I got on a bit of a mysteries kick after watching Kenneth Branagh's new version of "Death on the Nile". I confess that I did not like it much -- it not only didn't compare well to the 1978 version with Peter Ustinov as Poirot, but even if I hadn't been familiar with the earlier one, I would have been dismayed at many of Branagh's changes. The moustache backstory was illogical and unnecessary, the attempts at "modernizing" the characters historically jarring -- and also unnecessary -- and the background details historically absurd (the maid in evening dress at a celebratory dance party? no! female crew members on the boat? no! and in shorts? no!! -- and why on earth would they wrap the bodies of the murder victims like mummies?! good heavens).
Undoubtedly, my dismay at the movie is what compelled me to dash to the public library and raid the Christie section. While I was there, since I knew that the three I chose are fairly quick reads, I looked at the Georgette Heyer shelf as well, and borrowed two of those as well. I had read all of the Christies many years ago -- I went through her entire oeuvre, possibly after seeing the charming "Tommy and Tuppence" series with Francesca Annis and James Warwick, if not earlier! -- but these Heyers were new to me, at least.
First, of course, was Death on the Nile. The 1978 movie is perhaps my second-favorite of the Christies -- for the lovely and authentic (cough) scenery, for the wonderful clothing, the superb cast. Although David Suchet will forever in my mind, as in many others', be Hercule Poirot, Peter Ustinov makes a charming and appealing Poirot. It was interesting to read the book knowing very well how the murder was accomplished, and see all of the clues that Christie planted along the way, both in people's characters and their actions.
After that, I read Heyer's 1939 No Wind of Blame, which I enjoyed very much. The dialogue sparkles, the characterizations are deft, and the Scotland Yard inspector -- who, rather surprisingly, doesn't make an entrance until halfway through the book -- is appealingly snappy at times, with a teasing sense of humor that to me is quite unusual in a literary detective. I fell for a red herring, too, trying to work out how one of the charming characters could have done it, when it turned out to be one of the less-charming ones (and I hope that isn't much of a spoiler!).
"Murder on the Orient Express" is my favorite of all of the Christie movies, a stand-out in every respect. Obviously, I was well aware of the plot as I read the book, but it also struck me how well the screenwriter, as that of "Death on the Nile" (John Dehn and Anthony Shaffer, respectively) concentrated the plot and the number of characters without sacrificing any plot points, and indeed, in many respects actually improving the tightness of the story. It's also telling, cinematically, that while Kenneth Branagh felt that his 2017 version (even less successful in my eyes than his "Death on the Nile," but perhaps this is inversely proportional to the perfection of the 1974 version ...) needed exterior chase scenes (!), the earlier one makes even the splendidly luxurious Orient Express feel claustrophobic, both in the flashback to the murder scene and in Poirot's summation of the events.
Envious Casca I found somewhat less appealing than the other Heyer, most likely because the Herriard family is constantly sniping at each other, or outright arguing, but of course it is equally well-written and tightly-plotted as is the first one, with an admirably clever clue (if somewhat less obvious to those of us reading a century or so later) to the locked-room problem given quite early on.
The 1982 film of "Evil Under the Sun" is one of those that I enjoy watching but don't seek out, for some reason -- it just doesn't speak to me as much as the other two. The book had somewhat the same effect on me -- it's clever, but ... not really a favorite of mine. I can see why readers find Christie rather slight compared to, say, Dorothy L. Sayers, but then, one doesn't read Sayers if one is in the mood for Christie, either!
I don't quite see, by the way, why so many reviewers find Branagh-Poirot's moustache so absurd -- it's supposed to be absurd, except of course to Poirot himself, who is quite proud of it. Christie describes it in Orient Express as "enormous moustaches" (note the plural!), and in other novels as "gigantic," "immense," and "amazing" (there is even a page devoted to it at AgathaChristie.com!) -- and Branagh-Poirot's is far more amazing than Ustinov-Poirot's surprisingly average moustache or Suchet-Poirot's foppishly dainty one. If you look at a selection of Victorian moustaches, most likely Poirot's generation, what is remarkable about Branagh-Poirot's is not so much its enormity as the mouche under his lower lip, which in my admittedly-small survey is never seen. Mutton-chops, yes, goatees, yes, the rather "newer" Van Dyke as on George V, etc. etc. etc., but not the little patch. Branagh-Poirot's moustache might actually be one of the few historically-accurate things about his movie!
