplay and lush visuals. Humor is included in the script usually in the form of tasteful put-downs. Example: an attractive Mrs. Hubbard comments: "Don't you agree the man must have entered my compartment to gain access to Mr. Ratchett?" The aging Princess Dragomiroff responds in a deadpan tone: "I can think of no other reason, madam."

In his portrayal of Hercule Poirot, Albert Finney almost literally disappears into the role, a tribute to convincing makeup and to Finney's adroit acting. His performance is appropriately idiosyncratic, deliciously hammy, and theatrical, every bit as entertaining in this film as Peter Ustinov is in subsequent Christie movies. The rest of the cast has ensemble parts, my favorite being Wendy Hiller whose Princess Dragomiroff comes across as royal, proud, and very eccentric.

With its snowy landscapes, ornate and cozy interiors, and subdued lighting, "Murder On The Orient Express" is an excellent movie to watch on a cold, winter night, snuggled under a blanket or next to a warm fireplace with a cup of cappuccino or a glass of cognac. Just be sure that all knives and daggers in your mansion are out of reach from your staff of servants.

I don't mind telling you that my head nearly exploded during the opening credits: Albert Finney, Lauren Bacall, Sean Connery, Ingrid Bergman, Michael York, Vanessa Redgrave, Richard Widmark, Anthony Perkins, Martin Balsam, John Gielgud! Not to mention that 'Murder on the Orient Express (1974)' was directed by Sidney Lumet, one of my favourite filmmakers, and adapted from an Agatha Christie novel. It was only recently that I had my first encounter with noted Belgian detective Hercule Poirot, having enjoyed a few television episodes with David Suchet in the title role. Finney's Poirot is perhaps too much of a caricature, emphasising the cartoonish silliness of the character rather than the quiet superiority found in Suchet's portrayal (however, I'm not familiar with Christie's novel, and perhaps he was simply written that way). Nevertheless, the remainder of the ensemble cast provides stellar support.

Hercule Poirot is aboard a trans-European express train when a wealthy man (Widmark) is murdered in the neighbouring sleeping compartment. Poirot has a dozen suspicious suspects to choose from, and you'll never pick who did it. Such a large supporting cast may have proved difficult to depict without placing undue emphasis on any one character (and perhaps two hours is insufficient time to thoroughly explore everyone's motives), but Lumet does a good job of bringing together all the loose threads. Red herrings are scattered from right to left, and only Poirot himself can discern the real evidence from the decoys. Ingrid Bergman won her third Oscar for her role as shy missionary Greta, and I do love Ingrid, but the highlight for me was Lauren Bacall's insufferably loquacious Mrs Hubbard. For some high-class entertainment with some prestigious company, 'Murder on the Orient Express' is a surefire winner.

Impressive cast, admirable performances, the right mark of Sydney Lumet, giving elegance to a well known story. and proposing not only a good adaptation but a sort of refined delight. because it is a remarkable show of nuances and convincing translation of the traits of characters in a sort of large puzzle of splendid roles. a film impressive scene by scene. maybe not the best adaptation of Agatha Christie novel. but a memorable one. and that is real enough.

That Sidney Lumet knows how to frame an actor within his or her character is a very well known fact - "The Pawnbroker" "Network" "Dog Day Afternoon" and some other spectacular pieces of acting prove that point unquestionably. Here, there is a sort of "divertissment". Agatha Christie given a first class treatment (not that Margaret Rutherford as Miss Marple wasn't first class, but the production value here is as impressive as the cast) in the hands of Sidney Lumet who knew how to put a bunch of sensational actors in a confined space - "12 Angry Men" for instance and make it riveting. There a 12 Angry people here too and (almost) each part is cast with relish and delight. Albert Finney, marvelous, manages, not only to survive, under the weight of his characterization but to create something bold, exquisitely structured, great fun to watch and to hear. Ingrid Bergman won her third Oscar for her missionary looking after little brown babies - I thought she was a highlight indeed but in my modest opinion, Valentina Cortese for "Day For Night" deserved it that year, Anthony Perkins plays Norman Bates's twin brother, also with a mother fixation and a compelling facial tic. Wendy Hiller was, clearly, having a ball and that, on the screen, is always contagious. Sean Connery and Vanessa Redgrave make a surprisingly hot pair, Lauren Bacall over does it of course but who cares, Jacqueline Bisset is breathtaking, Rachel Roberts a hoot. John Gielgud is John Gielgud and that in itself is a major plus. Colin Blakely does wonders with his moment and Dennis Quilley plays his Italian as if this was a silent movie. Martin Balsam is always fun to watch, no matter the accent. Richard Widmark is splendid in his villainy and Jean Pierre Cassel very moving indeed. The only weak spot in the cast is Michael York. Totally unbelievable. I suspect that "Murder in The Orient Express" 33 years old already, will continue delighting audiences for years to come.

Spoilers. There is a delicious score, an elegant and whimsical 1936 waltz, on which during moments of suspense a bassoon plays comic variations. Nothing is to be taken seriously. Certainly not the story. The plot gives us incidents which are evidently red herrings designed to mislead Inspector Poirot but mislead the viewer as well. Why should "the clumsy cliché" of the smashed watch telling us the time of the murder be necessary? Because, says Poirot, it is supposed to lead him to believe the murder took place at an earlier hour than it did, an hour in which all the suspects had unshakable alibis. But if the suspects were in cahoots, couldn't they have improvised the same alibis for a later hour as well? After all, Poirot was asleep in his compartment, or at least trying to sleep, all night. And the lady in the white nightgown with the red dragons -- what was that about? It complicated the plot with an added detail but couldn't have confused Poirot much since it was of no relevance to his perception of what was going on.

The acting isn't meant to be taken seriously either. First, there is Albert Finney as Poirot, who looks absolutely great with every visible hair waxed to perfection, and an indefinable accent that wavers a bit from scene to scene, as if he were, as John Simon put it, "sending up trial Walloons." Everyone else overacts hammily (and enjoyably) too. Especially enjoyable is Sir John Gielgud as the batman or butler or valet or whatever he is, explaining away a "contusion" on the back of his head with, "The result of a fracas in the mess, concerning the quality of a pudding, sir, know as 'spotted dick'."

There were one or two other things in the script that Agatha Christie (played by Vanessa Redgrave in "Agatha") could not have gotten away with. Guilgud also does a marvelous job with the simple act of stabbing his employer, wriggling the dagger from side to side in the unconscious man's chest, and yanking it out with a theatrical flourish and an expression not of rage but of utter contempt. Likewise impressive is Sean Connery as Colonel Arbuthnot, that mess hall accent and demeanor, that mustache more firmly established than the Empire itself, snapping at Poirot that he would not have been stupid enough to use his "peep cleaner" and leave it in the murdered man's ash tray.

The least interesting performances probably include Jacqueline Bissett, Peter York, and some minor characters, but this is partly because their roles require less of them. (How can you be a hammy wagon-lit conductor?) I haven't read the novel in years but my impression is that this movie, with its additional wit, is an improvement.

The elegance of first-class travel on a train whose very name is suggestive of mystery and romance is nicely conveyed. It's snowy and scenic and bitterly cold outside, but in these beautifully appointed compartments we are well and snug and can order fresh oysters and fruit and poached sole with one new potato and a green salad with no dressing. It's cramped of course, but that merely adds to the impression of coziness.

The Orient Express as I experienced it in third class isn't really very elegant. The only space I could find was on the metal floor in front of a bathroom, whose door kept swinging open and shut. Everyone on board seemed to have a digestive disorder. After buying a bottle of home-made chianti from a vendor at one of the stops, for twenty-five cents, so did I. I suppose you have to be well-to, British, and middle class, as Christie was. All her views of the world, gathered in the wake of her archaeologist husband, are tourist's views, which is just fine.

The plot, as always in a Christie story, is as finely tuned as a watch and follows its format as closely as any episode of "Columbo." Poirot meets an old friend in some unusual place. A murder takes place. Poirot interviews everyone and pieces the whole thing together, no matter how improbable the feat. The last chapter (or reel) has the guests gathered together silently while Poirot strides around, or in Finney's case, shuffles around, and explains what has happened and why. The solutions are usually a surprise when they are finally revealed, but repeated viewings don't hurt. In fact, knowing ahead of time what the end will look like gives us a chance to appreciate better the display and character and the planting of clues, real and false. This is nothing more than a divertimento but it is a highly likable one, without pretense, and neatly done.