Film review: Murder on the Orient Express

A luxuriant moustache is the most interesting thing about Murder on the Orient Express, director/star Kenneth Branagh's disappointingly suspense-free adaptation of Agatha Christie's classic whodunnit. Attached to Branagh himself, cast here as Christie's world-famous Belgian detective Hercule Poirot, the soup-strainer is quite something: two sculpted waves of grey breaking in opposite directions across Branagh's still youthful face, offset by a soul-patch trickling down his chin. It makes him look like a cross between Gangs of New York's Bill the Butcher and the barman of a hipster craft ale microbrewery.
Kenneth Branagh stars in Murder on the Orient ExpressKenneth Branagh stars in Murder on the Orient Express
Kenneth Branagh stars in Murder on the Orient Express

Murder on the Orient Express (12A) **

Unfortunately, Brannagh’s performance is similarly try-hard, lacking the natural oddball quality that might have lifted this out of the realm of studied, airless pastiche. As an all-star vehicle for some good old-fashioned murder-mystery fun, the film certainly fails to deliver the requisite sense of twinkly nostalgia. Despite a few flashy establishing shots, the titular train feels neither exotic nor claustrophobic enough, and the cast — which includes Johnny Depp, Judi Dench, Michelle Pfieffer, Penelope Cruz, Olivia Colman, Willem Dafoe and Daisy Ridley — seem unsure whether or not they’re supposed to deliver their ripe dialogue with their tongues in their cheeks. Consequently, Christie’s twisty plot unravels in fairly perfunctory fashion: its reveals botched; its denouement boring; its sequel set-up blatant. When the Orient Express grinds to a halt early in the film, snow-bound on a green-screened CGI set for the duration of the running time, it feels appropriately symbolic. Facial hair really isn’t enough to power a movie.