Teresa’s Movie/Book Reviews

Our own Teresa has started watching movies that are made from books she has read. First up are Agatha Christie books/movies. We hope you like these tidbits of tie-ins.


Murder on the Orient Express 1974 Albert Finney as Poirot

Watched Friday, 10 SEP 2021

Fidelity to text: 4 1/2 knives. It’s just about perfect except for Poirot himself. This version lets him get persuaded a little too easily. He’s normally dedicated to justice and the film didn’t show his crisis of conscience well.

Quality of movie on its own: 4 1/2 knives. So many stars! So much talent! They each deserved a few more minutes of screen time with less time devoted to scenes of steam locomotives chugging through the Balkans.

Wow. What a great movie, from start to finish. I loved the lengthy opening scene getting the Orient Express ready for its journey from Istanbul to Paris. It’s long; time that could have been spent showing off the stars but it showed the amount of work involved getting a luxury train ready to travel. The crowds in the Istanbul train station were equally fascinating. The director, Sidney Lumet, demonstrated that Istanbul is the crossroads between East and West, the center of Eurasia, visited by people from around the world. It sets up why such a wildly disparate group of travelers would be on the train in the first place.

After that, however, I could have done without a few scenes of the Orient Express traveling through the Balkans. One wooded, snowy mountainside looks like another. That was time that could have been better spent giving each of the stars more screentime. I could have skipped the sequence in the weirdly empty Istanbul luxury restaurant too, despite the serious eye-candy setting on display, complete with live band. Yes, it sets up Poirot meeting the Orient Express’s director, M. Bianchi and thus getting a seat on a fully-booked train. Even so, that was time that could have been spent on the train.

Worse, I just can’t buy Hercule Poirot tearing up a menu and tossing the shreds onto the table and floor. No, Poirot would not make a mess. Nor would he deliberately make a mess expecting someone else to clean it up.

I suppose that what this does is show that Sidney Lumet and Albert Finney’s Hercule Poirot is not like the others. Perhaps that’s why this Poirot didn’t seem too conflicted over which of his two deductions got chosen. Hercule Poirot is not a fan of vigilante justice, no matter how well-motivated or the crime being avenged, yet that disapproval didn’t come through as well as it could have.

Fortunately, all the other stars were perfect for their roles. Let’s begin with Lauren Bacall as Mrs. Hubbard. She gets all the best lines, she’s funny, she’s sharp, and she doesn’t hesitate to snap at anyone, including the Princess Natalia Dragomiroff. The elderly Russian princess should be above sniping at noisy Americans but flamboyant Mrs. Hubbard gets under her skin. Mrs. Hubbard is the perfect annoying American tourist; so perfect and so typical that she becomes outrageous.

Her character got some changes from the novel because hey, it’s Lauren Bacall. She’s relying on the story spread about that she’s ill and in seclusion because of the Armstrong tragedy. That’s why she can assume no one will recognize that she’s the famous actress, Linda Arden. In the novel, Agatha spells out that Mrs. Hubbard wasn’t just loud and wearing bedazzled clothes. She put on some serious weight, making it harder for her fans to recognize her. In the movie — it’s subtle — it’s clear that Poirot does recognize her when he comments on her “playing her part” and asking “Why did you bring the dagger from the place?”. Poirot watched her portray Lady Macbeth and he remembered.

Wendy Hiller is the princess. She’s very much a Grande Dame and she couldn’t possibly be involved in anything as plebian as murder of some American gangster. She hasn’t just got a German lady’s maid. She’s got a pair of Pekinese dogs, beautifully trained. I was impressed with how well her dogs ate in the dining car. They had better manners than most of the passengers, I’m sure.

Oooh, there’s Sean Connery as Col. Arbuthnot. Very British, very stiff upper-lip, yet he, like a true gentleman, betrays himself when he leaps to Mary Debenham’s rescue. Poirot wasn’t surprised; he’d already seen them in a clinch on the ferryboat to Istanbul. As a professional detective and astute observer of human nature, you can trust Poirot to listen at keyholes and eavesdrops because he never knows when it’s going to be useful. And once again, he’s right! Spying casually on the British couple pays off when they claim they’re complete strangers on the Orient Express. Miss Debenham is played by Vanessa Redgrave and you can tell she helped planned the sting. She’s far too competent and self-contained to stand off on the sidelines and wait.

Ingrid Bergman plays Greta the missionary. She won an Oscar for the role. She perfectly embodied a damaged, distraught woman who found God as a result of tragedy. I didn’t like Poirot’s realization that Greta is lying because she didn’t know the word ‘emolument’. That means salary or fee for professional reasons. I say this because my mother would have done what Greta did: smile tightly because she didn’t understand the word and then look it up later in the dictionary. My mother would not have asked what that strange word meant because asking made her look stupid. No heavily accented immigrant trying to fit in is going to make it harder on themselves, so no. I don’t accept this clue, either from Agatha or from Poirot.

These stars are just the beginning of the all-star cast. Sidney Lumet chose actors and actresses the public already knew to make it easier to tell the story. He understood it would be much easier to keep everyone straight up onscreen, especially if a star only got a few minutes to emote. It’s too easy for the audience to get mixed up with a large cast. It worked for me: I was always able to tell everyone apart. I can’t say that for many movies: too many anonymous blondies and Ken doll knock-offs who all look alike in their plastic prettiness. I like variety in my casting and I got it here.

Unfortunately, as I said, too many scenes of trains chugging down the tracks meant not enough screentime for the stars. I would have liked to have seen more of Mr. Hardman (Colin Blakely) and Foscarelli (Denis Quilley). They both lit up the screen when they showed up. I especially enjoyed Michal York as Count Andrenyi and Jacqueline Bisset as his countess. York and Bisset got about 10 minutes screentime between the two of them. I wanted more. But the movie was already 2 hours and 8 minutes long. Back in 1974, they didn’t make these nearly 3 hours slog-fests that blockbusters all seem to be today. This film could have been longer and it would have still zipped along. Or Sidney Lumet could have filmed fewer scenes of trains rolling down the track. Either way, don’t miss this version of Murder on the Orient Express.

Agatha liked it and you can’t get a better recommendation than that.


Murder on the Orient Express 1974 Albert Finney as Poirot

Watched Friday, 10 SEP 2021

Fidelity to text: 4 1/2 knives. It’s just about perfect except for Poirot himself. This version lets him get persuaded a little too easily. He’s normally dedicated to justice and the film didn’t show his crisis of conscience well.

Quality of movie on its own: 4 1/2 knives. So many stars! So much talent! They each deserved a few more minutes of screen time with less time devoted to scenes of steam locomotives chugging through the Balkans.

Wow. What a great movie, from start to finish. I loved the lengthy opening scene getting the Orient Express ready for its journey from Istanbul to Paris. It’s long; time that could have been spent showing off the stars but it showed the amount of work involved getting a luxury train ready to travel. The crowds in the Istanbul train station were equally fascinating. The director, Sidney Lumet, demonstrated that Istanbul is the crossroads between East and West, the center of Eurasia, visited by people from around the world. It sets up why such a wildly disparate group of travelers would be on the train in the first place.

After that, however, I could have done without a few scenes of the Orient Express traveling through the Balkans. One wooded, snowy mountainside looks like another. That was time that could have been better spent giving each of the stars more screentime. I could have skipped the sequence in the weirdly empty Istanbul luxury restaurant too, despite the serious eye-candy setting on display, complete with live band. Yes, it sets up Poirot meeting the Orient Express’s director, M. Bianchi and thus getting a seat on a fully-booked train. Even so, that was time that could have been spent on the train.

Worse, I just can’t buy Hercule Poirot tearing up a menu and tossing the shreds onto the table and floor. No, Poirot would not make a mess. Nor would he deliberately make a mess expecting someone else to clean it up.

I suppose that what this does is show that Sidney Lumet and Albert Finney’s Hercule Poirot is not like the others. Perhaps that’s why this Poirot didn’t seem too conflicted over which of his two deductions got chosen. Hercule Poirot is not a fan of vigilante justice, no matter how well-motivated or the crime being avenged, yet that disapproval didn’t come through as well as it could have.

Fortunately, all the other stars were perfect for their roles. Let’s begin with Lauren Bacall as Mrs. Hubbard. She gets all the best lines, she’s funny, she’s sharp, and she doesn’t hesitate to snap at anyone, including the Princess Natalia Dragomiroff. The elderly Russian princess should be above sniping at noisy Americans but flamboyant Mrs. Hubbard gets under her skin. Mrs. Hubbard is the perfect annoying American tourist; so perfect and so typical that she becomes outrageous.

Her character got some changes from the novel because hey, it’s Lauren Bacall. She’s relying on the story spread about that she’s ill and in seclusion because of the Armstrong tragedy. That’s why she can assume no one will recognize that she’s the famous actress, Linda Arden. In the novel, Agatha spells out that Mrs. Hubbard wasn’t just loud and wearing bedazzled clothes. She put on some serious weight, making it harder for her fans to recognize her. In the movie — it’s subtle — it’s clear that Poirot does recognize her when he comments on her “playing her part” and asking “Why did you bring the dagger from the place?”. Poirot watched her portray Lady Macbeth and he remembered.

Wendy Hiller is the princess. She’s very much a Grande Dame and she couldn’t possibly be involved in anything as plebian as murder of some American gangster. She hasn’t just got a German lady’s maid. She’s got a pair of Pekinese dogs, beautifully trained. I was impressed with how well her dogs ate in the dining car. They had better manners than most of the passengers, I’m sure.

Oooh, there’s Sean Connery as Col. Arbuthnot. Very British, very stiff upper-lip, yet he, like a true gentleman, betrays himself when he leaps to Mary Debenham’s rescue. Poirot wasn’t surprised; he’d already seen them in a clinch on the ferryboat to Istanbul. As a professional detective and astute observer of human nature, you can trust Poirot to listen at keyholes and eavesdrops because he never knows when it’s going to be useful. And once again, he’s right! Spying casually on the British couple pays off when they claim they’re complete strangers on the Orient Express. Miss Debenham is played by Vanessa Redgrave and you can tell she helped planned the sting. She’s far too competent and self-contained to stand off on the sidelines and wait.

Ingrid Bergman plays Greta the missionary. She won an Oscar for the role. She perfectly embodied a damaged, distraught woman who found God as a result of tragedy. I didn’t like Poirot’s realization that Greta is lying because she didn’t know the word ‘emolument’. That means salary or fee for professional reasons. I say this because my mother would have done what Greta did: smile tightly because she didn’t understand the word and then look it up later in the dictionary. My mother would not have asked what that strange word meant because asking made her look stupid. No heavily accented immigrant trying to fit in is going to make it harder on themselves, so no. I don’t accept this clue, either from Agatha or from Poirot.

These stars are just the beginning of the all-star cast. Sidney Lumet chose actors and actresses the public already knew to make it easier to tell the story. He understood it would be much easier to keep everyone straight up onscreen, especially if a star only got a few minutes to emote. It’s too easy for the audience to get mixed up with a large cast. It worked for me: I was always able to tell everyone apart. I can’t say that for many movies: too many anonymous blondies and Ken doll knock-offs who all look alike in their plastic prettiness. I like variety in my casting and I got it here.

Unfortunately, as I said, too many scenes of trains chugging down the tracks meant not enough screentime for the stars. I would have liked to have seen more of Mr. Hardman (Colin Blakely) and Foscarelli (Denis Quilley). They both lit up the screen when they showed up. I especially enjoyed Michal York as Count Andrenyi and Jacqueline Bisset as his countess. York and Bisset got about 10 minutes screentime between the two of them. I wanted more. But the movie was already 2 hours and 8 minutes long. Back in 1974, they didn’t make these nearly 3 hours slog-fests that blockbusters all seem to be today. This film could have been longer and it would have still zipped along. Or Sidney Lumet could have filmed fewer scenes of trains rolling down the track. Either way, don’t miss this version of Murder on the Orient Express.

Agatha liked it and you can’t get a better recommendation than that.


The Spider’s Web (1960) standalone filmed play

Watched Friday, 13 August 2021

Fidelity to text: 4 1/2 blunt objects. It’s a virtually line-for-line reenactment of the play, other than Pippa being nearly suffocated by the murderer.

Quality of movie on its own: 4 blunt objects. Funny, frothy, ridiculous and as light as air. If you can accept the very stagy sets and the odd, often incongruous music, you’ll enjoy this bit of murderous fluff.

The best way to describe The Spider’s Web is it’s a homicidal I Love Lucy episode. Glynis Johns portrays Lucy, but since this is British, she’s named Clarissa Hailsham-Brown. Long-suffering husband Ricky is renamed Henry Hailsham-Brown. The cartoon opening and closing credits with criminal flies and irritated spider policemen set the tone. The spritely, buoyant, sometimes jarringly unsuitable music adds to the skewed atmosphere. You’ll keep thinking you stepped around the corner the wrong way and entered a parallel dimension. The very stagy backgrounds finish off the otherworldly sense of everything being off about 37 degrees. Some of the walls are obviously painted sets and not real walls with real paintings, like you expect in a movie.

The stage design is probably so offbeat because Spider’s Web was originally a stage play. Agatha wrote it in 1954 and it enjoyed several successful runs in the theater. Charles Osborne finally novelized Agatha’s play in 2001. If, dear reader, parts of the plot seem familiar despite you not having seen the play, that’s because they are.

Agatha reworked four plot points from earlier properties. The first was lifted from the Poirot short story, The Adventure of the Cheap Flat (1924). The Hailsham-Browns rent the fully furnished Copplestone Court for a song because they have the necessary last name. The treasure everyone is searching for but doesn’t recognize as treasure is a rare postage stamp on an envelope containing other papers of interest. This plot point dates back to The Case of the Buried Treasure, a Miss Marple short story from 1941. Pippa believes she’s guilty of murder via her voodoo experiments. That tidbit came from the Poirot novel, Evil Under the Sun, also from 1941. Finally, the bridge game alibi dates back to the Poirot short story The King of Clubs from 1923.

Clarissa Hailsham-Brown and her vivid supposings and overactive imagination is completely new. Agatha does like using her repertory company of stock characters, putting them in various situations and making them jump on command, but she never wrote anyone else quite like Clarissa. Loopy, zany, sexy, adored by her amused husband, Clarissa doesn’t live in the same universe as anyone around her. She is unique. Tuppence comes closest, other than Agatha herself. She ‘supposed’ from her earliest childhood.

In Spider’s Web (the producers added “The” to the film’s name for no discernable reason) Clarissa is faced with a classic I Love Lucy situation. Her dear husband is bringing home — on very short notice — some very important people for a high-level diplomatic meeting and she has to have everything perfect. Meanwhile, there are house guests to amuse, her stepdaughter is practicing voodoo, it’s the butler and cook’s night out, and the gardener has been conducting open warfare with the butler and cook. As an added irritation, the household has been receiving mysterious phone calls.

Could things get worse? Sure they could.

Henry’s ex-wife’s louche lover shows up, unannounced and unwanted. His evil ex-wife never appears onscreen but she’s apparently a real piece of work, making it very understandable why Henry the diplomat married Clarissa the ditz. The ex-wife is vicious, self-centered, utterly disinterested in their daughter, Pippa, unless Pippa can be used to torture Henry and Clarissa or manipulate money out of them. Oliver Costello is exactly the type of lover an ex-wife like that would choose. Oliver is suave, charming, her drug-supplier, Pippa’s afraid of him, and he’s not above blackmailing Clarissa.

Clarissa, knowing that Henry will show up at any moment with the VIPs, gets the gardener to show Oliver the door. The house empty, she races around doing some last-minute tidying and discovers Oliver’s dead body behind the sofa. What to do, what to do. Then, as she’s panicking, Pippa sees the body and announces that she murdered Oliver. Clarissa doesn’t ask Pippa how she did it. It seems clear enough; his head was bashed in.

She calls back the houseguests, arranges the bridge game alibi, talks the houseguests into moving the body into the secret passage to protect Pippa, and then the police show up because somebody informed them that a dead body was lying around Copplestone Court.

The police inspector is not cowed by the houseguests, including Sir Rowland, the local justice of the peace. He handles the servants (who returned early and so are also underfoot) with aplomb. In Clarissa, however, he meets his match. He is able to see through the bridge game alibi (like Poirot, he discovers a card on the floor under the couch and knows that game is a fraud). The gardener, Miss Peake, gets interviewed and she reveals the existence of the secret passage. Over Clarissa’s objections, the passage gets opened and there’s Oliver Costello’s body. It’s surprisingly bloodless, considering he got his head bashed in.

The body is left where it is, the coroner is called in, and when the coroner arrives, the body has vanished. The coroner is suspicious about the police inspector’s mental state. The police inspector is apoplectic.

It’s left to Clarissa to solve the murder, get the body out of the house, and clean everything up before Henry arrives home with his diplomat guests. A lot of running around takes place, upstairs and down, including finding the body again, but this time, in Sir Rowland’s bed. This is, I believe, the only time Agatha played with musical bodies.

Other people have. Alfred Hitchcock did in The Trouble with Harry (1955). Donald Westlake did in The Busy Body (1966), filmed in 1967. There’s also that great classic of cinema Weekend at Bernie’s (1989). But not Agatha. Yet here, in Spider’s Web, she did.

That alone is reason enough to watch this little gem. It has its flaws. It’s stagy. The cameraman must have believed he couldn’t move the camera around and filmed the action as though he was sitting in row 5, seat 17 of the theater. The actors have to make up for the static camera and for the most part, they do. Glynis Johns is a wonder and if you’ve only seen her as Mrs. Banks in Mary Poppins, you’re in for a treat. The musical score can only be described as weird. It highlights the action but as if everything happening on screen is a comic souffle of a sitcom and not a murder mystery.

Like Clarissa, The Spider’s Web is unique in the Agatha Christie canon.


The Cornish Mystery (1990) David Suchet

Watched Wednesday, 4 August 2021

Fidelity to text: 4 1/2 poison bottles. Replace an anonymous landlady with Miss Lemon, anonymous policemen with Inspector Japp, augment a few scenes alluded to in the text and you’ve got yourself an enhanced — while still faithful — film.

Quality of movie on its own: 4 1/2 poison bottles. Everything worked, including the weather. For once, it wasn’t a sunny day in May. It’s raining, far more normal in England at any time of the year than the constant sunshine we’ve been getting in the series. I have a few quibbles, but they’re miniscule flaws in this gem.

Miss Lemon keeps an eye on all sorts of things and one of them is regularly checking out the windows in case a reluctant client might come into view. Unlikely, you say? You would be wrong, because Miss Lemon does indeed see an anxious woman loitering in the park in front of Whitehaven Manors in the rain. This apprehensive, drab, middle-aged woman is not the type to loiter in the rain, constantly moving closer to the front door of the building and then retreating in her anxiety. Miss Lemon, the perfect secretary, scents a client who’s unable to make up her mind about asking for help.

Mrs. Pengelley, the potential client, refuses to come inside so Poirot and Hastings go to meet her in the park, in the rain. She’s terrified of being noticed since her hometown is a hotbed of gossip and someone is always watching. It’s an interesting conversation. When you watch this episode the second time, you’ll see how often Mrs. Pengalley lies to Poirot during the interview. I didn’t catch the subtleties, but Poirot does and they were reason enough for him to take the case. I’ll come back to them later.

Poirot doesn’t ascribe real urgency to Mrs. Pengalley’s problem so he and Hastings don’t rush for the next train. It’s serious, but not desperate. He and Hastings arrive in Polgarwith, a market town in Cornwall, the next evening. They visit the Pengalley home and discover that Mrs. Pengalley, as she feared she would be, is dead. She told Poirot she suspected her husband, Edward, was poisoning her and it turns out she might be correct.

Why would Edward Pengalley, the local dentist, do such a thing? According to Mrs. Pengalley, her husband hired a hot blonde hussy for his receptionist and hygienist. Miss Marks is a stunner (Hastings is smitten) and you can see why Mr. Pengalley hired her. She’ll bring in every possible male client in Cornwall just for the chance to have her minister to them, dental pick in hand.

This is one of the minor changes. In the short story, Mr. Pengalley may not be having a physical affair with Miss Marks, but during the inquest, she admits to there being an emotional one. Mr. Pengalley promised to marry her if he was ever free to do so. In the film, we only see a longing glance between them as their paths cross in the park after Mrs. Pengalley’s death.

Poirot is horrified when Jessie, the hysterical maid, tells him about Mrs. Pengalley’s sudden death a mere hour before his arrival. A client of his has been murdered directly due to his own inaction! He begins investigating at once. Dr. Adams is adamant that Mrs. Pengalley suffered from gastric problems and it couldn’t be poisoning because Edward Pengalley is his good friend and he’s not capable of poisoning his grandmother’s dog. This is a great scene, watching Poirot get furious with an obstinate country doctor.

Freda, Mrs. Pengalley’s niece, is equally shocked and can’t conceive of her uncle murdering her aunt. Freda tells Poirot something even more important: she tells him the truth about why she moved out in a huff. It was because auntie Pengalley was panting after Freda’s own fiancé and causing trouble and embarrassment all around. Mrs. Pengalley had neglected to tell Poirot this tidbit during their initial interview. Jacob Radner, fiancé and up-and-coming haberdasher, gives Poirot more detail about how uncomfortable he was being pursued by Mrs. Pengalley.

Then, like Jessie the maid, Radner tells Poirot he can’t talk dirt about the dead or who he thinks dunnit and proceeds to do just that. But he doesn’t want Poirot to pursue Pengalley for murder because of the scandal. The town thrives on malicious gossip and idle speculation and it would upset his fiancée, Freda.

Poirot doesn’t come to any conclusions. He tells Hastings as they leave that he’ll speak to Mr. Pengalley when he’s in the dock for murder. As Poirot tells Radner, keeping silent to prevent scandal won’t change a thing. Vox populi will force the case out into the open and so it does.

 A few weeks later, Edward Pengalley announces his engagement to his hot hygienist, the gossip flares into an inferno, he’s roundly denounced as a wife-poisoner, angry letters to Scotland Yard are written, her body is exhumed, and what do you know. The gossips are right. Mrs. Pengalley was poisoned with arsenic in the form of weedkiller.

Poirot and Hastings return to Polgarwith. Poirot watches Mr. Pengalley suffer in the dock as the town turns on him. Cans of weedkiller are waved around in court. Inspector Japp has arrived to collect any remaining evidence on this open-and-shut case and enjoy Cornish pasties.

It’s then that Poirot confronts the true murderer and extracts a signed confession. Hastings has a chance to shine here, proving that he can sometimes think on his feet when not blinded by hot blonde hussies. But afterwards, Hastings confronts him. Poirot says “That was not sentiment. That was business.” He had no proof, but now, with a signed confession, he does. As Poirot knows full well, he could claim he knew, courtesy of the little gray cells, and twelve stolid Cornishmen would laugh him out of court and hang Mr. Pengalley.

It was during Poirot’s summing up that I felt the scriptwriter missed a chance to enlighten us dumber members of the audience. Poirot knew that Mrs. Pengalley lied to him. Her niece, Freda, lived with her for eight years by her own admission, yet she didn’t know why Freda moved out in a huff? Then, Mrs. Pengalley’s manner changed when discussing how the nice Mr. Radnor was merely a pleasant young man. When Poirot interviewed Freda, she was distressed over the murder. She was also open about why she moved out and how awkward and unpleasant it was to have her 50-something aunt pursue her barely 30-year-old fiancé. At the same time, Freda refused to believe her uncle murdered her aunt.

So who was lying? Mrs. Pengalley or Freda? Poirot used his knowledge of human nature to deduce what actually happened as opposed to what he was told. Why didn’t Poirot rush to Cornwall to save his client? Because he didn’t think she was at that great a risk of being poisoned. He knew she lied to him, yet she still died. Just a few sentences of clarification would have been welcome.

The Cornish Mystery is a great episode in the series and worth watching twice. There’s so much to enjoy, from I Ching readings and discussions of rice to seeing real English weather: rain, rain, and more rain. You’ll love it.


Murder Ahoy 1964 Margaret Rutherford

Watched Friday, 6 August 2021

Fidelity to text: 1/2 poison bottles. There are scraps of plot from They Do It With Mirrors lurking under the waves surrounding the H.M.S. Battledore. Otherwise, other than Miss Marple herself, nothing remains of Agatha Christie.

Quality of movie on its own: 2 poison bottles. Murky, muddy, dragging when it should be sailing along. The movie is as anchor-bound as the ship most of the action takes place on.

This movie will make a lot more sense if you’ve read They Do It with Mirrors, a genuine Miss Marple property unlike the two previous Margaret Rutherford outings. The underlying plot (stolen from the novel) is simple. The trust benefitting a home for wayward boys is being embezzled. At the same time, the wayward boys are being trained, a la Fagin, as burglars. In Murder Ahoy, the two crimes are unrelated. One person is doing the embezzling and is unaware of the thieves’ ring operating under his nose. Another person is running the theft scheme but doesn’t know about the embezzling.

We set sail in a promising fashion. Miss Marple gets fitted for a quasi-Navy uniform and signs on as a trustee to a trust for a home for misguided youth. Why the naval uniform? Because the juvenile delinquency facility is the H.M.S. Battledore, a tall ship. The ship’s crew install backbones into young jellyfish. Or they try to.

During the very first trustee’s board meeting, one of the other trustees dies suddenly before he can reveal the dreadful truth about the H.M.S Battledore. His death is diagnosed as a heart attack by the brisk country doctor but Miss Marple is suspicious. She deduces poisoned snuff, based on her close reading of the mystery The Doom Box by J. Plantagenet Corby. It’s no wonder Inspector Craddock thinks Miss Marple is unhinged.

But it turns out Miss Marple is correct when she discovers traces of strychnine in the remaining snuff. How does she do this? By turning into Sherlock Holmes and using her girl’s junior chemistry set and analyzing the snuff. Never forget that the Margaret Rutherford version of Miss Marple is a force to be reckoned with and comes loaded with hidden talents.

She and Mr. Stringer go off to investigate. Miss Marple insists on moving onboard the Battledore, displacing Captain Rhumstone from his stateroom. As a trustee, she is the senior person onboard. Captain Rhumstone, since rank has its privileges, then displaces Commander Breeze-Connington from his quarters, who then displaces Lt. Commander Dimchurch, and on down the line until Sub Lt. Humbert ends up sleeping in a hammock in a corner of the hold.

Miss Marple outmaneuvers the captain, getting him to ask her to stay longer than one night. This gives her time to investigate and pass information via Morse code to Mr. Stringer, snug in a hotel room overlooking the bay where the Battledore is at anchor. The Morse code messages the two of them send are fake, by the way. They don’t say a thing.

There’s a whole lot of running around at night onboard the Battledore. It remains on the verge of turning into a fun French bedroom farce but each time, the action stalls and nothing funny happens. Meanwhile, Mr. Stringer spends his time rowing back and forth between the hotel’s quay and the ship, unnoticed by the ship’s watch. That’s criminal neglect of good seamanship. When he’s not rowing, he follows the boys (looking crackerjack in their jumpers and dixie cups) and discovers they’re robbing houses while on shore leave.

During all of this, Miss Marple discovers the second body. Lt. Compton has been run through with a sword and hung from the yardarm. How no one noticed the body swinging freely until she gets around to it is more proof of how badly the ship is being run.

There’s also the death of Assistant Matron Shirley Boston by, believe it or not, a poisoned mousetrap. Miss Marple recognizes the murder method at once because it, like the death of Lt. Compton, is right out of the book, The Doom Box. The collection of expensive jewelry her body is found with is not from the book. Miss Marple deduces this is the action of a second criminal onboard the Battledore.

Shirley’s story — along with her two junior officer swains — was particularly murky. She’s a hot brunette so it’s plausible as long as both junior officers turned off their brains. Sailors do that, when faced with hot brunettes. If I understand the plot correctly, she was leading on Sub Lt. Humbert because he got her into posh country houses for posh parties (he was well-connected). Then, after she’d cased the joint during the party, she told Lt. Compton — with whom she was also carrying on with — where to send the wayward boys to break in and steal the jewelry. There’s a scene where Shirley is seated between the two junior officers, holding hands with one and stroking the back of the other. But I couldn’t tell who was who.

Another red herring involves Lt. Commander Dimchurch. It is so poorly developed that it shouldn’t be there at all. Capt. Rhumstone and Matron Fanbraid have an arc of their own that should have been on full, glorious display during the sneaking around the ship at midnight scenes but it wasn’t. That was a wasted opportunity. I would have liked to have seen more scenes with the wayward boys being taught seamanship and thievery.

At last, after still more wasted chances at quality writing, Miss Marple finally uncovers the real murderer.

I could buy the murderer’s motivation: if you’re ambitious, being passed over for promotion is difficult to swallow. It was hard to buy Chief Inspector Craddock and Sergeant Bacon being unable to figure out another way out of the hold. It’s true that ships are built like three-dimensional mazes but once they realized they were stuck, they should have gone into the hold and found another way up topside. But I really couldn’t buy Miss Marple holding her own in a sword duel. Okay, she was the ladies’ fencing champion in 1931. But this is 33 years later! She’s been practicing her fencing for the last 33 years? And she’s in good enough shape to not fall prostrate to the deck within minutes of whipping out a saber? Both her and the murderer should have had heart attacks. I’ll admit Margaret Rutherford could handle a sword. She practiced for a month for the role but she’s still 70 years old. I suppose this is part and parcel of her retaining her golf talents, horsemanship skills, and marksmanship abilities, each showcased in the climax of the three previous movies.

Is there anything to like about this film?

The ship is nice. Very nice. It’s Training Ship Arethusa, originally built in 1911. She was in service with the Royal Navy for a while. Later on, she actually was repurposed as a home for wayward boys; a case of art imitating life. However, the stern, where Captain Rhumstone’s cabin is located, is pure Hollywood magic. Even with that enhancement, I would have liked to have seen a lot more of the Arethusa.

There are good moments. It’s a pleasure to watch Mr. Stringer and Miss Marple together. Their affection for each other is palpable. Lionel Jeffries as Captain Rhumstone shamelessly overacts. He’d fit right in with the Cosgrove Players in Murder Most Foul. But this movie just didn’t jell. It needed a few more passes on the script. It should have sparkled like sunlight on breaking waves. Instead, it’s becalmed.


The Lost Mine (1990) David Suchet as Poirot

Watched Wednesday, 22 July 2021

Fidelity to text: 2 1/2 knives. Lots of rewriting was needed to turn a nothingburger of a story into something worth watching. Expanded scenes, added characters, and florid settings provide an action story instead of a remembrance of things past.

Quality of film on its own: 3 1/2 knives. Most of the time, the rewriting greatly enhanced the plot. Right up until the ending, in fact, when Poirot pulls his solution from his boutonnière vase. He had good clues pointing the way, but not nearly enough factual evidence for me to buy his explanation.

The Lost Mine is a very early short story, originally published in 1923. It’s dull. It’s also clumsy. Poirot tells Hastings about an earlier case to illustrate his point about not indulging in stock speculating because he — naturally — never does. The only speculative stock Poirot owns are shares in a Burmese silver/lead mine, awarded to him as a reward for services rendered. Since all the action took place in the distant past and we know Poirot succeeded, there’s no risk or drama. It’s quite bloodless.

Bloodless won’t do for TV. You’ve got to have action or else you’ve got a pair of talking heads, making the viewer switch channels back to Kurt Russell in Big Trouble in Little China.

The new and improved plot uses virtually every important element of the short story, other than the adversarial, Poirot-loathing Inspector Miller. Then it adds so much more, beginning with Hastings teaching Poirot to play Monopoly. The game was introduced to Great Britain in 1935 so it stands to reason they’d be playing the exciting new import. At the same time, Miss Lemon is speculating in stocks, advised by both Hastings (wrong as always) and Poirot (not wrong in his advice). A major stock scheme is described in the newspaper as collapsing, bankrupting thousands. A warning sign about the scheme that Hastings completely missed but reverently describes is that it would pay investors a 100% return. To give Hastings his due, plenty of other, savvier investors missed the same red flag. They play the same Monopoly game throughout the episode, providing both a clue to the mystery’s answer and an explanation for the bank error that Poirot suffers from. Unlike in the game, the bank error is not in his favor, nor was it the bank that was in error.

While Poirot is at the bank, attempting to resolve the bank error, he gets roped into investigating the disappearance of Mr. Wu Ling, visiting businessman. That gentleman, according to Lord Pearson of the bank, carries the long-lost map showing the location of the lost Burmese silver mine. Wu Ling arrived in England, checked into his hotel, and then didn’t show up to sell the map to the bank’s board of directors. His body turns up in London’s Chinatown, stabbed in the back several times. According to Inspector Japp, whoever knifed Wu Ling used an Asian-style blade rather than something you’d find in an English kitchen.

While Inspector Japp is interested in murder, he’s more interested in organized crime in Chinatown, involving the Tongs, opium smuggling, illegal gambling, and money laundering. Could Wu Ling have met the wrong person? Is he involved in Japp’s other investigation? Does Poirot’s investigation intersect with Japp’s?

It seems they do, then they don’t, but then they do again. Like a Chinese puzzle box, you might say.

Along the way, a stock speculator gets involved. This is Charles Lester, glad-handing American salesman with a dark secret. According to him, he’s never met Wu Ling. According to his wife, he’s been behaving erratically. According to the hotel clerk, he was the man who met Wu Ling in the hotel’s lobby shortly before his disappearance.

While the plot threads weave themselves together, you’ll get a real treat: a glimpse at cutting edge police procedures in 1935. It’s radio. No, really! Cars can’t outrun radio waves. Radio transformed law enforcement. Policewomen with headsets move cars and targets on a huge map of London tracking a criminal, minute by minute, his movements radioed in by assorted watching policemen. The criminal is Reggie Dyer, a man well known to police in many jurisdictions for his underworld dealings. Dyer also apparently met Wu Ling on the boat from China. The hunt for Dyer becomes the now-obligatory chase scene in a Poirot episode, all effectively managed from afar by Japp.

As Japp pursues the connection between Dyer and Wu Ling, Poirot seeks an explanation for why a traveler would request matches from a hotel clerk when he has plenty in his luggage. Poirot also closely examines the cigarette butts cramming the ashtray. There’s also a worrying conflict in a key witness’s statements.

Along the way, Japp, Poirot, and Hastings all end up in London’s Chinatown. It’s exotic and very different from Poirot’s normal haunts but is it really? It looks different, the signs are written in English and Chinese, the citizens look and dress differently, but they’re still running small businesses and going about their daily lives just like anywhere else in London. And just like anywhere else in London there are restaurants, street prostitutes, gambling casinos, and opium dens. Maybe not the opium dens. The illegal opium den is located in the basement of the quasi-legal casino, accessible via a secret door concealed by a red-eyed dragon.

It’s in the opium den that all the threads come together at last. Charles Lester, stockbroker, is an opium addict but he’s not a murderer. Reggie Dyer is an opium smuggler and a crook, but he’s not a murderer either. It’s at this point that the story falls apart when Poirot fingers the real murderer of Wu Ling.

Poirot suspected Lord Pearson from the very beginning; Pearson claimed he had never seen Wu Ling but he also claimed that a Chinaman brought into the bank was not Wu Ling. How could he know? Okay. Fine. That makes sense. Poirot’s explanation about investment losses, impersonators, and stolen maps all made sense, as did framing Charles Lester. Lester was in the wrong place at the wrong time and as an opium addict, it was easy to pin blame on him. But we never see a single scene where Poirot learns that Lord Pearson gambles regularly in the Red Dragon casino, losing heavily. Nor do we ever hear a single person tell Poirot that Lord Pearson invested heavily in the Imperial Trust collapse, losing his shareholders millions of dollars. How could Poirot know these things?

According to what we see on the screen, he can’t. I can see why Poirot made the accusation because it fits the facts that he does know. But we are never shown a single reason how Poirot could know the motivation behind the murder. It’s all speculation; exactly what Poirot warned Hastings and Miss Lemon against. I wanted a scene or two; just a few minutes to show Poirot talking to distraught relatives, housekeepers, bank clerks, casino dealers, street prostitutes, anyone who knew what Lord Pearson got up to in his spare time.

It’s still a good episode, well worth watching. Despite the failure at the ending, the adaptation is far better than the short story it’s based on.


Murder Most Foul (1964) Margaret Rutherford

Watched Friday, 30 July 2021

Fidelity to text: 1 garotte. The film is based on a Hercule Poirot novel, Mrs. McGinty’s Dead. Miss Marple takes over, Poirot’s gone, Ariadne Oliver is gone, everyone else is gone, and virtually all of the plot other than the two-sentence synopsis is gone.

Quality of movie on its own: 4 garottes. Nonetheless, it works and quite well too. Margaret Rutherford is a force to be reckoned with and she gets a much better script than in Murder at the Gallop. She shines and so does the rest of the cast.

We open with one of the few surviving bits from Mrs. McGinty’s Dead. A hapless lodger is discovered trying to murder his landlady after stealing her savings. (That’s the first sentence from the two-sentence synopsis of the novel.) The trial over, the hanging judge gives a masterly summation and you know what the verdict will be: murder. Except Miss Marple is on the jury and she knows better. The case is declared a mistrial, giving Miss Marple a week or so to prove that someone else murdered landlady, former actress, barmaid, and good-time girl, Mrs. McGinty. Her own sister calls her a slut so you know she’s no good.

Mrs. McGinty had a checkered past.

Miss Marple trounces the constable several times at checkers.

Are they connected? It’s possible that the scriptwriter is making a subtle joke in multiple directions. I say this only because the Margaret Rutherford Miss Marple film series often refers to her own dramatic past as a championship golfer (Murder, She Said), equestrienne (Murder at the Gallop), and here, lady’s pistol champion. Why wouldn’t she also be the local checkers champion? As further proof of her extensive talents, her audition for the Cosgrove Players is a fiery rendition of Robert W. Service’s great narrative poem, The Shooting of Dan McGrew. Margaret Rutherford’s Miss Marple is a true renaissance woman, although her past is not as checkered as Mrs. McGinty’s.

Another set of inside jokes is hiding in the dialog. It’s laced with Shakespearean references. The most obvious is the title itself, followed by the reference to a Rose by any other name. Pay attention and you’ll spot other literary references too: a play named Murder, She Said, supposedly written by Agatha and of course, Cosgrove claiming his play will run longer than The Mousetrap.

Ron Moody is worth singling out: he plays Driffold Cosgrove, a would-be playwright, theater impresario, and ham actor. He’s trying his best to keep his little troupe going while dealing with murder. Watch him complain to Inspector Craddock about having to postpone his performance merely because one of his own actors is poisoned! And then one of his actresses dies, leaving him even more short-handed. But the show must go on and lurid stories about murder make for boffo box office receipts. Or so he hopes. That’s also why he suddenly changed his mind about accepting Miss Marple in his theater troupe. It’s not her stalwart rendition of Dan McGrew: it’s that she’s a lady of independent means which implies plenty of money for his theater and no annoying husband checking up on her spending.

It’s always amusing to watch a film that involves the theater because the actors playing actors get to ham it up in ways they’d never be allowed to do otherwise. Don’t miss our weird, witchy sleepwalking actress, Eva (Alison Seebohm). She knows something is wrong and tells everyone all about it. Or does she just want attention? There’s Arthur (Neil Stacey), who goes out of his way to make rude remarks about his fellow leading man in the heartthrob division, Bill (James Bolam). Arthur’s got reason to be jealous of Bill and not merely because he competes with Bill for heartthrob roles.

Bill is Sheila’s fiancé. Sheila Upward (Francesca Annis) is not just another ingenue. She’s an heiress! Sheila is sure that daddy won’t be upset at her marrying a third-rate actor in a fourth-rate touring theater company. She doesn’t see anything odd about Bill’s unusual intensity or how he tries to strangle Arthur and then pass it off as a joke. That’s just Bill being amusing.

There’s also the mysterious play, written by Cosgrove. It’s called Remember September and it is, by all accounts, as idiotic as its name. Miss Marple deciphers a clue leading to the play’s opening night in 1951. She joins the troupe and moves into their boarding house, where the script is left on Miss Marple’s pillow. She reads it and is unimpressed. The play was performed only once and never completed: it was so bad that it was booed offstage by the audience halfway through the second act. This is also the play that Mrs. McGinty starred in, long ago on that terrible opening night. That terrible night, full of terrible actors, turned into terrible tragedy, although the tragedy was presumably unrelated to the play.

One of the actresses on that long ago opening night, Rose Kane, murdered her cheating husband with weedkiller, purchased at her behest by their ten-year-old son. The crown executed Rose Kane but what happened to the son?

Miss Marple finds out, eventually, leading to the second sentence of the two-sentence synopsis of the novel. The innocent child of a murderer grows up and must face the deadly past.

Along the way, Miss Marple faces off with Inspector Craddock. He’s not thrilled about dealing with that dotty old lady again as he knows it always ends in tears for someone. Him, in this case, when he ends up in the hospital. Mr. Stringer aids and abets Miss Marple, whether it’s pretending to be a lothario insurance representative or doing the legwork needed to decipher clues from the past. There’s the boarding house landlady for the acting troupe as well. She’s used to dealing with actors, lectures Miss Marple about no gentlemen callers upstairs, and in general, prefers the company of her six cats. Cats are more reliable and less self-centered than actors but they don’t pay rent.

This is an amusing and enjoyable outing. Why didn’t I give this film that all-important fifth garotte? It needed to be longer, at least a little bit, to tie up loose ends. What happened to the hapless lodger, the one who didn’t murder Mrs. McGinty? We never learn it because he never shows up again. There’s also the murderer’s friends and relatives. There’s never a scene where a friend says “I knew it!” or “You had a close call.” I like seeing at least a little bit of the aftermath of murder because the crime doesn’t stop reverberating in people’s lives for months or even years. Even so, don’t miss this film despite its checkered antecedents. You won’t miss Hercule Poirot. Margaret Rutherford admirably fills his shoes.


The Veiled Lady 1990 David Suchet

Watched Wednesday, 14 July 2021

Fidelity to text: 4 thieves (no murders occur). It’s close, right down to dialog lifted wholesale from the short story. The additions flesh out the story beautifully, add a suspicious housekeeper, and provide much more interesting settings to stage chase scenes than Poirot’s flat.

Quality of movie on its own: 4 1/2 thieves. One of the best; fast-paced and very funny. It’s loaded with great lines. It’s so good that you won’t question the gaping, wildly implausible plot hole until afterwards and maybe not then.

A daring, daylight robbery of a jewelry store takes place. The story makes it into the newspaper for Hastings to use when Poirot bemoans the lack of crime to stimulate the little gray cells. He discounts it as clever, but beneath his skills. Similarly, Poirot discounts the mysterious death of a British citizen in Holland as due to tinned fish. If only Poirot had been born without moral scruples, he goes on to say. He’d become the genius of crime, a real-world Moriarty, known to police everywhere but invisible and uncaught.

It’s at that point the mysterious veiled lady shows up and, if you’ve read your Conan Doyle, you think you know where the story is going. The damsel is in real distress, being blackmailed over scandalous letters that will prevent her marriage to the duke. Only Poirot’s genius can save her from the blackmailer. She insists on meeting him and Hastings at the Athena Hotel, to avoid being watched. There is someone watching, carefully staying out of view of Poirot and Hastings.

Hastings is smitten by Lady Millicent. Such grace! Such charm! Such a lovely flower of the aristocracy, no matter how impoverished! Lady Millicent’s face is her fortune, explaining how some destitute Irish peer’s fifth daughter managed to snag a duke. Since Hastings reads the society columns, he knows all about Lady Millicent’s good fortune in marrying extremely well although he, like Poirot, has never actually seen her.

Lady Millicent tells them a mournful story about the letter being hidden inside a Chinese puzzle box which is then hidden again where no one can find it. Only the great Poirot can possibly save her from the wicked blackmailer.

Poirot summons the blackmailer, Lavington, to his flat. As would be expected, Lavington is unmoved. He wants his money. Hastings is incensed at his crude and louche behavior to such a delightful lady, so much so that Lavington, staring right at Hastings, comments about excitable office boys. Poirot, on the other hand, pays close attention to information Lavington carelessly reveals.

This sets up a great comic sequence that the short story dispenses with in a couple of sentences. Poirot, normally the most fastidious of men, combs out his mustache, changes from his morning suit into work clothes, and bicycles to Lavington’s house. He informs the housekeeper, Mrs. Godber, that he is a locksmith, hired to install burglar-proof locks. She is suspicious but lets him work on the locks.

Then, that night, Poirot and Hastings burgle the house. Yes, Poirot emulates a common housebreaker to save Lady Millicent’s reputation. They search the house and, as dawn nears, finally discover the Chinese puzzle box cleverly hidden in the kitchen’s wood supply. Poirot points out how safe a location this is, in July. At that point, Mrs. Godber summons the local beat constable and in another great scene, he tries to arrest Poirot and Hastings as common thieves. Hastings escapes by leaping through the French door (previously rigged by Poirot) because he can’t get it open. Poirot gets frog-marched off to jail.

The comedy ramps up still further when Inspector Japp arrives to bail out Poirot. Notice how cleverly Inspector Japp never uses Poirot’s real name in the police station and how little Poirot appreciates the courtesy. Poirot also doesn’t appreciate Hastings making a run for it, but Hastings’ hasty exit is why he got bailed out.

Can this episode get better? Yes, it can. Lady Millicent meets Poirot to get back the letter but insists on the Museum of Natural History. Wow. What an entry hall, complete with a giant dinosaur skeleton. Poirot fences with Lady Millicent over who gets to keep the Chinese puzzle box as a souvenir (costing all of two pence in Limehouse). She grabs it, her accomplice shows up (it’s Lavington!) and you get another great chase scene in the museum, ending up in the closed-off Hall of Mammals.

Is it possible to vanish in thin air? Why yes, it is, because the mammals — an astonishing display of the taxidermist’s art — are draped in holland covers. Lady Millicent and Lavington conceal themselves under the drapes, hoping to go unnoticed. Unfortunately for them, the museum’s cat notices Lady Millicent’s shoes peeping out from under the sheets and decides he needs petting. This is the only reference to the short story’s explanation of how Poirot recognized that Lady Millicent was not who she claimed she was. In the story, he spots her cheap, shoddy shoes right away and he knows that a real aristocrat would never wear dime-store junk.

There’s no explanation in the film as to when or how Poirot figures out her deception, other than her insistence on keeping the Chinese puzzle box as a souvenir. Yet obviously, he did know or he wouldn’t have arranged to have Inspector Japp on hand to arrest Lady Millicent. Was it Hastings? If Hastings believed her story, then the woman had to be a liar. But if that’s true, I would expect Poirot to acknowledge his reliance on Hastings always being wrong.

But that’s not the gaping plot hole.

At the very beginning of the film, a gun-wielding bandit robs the jewelry store in a posh shopping arcade. We watch him snatch several ostentatious, gaudy necklaces consisting of what look like thousands of diamonds strung together. Those necklaces look like something Marie Antoinette would have worn at Versailles. Subtle, they are not. Some of those diamonds are dime-sized. I did not notice any of the stolen necklaces containing dime-sized colored gems. They glittered like ice, gorgeous and colorless. The bandit is apprehended in the arcade by concerned citizens and when he’s searched, he’s got his gun but no stolen jewelry. Where did the jewelry go? One of the concerned citizens (or all of them) was an accomplice and stashed the jewelry in a pocket.

Then Poirot reveals the contents of the Chinese puzzle box. One side contains the letter. The other side contains a handful of gemstones, colored and white. Um, what? Where are the rest of the diamonds? Those necklaces would have filled a jam jar. Plus, they were all diamonds! I don’t remember any rubies or emeralds, just glittery ice. Yet Poirot spills out a small handful of colored gems in various sizes. So who switched out the stones? And when? And most importantly, where are the missing stones?

Like how Poirot knew Lady Millicent was a fraud, this question remains unanswered. It’s still a great, funny episode. Watch it twice to catch all the snappy dialog. Everyone shines like a diamond, from Miss Lemon’s all-to-brief scene to the suspicious housekeeper who can’t believe Poirot is Chinese.


Murder at the Gallop 1963 Margaret Rutherford

Watched Friday, 23 July 2021

Fidelity to text: 1 cat. Yes, cats. A cat serves as the first murder weapon followed by a hatpin in this extremely loose interpretation of After the Funeral, a Hercule Poirot novel. What’s that you shrieked? Margaret Rutherford is portraying Miss Marple in a Poirot novel!? Yes, and that’s just the beginning of the changes.

Quality of movie on its own: 3 cats. It should have been better. Margaret Rutherford is always fun to watch, she’s got great costars, and the original story is complex and satisfying. Too bad the film didn’t hold together; the scriptwriter cut out everything that explained motivation while adding plenty of loose ends that never got tied up.

After the Funeral (Funerals Are Fatal in the U.S. editions) was a Hercule Poirot novel published in 1953. It is outstanding, one of Agatha’s best, and would have made a terrific film. This version isn’t it. Even though the scriptwriter slashed the novel apart, you’ll still need to be familiar with the storyline in order to understand the film’s plot. Too much material was skipped or glided over. Motivations in particular were decidedly unclear; other than greed. That one’s easy, but that’s not the motivation for murder in the novel and it’s not the motivation here either. Sort of, but again, the script was muddy.

Murder at the Gallop is also one of the many reasons why Agatha Christie became so reluctant to sign movie or television contracts. Hollywood took a perfectly good plot involving Poirot, no slouch in the detecting business, and reworked it into an almost unrecognizable Margaret Rutherford vehicle. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer owned the rights and they galloped away into the sunset with them. I know the James M. Cain quote about how Hollywood doesn’t ruin books: the book is still up there on the shelf. That’s true but let’s be honest. For every person who reads a novel, one hundred people watch a movie.

How many of those one hundred people go read the novel a movie is based on? Quite a few, based on the paperbacks I see at the grocery store book rack with an image from the film as the new cover. Then comes the more important question. How many of those readers are aghast when they read the original story? It’s not like the movie at all! If they preferred the movie (which does happen because some movies are far better than their source novel) they’ll never pick up another book by the author again.

Or worse, they’ll have a completely wrong interpretation of what Author writes. If Movie Viewer never again reads a book by Author, Author loses. The money from Hollywood was nice, sometimes very nice indeed, but Author lost a potential reader along with all of Reader’s book-loving friends. That’s the effect Murder at the Gallop would have. You can see the original story writhing underneath, trying to break free and failing, and confusing potential readers.

So does the movie function? If you blank out all memories of Hercule Poirot and tea shops? Mostly, it does. It opens with a bang. Miss Marple and Mr. Stringer are soliciting door-to-door for a criminal rehabilitation charity. They come darn close to breaking into the Enderby mansion looking for donations. But they do, and witness terrified, elderly, reclusive and rich Mr. Enderby stagger to the top of the stairs and fall down them. A cat appears and Miss Marple is instantly suspicious. Enderby is pathologically afraid of cats so he’d never permit one in his house. It’s a tidy method for murdering an old man: scare him into a heart attack, he’ll die, and no one will ever suspect the cat hiding under the bed. The murderer won’t be anywhere near the place when the crime happens. All he had to do was slip the cat inside the house and wait.

Miss Marple notifies the police. Inspector Craddock ignores her. She and Mr. Stringer listen in on the reading of the will (an amusing scene; make sure you pay attention to how the bequests were written so you can modify your own will accordingly) and then they hear it. Cora, heavily veiled and estranged from the family, asks if Enderby was murdered.

Miss Marple, taking the law into her own hands like always, then visits Cora to investigate and discovers her dead, with another cat in her lap. Cora was murdered with a hatpin. If you’ve never seen one, a hatpin is sharp-tipped and as long as a knitting needle. You can do some serious damage to a masher with a hatpin and ladies did just that back in ye olden days but even so, killing was harder. You’d have to go through the eye or ear into the brain, not some random place in the ribs.

Cora’s companion, the timid and mousy Miss Milchrest, is aghast. She’s also no help. The action then moves to Hector Enderby’s conveniently nearby hotel for equestrians. Miss Marple checks in and sleuths, witnessing but not able to prevent another murder. This murder is also strange: it uses a panicked horse, the victim trapped in a stall, and a small boulder pressing down the accelerator of a car. Again, very tidy and hands-free for the cautious murderer, as long as no one sees them driving the car and abandoning it in the stable yard. Which, despite this being broad daylight in a hotel full of serious horse lovers, no one does.

Eventually, Miss Marple solves the murders but how is a darned good question. We’re never shown any kind of logical deductions from real clues the audience could pick up on. Nor does she prove whydunit. There’s the mysterious painting, supposedly worth 50,000 pounds. This is separate from the 25,000 pounds each of the heirs is already in line for. That’s a lot of money but I wasn’t sure why the murderer cared. I understood why the rest of the family cared, even the ones who just wanted the painting to hang on the wall.

The novel has a rational and sad motivation for the crime; not one bit made it into the film unless you count Hector Enderby wanting to keep his hotel going. The ending did not make sense. Mysteries are supposed to be solvable by the reader or the audience. The clues, located by the detective, should be available to the audience as well. Not here.

That’s not to say the film is bad. It’s not. The acting is great. Robert Morley in particular has a wonderful time, although how he got thrown from his fractious horse without breaking every bone in his body is another good question. There are wonderful set pieces, from Miss Marple climbing up stacks of barrels to spy on legal proceedings to her dancing the twist and then faking a heart attack to unmask the villain. You’ll even get a mention of an Agatha Christie novel you’ve never heard of: Miss Marple is reading The Ninth Life. She recommends to Inspector Craddock that Christie novels should be required reading for policemen.

You’ll probably enjoy Murder at the Gallop, as long as you pretend it has nothing to do with Agatha’s novel. You won’t watch it a second time. You won’t be able to ignore the plot holes big enough to ride a horse through.


Peril at End House (1990) David Suchet

Watched Wednesday, 7 July 2021

Fidelity to text: 4 guns. The obvious change is removing Freddie Rice’s worthless husband and adding Miss Lemon. Inspector Japp and Hastings both get their roles beefed up too. The concealed change is removing the evidence that Poirot used to solve the crime.

Quality of movie on its own: 3 guns. It’s gorgeous, fast paced, beautifully acted, and missing large chunks of vital storyline. You’ll keep asking yourself how did Poirot know? Another ten or fifteen minutes of exposition would have prevented the sensation that Poirot yanked the solution from out of his boutonnière vase.

Peril at End House uses a classic trope that Agatha used several times; she may have even invented it. It’s the unimpeachable witness. And who could be a more unimpeachable witness than Hercule Poirot?

The film opens with Poirot and Hastings flying across the English countryside on their way to St. Looe; they’re onboard a small plane, the sort that, at the time, only wealthy adventurers would have used. Hastings loves the flight; Poirot is not nearly as enamored with flying. This is a real, genuine vintage plane, by the way. It’s also a subtle allusion to Michael Seton, an important character even though we never meet him.

Michael Seton is a famous, daredevil pilot attempting an around-the-world flight. He’s the only heir of the second richest man in England. He’s also Magdala Buckley’s fiancé. A lot of money is riding on his making it back to England safely and marrying her. Or, since he thoughtfully made a will leaving his estate to his fiancée, dying at the hands of cannibals in the Solomon Islands. Either way works.

At the gorgeous Art Deco resort, Poirot is trying to recover from his harrowing flight over the green fields of England and is having a hard go of it. Until, that is, he trips and is rescued by Nick Buckley. To his dismay, she claims to have never heard of him. She joins him and Hastings, swats away wasps, and tells them that strange things have been happening to her, possibly murderous attempts on her life.

Poirot seizes the lifeline she tosses him and away we go, as he tries to solve who could possibly want to murder such a delightful young lady. His first clue is the hat Nick accidentally leaves behind, complete with bullet hole and easily found spent bullet. She wasn’t swatting at wasps, after all. Except shouldn’t someone in the hotel have heard a gunshot?

Who could want to murder such a charming young lady? Is it her dearest friend, Freddie Rice, who oh so casually tells them that Nick is a terrible liar? How about Nick’s housekeeper who doesn’t like Nick? Or the nice Australian couple renting the lodge who tell Poirot and Hastings that no one in the village likes Nick? Or Nick’s own cousin who tells Poirot that Nick is obsessed with keeping her mausoleum of a house going? Or Nick’s on and off sailor boyfriend with no visible means of support?

If you know Agatha, you know where all this is going. Sadly, if you don’t know Agatha or worse, haven’t read the novel, you won’t just feel misled at the climax. You’ll feel cheated. The novel nicely lays out all the clues, some of them in plain sight, along with the red herrings, also in plain sight. You can follow Poirot’s deductions at the climax; then go back and reread and see what you missed, marveling at Agatha’s subtle hand.

The film, however, elides over the clues so much that when Poirot solves the crime, he does it with great leaps of fact-free logic, as if he was hopping from one remote South Pacific atoll to another, desperately searching for fresh water and fuel. There are no flashbacks showing missed clues or misunderstood connections. None. One of the most vital clues is so subtle that you won’t see it at all, unless you slow down the DVD and move forward frame by frame and then zoom in on the table in the library.

It was maddening. I didn’t just rant after the movie was over. I ranted during all four laps of our late evening walk, working out all the missed opportunities when, if the scriptwriter had played fair, the clue would have been seen by an observant viewer. I don’t expect the solution to be handed to me on a silver platter along with my dry martini. I do expect to have a fighting chance of working out whodunnit.

There was so much to admire about this episode, from the opening scenes of the Devon coast from the air to the vintage sailboats and the stunning motorcars that Hastings pants over. The St. Looe harbor is charming. End House is suitably atmospheric, right down to the ghoulish gardener’s son reveling in watching pigs getting their throats cut. The resort hotel is an Art Deco dream and so is the nursing home. The fashions are just as eye-catching, whatever the occasion. The stylish black evening gowns with scarlet capes even matter for story purposes and not just as eye candy; one woman is shot instead of the other because their clothing was similar.

The acting is first rate. Wait till you see Miss Lemon lead a séance, although again, the script fell down here. Poirot uses Miss Lemon to do some detecting in London, but then he doesn’t warn her before he has her start to channel spirits? I couldn’t accept it. Poirot knows what Miss Lemon is capable of but since the séance is critical to solving the crime and revealing the killer, he wouldn’t leave anything to chance.

Polly Walker plays Nick Buckley and she’s a marvel; a charming free spirit with something darker hidden underneath. Freddie Rice (Alison Sterling) loves her friend but she knows something’s wrong. The Australian couple, who are always good for a laugh, lay it on thicker than thick and subject Poirot and Hastings to thousands of photographs of Australia. Nick’s sometime boyfriend who Hastings completely misjudges. Poirot himself, disdaining soft-boiled eggs because they are not perfectly matched.

Then there’s Maggie Buckley, played by Elizabeth Downes. She barely has a line in the movie; her sole purpose is to be mistaken for her cousin, Nick. Watch her scene at the dinner party when Nick discovers that Michael Seton’s plane was lost somewhere out in the vast South Pacific. Maggie doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t have to and she can’t. Her parents figure in the novel, but they are excised from the film; a mistake, I thought, because their scene brings home the true cost of murder. The people who die leave grieving relatives behind. A scriptwriter should never forget that.

Should you watch this film? Yes. There’s an awful lot to like. But you must read the novel first. If you do, you’ll know where the scriptwriter skipped important bits but since you know them, you won’t mind when there’s so much to enjoy. If you don’t read the novel first, you’ll feel cheated at the end. Peril at End House should have been better; the material is first rate and by the start of the second season of Poirot, the production company and David Suchet knew what they were doing. They’re better than this.


The Dream 1989 David Suchet Hercule Poirot episode

Watched Wednesday, 30 June 2021

Fidelity to text: 3 and 1/2 guns. Benedict Farley and his business got the most changes, but they enhance the story. The murder is more plausible as well; no stuffed cats are involved. The police inspector transforms into Japp, Hastings and Miss Lemon are added. And of course, the scriptwriter provided the now obligatory chase scene at the end.

Quality of movie on its own: 4 guns. I would have added another 1/2 gun, but I couldn’t work out from what was on the screen why the murderer called in Poirot. It didn’t make sense, except then you wouldn’t have a story. Otherwise, what great eye candy. Don’t miss the cameo at the beginning: the band conductor is Christopher Gunning, Poirot’s composer.

Benedict Farley becomes a character in the film. In the short story, we never actually meet him. Here, we see him open the new wing of his meat pie factory (and what a stunning Art Deco building it is). Watch that newsreel footage and see if you envision Mrs. Tweedy from Chicken Run saying “Chickens go in, pies come out.” Benedict Farley probably says “pigs go in, pies come out,” since pigs show up onscreen. A lot of steps are omitted between live porkers and ready-to-eat pork pies. Listen closely to his opening speech to his uniformed workers, the press, and the Lord Mayor. He thinks he’s a benevolent owner but his workers may think differently.

Later, Farley summons Poirot to his home — located right next to his factory — for a consultation. Poirot instantly knows something is up. Here’s where it was unclear to me. When the appointment was made, Poirot was instructed to bring the letter with him. Why was this? Then, he’s seated in what looks like the interrogation room down at the local precinct, blindingly bright lights trained on him. This is not how a normal consultation goes with an ace detective. When Poirot and Farley finish their discussion of Farley’s bizarre suicidal dreams, he asks for the letter. Poirot hands him the wrong letter.

I can’t believe Hercule Poirot would make a mistake like that. I can believe that Poirot handed over the wrong letter deliberately because he thought the whole setup was strange and he came prepared with the real letter and another, to be used if needed. But no, apparently, Poirot made a mistake.

Later on, Farley does indeed kill himself exactly as he foretold Poirot in their meeting. The letter is discovered in his papers. Dr. Stillingfleet and Japp feel this is suspicious and indicative of murder because when Poirot’s around, it’s always murder. During discussions with Farley’s widow (wife #2 and only eight years older than her resentful stepdaughter), the widow confirms that Farley had been suffering from suicidal nightmares. Dear daughter flatly denies this story. Dear daughter also doesn’t like or miss her dead father for reasons of her own. The secretary, Cornworthy, doesn’t know about the suicidal fixation.

This is the part that the scriptwriter could have spelled out better. Why did the murderer involve Poirot? That practically screams hubris as well as “investigate closer.” If the murderer had skipped the entire letter business, calling in the well-known master detective, Farley’s death would have been accepted as suicide. Dr. Stillingfleet even said so and Japp agreed! I know that if the murderer hadn’t made such tomfool move, we wouldn’t have a movie, but even so. Give me some vaguely plausible reason for the characters acting like they don’t have any more brains than a chicken destined to become a meat pie.

Pigs are far more intelligent than chickens; pigs wouldn’t make this mistake.

Poirot investigates but it’s Miss Lemon, wrestling with her recalcitrant typewriter who provides the clue he needs. She does not, by the way, swear at her typewriter. She says “bother” when she reaches for the eraser. This was in the pre-Liquid Paper days so she had no choice. Also, lest you think a highly qualified secretary like Miss Lemon made routine typos, she didn’t. It was the typewriter, long past retirement age, that caused her errors by jamming its keys.

She checks the time for Poirot by leaning out the window to look at a nearby church clock. Voila! Poirot knows. Why does Farley keep his office where it is, facing a blank wall? So he can lean out his window and see the factory steam whistle signaling when the ovens are baking. He keeps an eye on his factory, even when he’s no longer needed in the day-to-day operations.

Watching the episode, I believe Poirot was suspicious of certain people as soon as he heard of Farley’s death. But he needed a method, one the little gray cells did not provide. Miss Lemon saves the day for him and he duly rewards her with her heart’s desire: a clock.

I guess Poirot can make mistakes, since Miss Lemon would have much rather had a shiny, new typewriter.

There’s a lot to like in this episode. It’s amusing, nicely paced, and well-acted. It’s packed with lovely period details like the factory women’s uniforms, the Lord Mayor’s ceremonial garb, the band in their uniforms. There are plenty of instances of civic pride and not just in the newsreel footage. There are also hints of labor problems with those two unimpeachable witnesses waiting to speak with Mr. Farley. This calls back to his speech when he opens his factory.

The factory scenes are interesting to watch, a reminder that mass-produced food has been with us for decades. There’s also plenty of gorgeous Art Deco lobbies, offices, rooms, stone veneers, and ornaments to drool over.

Watch Joanna, the daughter, interact with her stepmother. The two women don’t like each other. Watch her reaction to stepmom’s crocodile tears. Joanna didn’t like her father but he’s still her father. She’s honest with Poirot about her conflicted feelings. There’s also Joanna’s fiancé, who gets to save the day and foil the villain after Hastings muffs it. He and Joanna were going to elope and now they don’t have to, with Farley dead.

I enjoyed it all, except for the business with the letters and calling in the detective. I guess the reason — which could have been spelled out better in the script — was that the killer had to be sure that the police and the doctor’s conclusions were suicide and not murder. With Poirot as an unimpeachable witness, accompanied by a letter to prove the consultation, the verdict would be plain: Farley was dogged by suicidal thoughts (verified by his wife) and acted upon them.

It’s a minor quibble, though. You’ll enjoy this episode. It’s an excellent ending to an excellent first series of Poirot.


Murder, She Said (1961) Margaret Rutherford

Watched Friday, 16 July 2021

Fidelity to text: 2 and 1/2 garottes: The film closely follows the arc of murder in The 4:50 From Paddington but with numerous changes to everything else. Several major characters are dispensed with entirely, while a new one, Mr. Stringer, librarian/accomplice, is added.

Quality of movie on its own: 4 garottes. If you can get out of your own way and overlook how the scriptwriter played fast and loose with Agatha’s text, you’ll love this film. It’s fast paced, funny, has real moments of suspense, and lets you see two Miss Marples at once!

You know you’re in for something completely different the minute the music starts to play. It’s a bright, bouncy, lively bossa nova type score, wildly at odds with the British railway system or Agatha Christie murder mysteries. Yet there it is, accompanying a formidable old lady as she settles herself into the train compartment for the ride home. She passes the time by reading a tawdry murder mystery when she isn’t watching fellow passengers on a train gliding by alongside her own.

Then, she sees it. The shade snaps up (during the struggle) and our formidable old lady witnesses a man strangling a blonde but not quite like the movie poster implies. This blonde is fully dressed. At that point, the film diverges from the source material.

The formidable old lady is not Elspeth McGillicuddy. It’s Miss Marple herself who witnesses the crime. Dame Margaret Rutherford polarizes Miss Marple fans. You either enjoy her unique spin on Agatha’s spinster sleuth or you recoil and rewatch your collection of Joan Hickson DVDs. Margaret is pushy, bossy, obstinate, plus-size, very funny, and far more of an action girl than any other Miss Marple. Julia McKenzie’s interpretation probably comes closest but she’s not nearly as full of beans.

Since Miss Marple herself is doing the sleuthing, there’s no need for several other important characters in the novel. In addition to Elspeth, Lucy Eyelesbarrow disappears completely. She’s not needed because Miss Marple herself puts on cap, apron, and uniform and hires on at Ackenthorpe Hall as the new maid. Make sure you listen closely to Miss Marple’s conversation with the clerk at the servant’s employment agency. It’s a witty parody of how desperate the upper class was to hire someone, anyone, and what they were willing to pay. In fact, the clerk thinks — at first — that Miss Marple is looking for a maid for her own household. Once he discovers differently, his entire tune changes.

Once at Ackenthorpe Hall, a character you expect pops up: Alexander. He’s a sharp lad who gives as good as he gets. He’s also bored, since his friend from the novel, James, was written out of the plot and his father, Brian Eastley, also lost most of his scenes. Alexander spars with Miss Marple and plans to get rid of her, just like he got rid of several other servants. But she’s on to him and turns him into an unreliable ally. Because James got written out of the plot, so did his family, including the mysterious Martine connection.

Emma is present, along with her three brothers: Albert, Harold, and Cedric. They remain true to form and two of the three are murdered. Albert dies of poisoning (as in the book and the other adaptations) whereas Harold dies of a supposed suicide by shotgun (ala the Joan Hickson adaptation; it was poison in the novel). Cedric, louche painter, survives. So does Brian Eastley, Alexander’s father. Cedric gets more to do than Brian Eastley does. Dr. Quimper is also present and he wants to marry Emma.

Two servants are present: Hillman the gardener and Mrs. Kidder, the char from the village. Hillman gets a major rewrite, turning him into a more sinister figure. Mr. Ackenthorpe relies on him for both obvious reasons, but also nefarious, implied reasons. Those reasons are never clarified, an omission that the scriptwriter could have done something interesting with. Mrs. Kidder is played by our own Joan Hickson. It’s odd and amusing to see her facing off with Margaret Rutherford; two Miss Marples at different stages in their lives.

Since Miss Marple is the new maid and housekeeper, she’s the one who goes golfing and discovers the body. She, not wanting to blow her cover, doesn’t report the murder victim; she gets her accomplice, Mr. Stringer, to do that. Inspector Craddock is very surprised when he arrives at Ackenthorpe Hall to discover the dotty old spinster who reported the murder on the train is proved right. And worse, she’s on the spot, working undercover to investigate the crime. One thing holds true no matter who’s playing Miss Marple. Her relationship with the local constabulary can be fraught.

Finally, Miss Marple takes matters in her own hands. She has the musical compact, discovered earlier, stolen and then returned by Alexander. It’s the key to the killer who recognizes its song, Frère Jacques. Unlike the novel or the other adaptations, this film doesn’t provide any motive or backstory for the murders, other than inheriting more of the Ackenthorpe estate. Every bit of complexity is removed and you’re left wondering how Miss Marple is going to solve the murder. She does it and without involving fishpaste in the dining room. Instead, she has Alexander play with the compact, then takes it back to her room.

In due course, Dr. Quimper arrives and after some byplay where Miss Marple confirms his identity, he tries to murder her too. It was a great scene, full of sharp dialog and suspense.

Sadly, the movie ends very shortly thereafter. Much too shortly. There wasn’t enough ending. We never see Emma again so we never see her reaction to discovering that Dr. Quimper murdered some strange woman plus two of her brothers. We’re not given a reason why Dr. Quimper murdered the woman on the train. We must assume it’s for the same reason as in the novel: his Catholic wife wouldn’t give him a divorce so he murdered her in order to marry Emma. The reason for the other deaths is the usual one. Emma would be a much richer woman if the Ackenthorpe estate didn’t get divvied up between five surviving heirs.

Even with the inadequate ending, there’s plenty to love about this adaptation. There are little shoutouts to the novel here and there. Miss Marple’s own maid is named Lucy, possibly after Lucy Eyelesbarrow. Miss Marple deduces, based on the dead woman’s hands, that she’s not Martine, Normandy peasant. It isn’t spelled out that her hands are soft and clean, well-manicured and unacquainted with scrub brushes and mops, but that’s the implication. In the novel, the dead woman’s feet are beaten up from years of ballet, helping to identify her.

This is a lively, comic, well-acted and paced movie. As long as you don’t demand on a faithful adaptation of the novel or the standard interpretation of Miss Marple, you’ll have fun.


The King of Clubs 1989 David Suchet

Watched Wednesday, 23 June 2021

Fidelity to text: 3 blunt objects. The basic story is intact, but the changes weaken the conflict, motivations, and even the mystery. They also weaken the characters because there’s no reason to care about Valerie Saintclair’s dilemmas. I certainly didn’t care.

Quality of film on its own: 3 blunt objects. It’s serviceable, like the many, many films churned out by the film industry over the decades that are watched once and then forgotten. It’s entertaining, well-acted, gorgeous eye-candy as usual, yet you won’t care about any of the principals.

There were so many missed opportunities and unwelcome changes here. They all stem from Valerie Saintclair, our heroine and damsel in distress. In the 1923 short story, she’s a dancer in a nightclub run by a very shady, seedy man. Can you say organized crime tie-ins? Maybe Agatha didn’t write them but readers of the time would have thought of them. Seedy nightclub dancers are the very definition of unsuitable wives for princes like Prince Paul of Maurania, Valerie’s lover. They’re mistress material, born to be enjoyed and discarded. For respectable people, nightclub dancers were one step above taxi dancers and two steps above prostitutes.

In the film, set in the mid-1930’s, Valerie has morphed into a well-regarded actress. That’s still perhaps not quite respectable, but an actress in the 1930’s enjoys far more cachet than a nightclub dancer did in the 1920’s. She could conceivably marry Prince Paul and even — if it’s not a morganatic marriage —become his princess consort and watch their children inherit.

That is, if his royal family doesn’t find other reasons to object to that blonde hussy who kisses strange men in public because it’s her job. But there are other reasons, which Valerie and the louche studio head both know, although I suspect Paul does not. Remember, Valerie is an actress making her a professional liar. If she conceals her secret shame, he’ll never learn it from her. If you can fake sincerity, you can get people to believe anything you tell them.

Valerie’s family does not apparently exist. When Prince Paul asks Poirot for help in the suspicious death of the wicked studio head, he does not mention Valerie’s relatives who might be concerned that she may have murdered someone. We get plenty of evidence that Henry Reedburn is a typical studio head. He’s abusive, loud, dictatorial, a lothario (watch his interaction with his hot secretary), his manservant admits Reedburn gets routine late-night lady visitors, and he collects blackmail material to keep the talent in line. All quite routine for a studio boss, but so much more could have been done with this goldmine of material.

The mystery is likewise given short shrift. In the short story, Valerie claims that she visited a clairvoyant and was warned about the King of Clubs. That fit nicely with a seedy nightclub owner but not so much with a studio head. The visit to the clairvoyant is dropped entirely. Instead, the only King of Clubs we see is the missing card Poirot discovers from observing the bridge hands spread out on the table in the Oglander’s parlor.

Wait. Who? Why, the Oglanders are the household that Valerie escapes to in her blind panic over discovering Reedburn’s murdered body. They live in a nearby house, but not the closest house. No, it’s farther away and Valerie had to find it by running through the tangled woods in the dark in her evening gown and high heels. In a pouring down rain. Sure.

When Poirot investigates, Hastings in tow, the Oglanders are quite blasé about having a famous movie star in their house who’s escaped from some dreadful crime scene. They seem almost protective of her, despite not knowing her other than watching her kiss strangers at the pictures. Mr. Oglander is wheelchair-bound and doesn’t speak. Mrs. Oglander does the talking.

Poirot notices the family portrait from previous years: the Oglanders and their three children, two daughters and a son. He’s met the son and one daughter. Where is daughter number three? Dead or so Mrs. Oglander says.

Inspector Japp shows up to investigate and gets sidetracked from examining the crime scene by examining gypsy boots out in the woods. Reedburn had been having run-ins with a local band so they make likely suspects, made even more so because Valerie the actress insisted she saw hobnailed boots sticking out from underneath some of the floor-length draperies in Reedburn’s library. Japp ignores other evidence, as does his team of policemen.

I know darn well they had basic forensics in 1935; we saw some evidence of this in a previous episode, Four and Twenty Blackbirds. Why wasn’t Japp’s team examining the entire library, including the fancy lion-headed chairs? Because it would have prevented them discovering that the death didn’t happen the way a first glance at the body implied. I can’t stand it when otherwise intelligent characters act incompetent because the plot demands that they do.

Japp and his team of investigators completely overlook the smear of blood on one of the chairs. They don’t apparently bother to go outside and follow Valerie’s panicked escape trail through the woods to the Oglander’s house. I know that gypsies make credible suspects but I refuse to believe that Inspector Japp would ignore other evidence when dirty, thieving gypsies are hanging about. He’s too dogged (as he tells Poirot) and thorough to overlook other possibilities.

But not here.

By now, an astute viewer will have figured out that Valerie, despite her protests of virtue, had to be involved. So do the Oglanders, because they behave so oddly. One would think that drenched movie stars regularly show up on their doorstep in the middle of the night. Again, the film was so bloodless. Valerie is the missing and estranged Oglander daughter but it didn’t seem she was estranged at all.

And that brings me back to the secret that Reedburn was using to blackmail Valerie with, keeping her tied to his studio with an onerous contract and (hint, hint) favors of a personal and intimate nature. It seems that Oglander is not the family’s real name.

It’s Hawtrey. Mr. Hawtrey committed serious fraud, enough to be in the newspapers and be brought up on charges. Reedburn knew, proved when we see Poirot discover his blackmail-ready newspaper clipping collection. We don’t know if Hawtrey went to jail and later got out but we can guess that Prince Paul doesn’t know this sordid story and if his family knew, they’d be livid. Actresses are bad enough, but actresses who are involved in suspicious deaths and who are related to thieves? Quelle horreur. No wonder the family changed their name and moved away. But it’s obvious that Valerie, despite what is supposed to be a serious estrangement, has maintained close ties with her family.

Thus, using the missing card from the bridge game and the mysterious closeness between Valerie and the Oglanders, Poirot pulls the solution from out of his boutonnière vase. Valerie went to meet Reedburn but she wasn’t alone. She went with her brother. Some kind of altercation took place, resulting in Reedburn’s death. But since Reedburn was a terrible man, Valerie is a desperate and sort-of-innocent woman, and her family reunited to save her, she gets off. Her brother isn’t charged with manslaughter. She’ll marry Prince Paul of Maurania and his family will remain completely unaware of her tawdry past. Inspector Japp will be left with an unsolved crime, after harassing a bunch of innocent gypsies who had nothing to do with the case whatever.

This episode was gorgeous to watch, but it felt so bloodless. I didn’t care about Valerie’s troubles. There should have been lurid scenes set at the studio with other victims of Reedburn’s excesses. Or the Oglander family should have been more upset and traumatized with Valerie showing up on their doorstep, desperate for help from the people she abandoned when they needed her. Or the clairvoyant who told Valerie to beware the King of Clubs should have been left in, adding a much more interesting red herring.

Instead, we get serviceable and forgettable. Watch it, enjoy it, and move on to other, better films that are worth rewatching. This one isn’t.


Witness For the Prosecution 1957 standalone

Watched Friday, 9 July 2021

Fidelity to text (the stage play): 4 blunt objects. The film added flashbacks, meetings, and most of all, fleshed out Sir Wilfred’s character and added Nurse Plimsoll, doing her darnedest to manage a cantankerous patient.

Quality of movie on its own: 5 blunt objects. What a stunner; it’s beautifully shot, acted, paced, tightly scripted with snappy dialog, and features both comic relief and high courtroom drama. You even get a shot of Marlene Dietrich’s legs and get to hear her sing in a flashback, thus setting up her relationship with Leonard Vole. When you see her in that rat-infested basement cabaret, keep in mind that she was 56 during filming.

If you’ve never seen the movie, go watch it now and come back afterwards for the review. This is one of those movies (like Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant in Charade) that can only be viewed once. In all subsequent viewings, you are not watching the same movie since you know the surprise that’s coming. You’ll hear every line of dialog differently; you’ll interpret Christine’s testimony differently, and most of all, you won’t see Leonard Vole the same way. The movie will still be terrific, but the climax won’t seize you by the throat and shake you like a terrier toying with a rat.

Witness For the Prosecution has a more complex history than you may know. It began as a short story, Traitor’s Hands, written in 1925. Agatha wasn’t happy with the ending and rewrote the story as a play decades later; expanding it, updating it, and improving the ending. The film follows Agatha’s 1953 play, with added flashbacks setting up Leonard and Christine, as well as Leonard’s meetings with Emily French. And of course, Sir Wilfred gets an entire backstory that didn’t exist in the play. Sir Wilfred is in recovery from a heart attack and watching him in the courtroom, you wonder if he’s going to have another heart attack right there on the spot as he tries to save his innocent client from his evil, conniving wife’s testimony. Leonard Vole will hang for sure if he doesn’t.

Although Marlene Dietrich’s performance as Christine is what most people remember best from Witness, and she and Tyrone Power share top billing, it’s really Charles Laughton’s movie. He’s in the majority of scenes as he tries to get justice done. Watch Laughton play with his monocle. He uses it to test clients of innocence or guilt, to distract attention from something else, and at the end, he flashes it to draw attention to the murder weapon. Watch him play with his pills, organizing them into neat grids to help him think. Chaotic alignments show when he’s puzzled; when order returns, he’s worked out a solution. Watch him put the prosecuting attorney in his place and force the police inspector to recall the scars he bears from their last meeting in court. Watch him spar with Nurse Plimsoll over his health, his schedule, his naps, his bath, his cigars and brandy, and what cases are acceptable to take on. Miss Plimsoll comes around to his way of thinking right after the climax, encouraging Sir Wilfred to take the case for the defense.

Miss Plimsoll is played by Elsa Lanchester, the real-life wife of Charles Laughton. Every single scene between the two of them is suffused with good-natured humor, even when he’s being astoundingly rude. Miss Plimsoll is a very good nurse and she’s seen it all before. Or rather, she thought she had, until she gets the surprise of her life too.

A plimsoll, by the way, is a Britishism for Keds-type slip-on sneakers. The scriptwriters, Harry Kurnitz and Billy Wilder, came up with that name as a tiny, added amusement. Agatha, however, chose the name ‘Vole’ for Leonard. A vole is a small, furry rodent but it’s also a slang term for winning all the tricks in some English card games. The name fits Leonard; he’s a guy who’s always looking for the main chance, who lives off his luck, who’s always got an angle or a perfectly plausible explanation for why he’s got his hand in the cookie jar. He would never do anything so mundane as get a real job and settle down. That would be boring and beneath him, unlike, say, living off a woman. Or several women.

However, a man can be a user and a cad without being a murderer. Tyrone Power plays Leonard and if you’ve only remembered him as a slab of pretty-boy beefcake in costume dramas, you’ll be impressed. He was really good in this part, making you understand why Emily French was smitten even though she should have known better. Power was 43 when he made Witness; it was his final film as he died of a heart attack at age 44 in 1958.

Janet MacKenzie, Emily French’s housekeeper, knew better. She recognized Leonard Vole for what he was right away. She has her own reasons for accusing Leonard of murder, 80,000 of them. She’s got a great scene in the Old Bailey, sparring with both Sir Wilfred and the presiding judge. She gives them both as good as she gets, turning in another memorable performance.

Then there’s Marlene Dietrich, playing Christine. Watch the flashback carefully where she meets Leonard. It sets up her character. She’ll do just about anything to escape the ruins of Berlin. She’s singing and playing the accordion in a basement dive when they meet. Make sure to spot the poster out front. It might remind you of the role that made Marlene a star way back in 1930: The Blue Angel. Watch how she negotiates with Leonard over a spoonful of instant coffee and understand that a desperate, hungry woman will willingly trade her virtue for food, safety, warmth.

The question you’ll have, watching this flashback of when they met, is how much of what Christine says in court is real? This woman is carved from ice; remote and unemotional. Is there any passion at all under that Teutonic exterior? Does she love her much younger husband or is she merely grateful to him for getting her the heck out of Berlin? Now that he’s no longer useful, is she ready to discard him and move on? How does she really feel about Leonard’s relationship with Emily French? Marlene Dietrich did not win an Oscar for this role but she should have.

This version of Witness For the Prosecution is one of the best Agatha adaptations around. Put it on your must-see list at once and for God’s sake, don’t read the Wikipedia summary before you watch it. You don’t want to lose any of the impact of that climax.


Love From a Stranger 1947 standalone

Watched Friday 2 July 2021

Fidelity to text: 2 and 1/2 garrotes. Like the 1937 version, this film was freely adapted from Agatha’s short story Philomel Cottage and Frank Vesper’s stage play of the same name. Names, behaviors, even the time setting got reworked and the opening is wildly different.

Quality of film on its own: 3 garrotes. It could have been better. A lot better. John Hodiak ably filled Basil Rathbone’s shoes but Sylvia Sidney was too old for the part of our naïve, lottery-winning heroine. They had zero chemistry together. Part of what makes a story like this plausible is fireworks between the two leads: they’ve got to make you believe that they’re crazy about each other.

Unlike the 1937 film, this version lets you know from the first moment that murder is lurking in the wings. Women are being strangled right and left in 1901 and policemen around the globe are baffled. A serial killer is on the loose; one who doesn’t murder anonymous prostitutes. Instead, he chooses desperate, naïve, wealthy women who apparently have no other prospects. Murdering women with status definitely gets the police’s interest.

I can see why women would want to marry Manuel Cortez (a very good John Hodiak). But I couldn’t believe Cecily, our heroine, was that needy. It’s true that Cecily is obviously getting long in the tooth, but she’s got a fiancé (Nigel Lawrence) slaving away until they can marry. However, she doesn’t care. Nor did it look reasonable to me that she had no other prospects until she hit big in the French lottery. Her flat, shared with her cousin and their aunt, was plush and crowded. They dressed well. They weren’t one step away from the slum. She had a small income from a trust left by their father, enough to support them. That’s a lure all by itself.

We don’t watch any kind of backstory about her relationship with her cousin or aunt, or their supposed poverty. Instead, Cecily wakes up from a nightmare (a blatant signal of bad things to come) and is reassured by cousin Mavis that she won the French lottery. Since Cecily lived off the family trust instead of demeaning, dead-end jobs ala 1937, we also don’t understand why she’s so desperate to gad about and travel. What was stopping her? Not dire poverty.

She’s delighted with her winnings and we assume that she’s sharing with cousin and aunt, but this isn’t spelled out. Instead, I got the distinct impression that Cecily was blowing money on herself and they got some financial assistance, but not as much as you would expect. Cecily also got written up in the newspaper as a lottery winner.

The newspaper report attracts Manuel’s attention. He’s looking for a fresh victim and naïve, dopey Cecily is the perfect target. She’s thrilled by his attentions.

Then fiancé Nigel shows up, a concerned and loving man. Unlike the 1937 version, we aren’t given a reason to dislike him or approve of Cecily dumping him. He doesn’t rant and rave at Cecily for hitting big in the lottery. He doesn’t tell her that they shouldn’t travel. He’s good-looking, he’s hard-working, he doesn’t demonstrate any bad habits. In short, he’s a dream guy for 1901. But no. Again, this didn’t make sense to me. Women in 1901 virtually had to marry; an attractive woman with some money was almost guaranteed a husband. Unlike in the 1937 film, poverty didn’t stand in Cecily and Nigel’s way.

Nigel can spot a rotter when he sees one and investigates. Manuel’s background is suspiciously clean, even for 1901 when it was easy to pick up stakes, change your name, and start over somewhere else. Cecily doesn’t listen.

She was so dumb, so pliable. She did whatever Manuel told her. She showed no curiosity about his background, swallowing whatever story he told her. She didn’t notice when Manuel gave her obvious hints about his past that anyone sensible should have noticed. The audience sure does, because the opening told us he’s a Bluebeard without the beard. This kills any of the suspense, other than waiting for Cecily to wake up and smell the coffee.

The pacing was lethargic. There was plenty of time to beef up Cecily’s relationship with her cousin, aunt, and Nigel, as well as explain better why they couldn’t marry. It felt like the scriptwriter didn’t have an imagination and so Cecily was bland and dopey because the plot demanded it. Sylvia Sidney did the best she could with her part, but she wasn’t given much to work with.

The film got better near as it neared the end. Nigel kept investigating with cousin Mavis and he has the sense to involve Scotland Yard. They had more chemistry together than anyone else in the film. But of course, no one knows where Cecily and Manuel live because he told her not to tell anyone. Not so much as a postcard to her only living relatives, people with whom she lived for years, and of course, dopey Cecily agreed to live in isolation with a virtual stranger.

At last, the penny drops and Cecily begins developing a brain. Too many questionable things happen and she can’t ignore them anymore. When Manuel is racing home to murder her, you’ll be sure you know the ending. This was the biggest surprise in the movie. Once Cecily and Manuel move to the isolated cliff-side cottage, the film gives us numerous views of the ocean breaking on the rocky shore, the cliff looming overhead. You’ll be positive this scenic deathtrap plays a critical role in the climax (Chekov’s cliff in other words) and you’ll be wrong.

As expected, Nigel and the police show up in the nick of time, rescuing Cecily from her own foolishness. Manuel gets his just deserts and it’s quite gruesome for a 1947 film. And then it ends with Cecily and Nigel in a clinch without another word.

There are good things in this film. John Hodiak — his career was cut short by a heart attack at age 41 — gave a flawless performance as the seductive serial killer. There are moments of comedy with railway station clerks. There are close calls where the suspense ramps up, only to vanish like sea spray in the air. The clothes are fantastic. No real person in 1901 ever enjoyed as fabulous a wardrobe as Cecily does. Even when she was supposedly poor, she was well-dressed.  The costume designer was Michael Woulfe, largely forgotten today but he designed the most glamourous evening gowns for his stars. He did nightclub gowns too. Cecily, no matter what she’s doing, looks great. Great nightgowns, great day dresses, spectacular evening dresses, and hats to die for. You’ll have plenty of time to admire Michael Woulfe’s artistry while waiting for something to happen.

So should you spare the time for this version of Love From a Stranger? For completeness’s sake, yes. Otherwise, stick with the 1937 version. That was an uneven film, but it also was much better at explaining why the heroine chose to walk away from everyone she knew, abandon her faithful fiancé, and run off with a charismatic stranger. This one never did.


The Incredible Theft (1989) David Suchet

Watched Wednesday, 9 June 2021

Fidelity to text: 4 spies. It’s very close. The primary change (besides adding a chase scene because what is film without car chases?) is removing a few characters and substituting for them Captain Hastings, Chief Inspector Japp, and Miss Lemon. The stolen plans change slightly too, but since most of us can’t tell a bomber from a fighter on sight, it doesn’t matter. They’re airplanes. They fly.

Quality of movie on its own: 4 spies. In addition to topnotch fashion, funny lines, English Country House porn, and a touch of gratuitous nudity, you’ll get a vintage fighter plane divebombing its target! The pilot must have had a blast flying a genuine Supermarine Spitfire IX and demonstrating her maneuverability and firepower although that may have been special effects.

We open with Poirot demonstrating the proper way to keep a shine on patent leather shoes. Hastings is unimpressed as he’s trying to learn architectural terms to impress his new girlfriend. Sadly, Hastings being Hastings, it’s wishful thinking on his part. If his supposed girlfriend wanted to see him, she would, and he wouldn’t be always taking tea with her mother. There are a lot of jokes embedded in this episode’s dialog but you’ll have to pay close attention to catch them all.

Here’s one. This is Tommy Mayfield asking an important question of Sir George Carrington, MP.

“Why do politicians treat everyone else like idiots?”

“Probably because they voted for us in the first place.”

Sir George should know, since Tommy Mayfield, wealthy industrial magnate and genius aircraft designer, is proved to be an idiot. His wife, Lady Mayfield (daddy was an earl so she retains her title despite marrying a commoner), knows her beloved husband is an idiot which is why she hires Poirot to save him from himself. Poirot wants backup on this mission and thus has Hastings lurk in the nearby inn.

Sir George also knows that Tommy Mayfield is an idiot, based on his plan to salvage his reputation. That’s why Sir George has Chief Inspector Japp hiding out in the same inn until he’s needed. Naturally, being a small establishment, there’s not enough room at the inn. Hastings and Japp don’t just share a room. They share a bed. Hastings reveals to Poirot that Japp doesn’t merely talk in his sleep. He roars.

Thus everyone (other than Hastings and Japp) is assembled at a fine English Country house for drinks on the terrace, dinner, and cards afterward, and then… espionage courtesy of Mrs. Vanderlyn, American adventuress. She is the hussy Lady Mayfield is fretting over. What will happen to her husband as a result of Mrs. Vanderlyn’s machinations? Lady Mayfield is well aware of the young lord who committed suicide after his run-in with Mrs. Vanderlyn and she doesn’t want her Tommy to suffer.

Lady Mayfield wears great clothes with great hats but they’re appropriate for whatever situation you see her in, including meeting Poirot at the Penguin Pool at the London Zoo. Insert morning dress versus evening dress jokes here if you like. Poirot is, after all, underdressed compared to the penguins. That’s a rare situation for him!

 In contrast, Mrs. Vanderlyn wears fabulous clothes and is always overdressed. It’s part of her image. That slinky silver lamé dress is to die for. Then there are her fitted suits with matching hats and mink stoles. She’s got clothing just for the boudoir, a lovely confection of lace and satin. Mrs. Vanderlyn supplies intimations of gratuitous nudity when she’s strip-searched by a female constable behind privacy glass. Watch Inspector Japp trying very hard not to ogle the search and failing repeatedly.

The female constable doesn’t find anything suspicious because Mrs. Vanderlyn doesn’t make rookie mistakes. Even her gratuitous namedropping (like her overdressing) isn’t a mistake because she’s ensuring those English snobs underestimate her.

She escapes with the secret fighter plans, leading to the exciting added chase. Hastings is at the wheel of a stolen police car, following Mrs. Vanderlyn and her chauffer to the conveniently nearby English country estate being rented by the Ambassador from Germany. She drops off the stolen plans, does her Heil Hitler salute and drives off, satisfied with a job well done.

One has to wonder what her chauffer thought, watching the lady who employs him dropping off a suspicious suitcase with the German ambassador after being pursued by a police car at high speeds through the English countryside. But we aren’t told. Similarly, what does Mrs. Vanderlyn’s maid think? Mrs. Vanderlyn must have one with that stunning wardrobe to take care of but we never learn what her lady’s maid knows. We never see her lady’s maid at all.

The espionage case is swiftly solved by Poirot. It’s simple enough that Hastings could have solved it. If only two people have access to the plans, then those are the two people involved. This was not the kind of plot that involves Mission:Impossible ninjas worming their way in through the skylights and threading their way through spiderwebs of laser beams to steal the plans undetected. Ah, but are those the plans Mrs. Vanderlyn stole, you ask? Not exactly. They’re close though. Close enough that Mrs. Vanderlyn is very pleased with herself, particularly because if she had any doubts about the validity of the plans, the strip-search and being chased by a police car put them to rest. Close enough, one assumes, to fool the German high command. Close enough that all ends happily for Tommy and Lady Mayfield. Papa Poirot gives them a little lecture on communication skills and you know they’ll live happily ever after.

It’s a pity that Captain Hastings doesn’t listen to Poirot about communications skills between couples but then if he did, he wouldn’t be our captain.

For a very simple story, there’s plenty to enjoy in The Incredible Theft. With incredible clothes, great Art Deco settings, snappy dialog, and unexpected humor, this episode has it all.


Triangle at Rhodes David Suchet 1989

Watched Wednesday, 26 May 2021

Fidelity to text: 3 and 1/2 poison bottles. Changes you’d expect — Sarah Blake’s character is completely subsumed by Pamela Lyall and General Barnes becomes a younger, more interesting major with a subplot of his own — and changes you wouldn’t. Poirot is suspected of spying by the Italian authorities and gets an action-filled boat chase. Other parts of the short story are likewise amped up for film purposes.

Quality of movie on its own: 3 poison bottles. I often had a hard time following the action. I don’t speak Greek or Italian and while I can live without English subtitles, having characters yack away in Greek or Italian without explanation makes for an incomprehensible movie. This issue contributed to feeling like Poirot pulled his solution from his boutonnière vase.

This episode was the first Poirot filmed in an exotic location: the island of Rhodes. It is drop-dead gorgeous. The director took full advantage of historic buildings and glorious scenery so this movie is worth watching just for the scenery and sets. Great 1936 vintage ladies’ fashions too, from swimwear to eveningwear. Check out those beach pajamas! The gentlemen looked good too, particularly Commander Tony Chantry in his vintage one piece. You can see why Pamela (I think) discussed his resemblance to a gorilla. That was more polite, I suppose, than calling him Black Irish.

It’s just too bad that the dialog was often murky, unlike the crystal blue waters.

We open at Whitehaven Manor on a typical English morning: dreary and dank. Captain Hastings is off shooting unfortunate animals and Miss Lemon is communing with her sister. Poirot needed some sunshine and he gets it in Rhodes. He doesn’t plan on doing any detecting. Nor does he plan on being detained by the Italian police and customs.

They think he’s a spy. Being the famous Hercule Poirot doesn’t cut any ice with the local constabulary. They’ve got reason to be worried, too.

If you pay attention to what’s happening in the background, you’ll see plenty of Italian Blackshirts marching around and expecting everyone else to get out of their way. The locals don’t like them. There’s at least one huge portrait of Mussolini in the police department. The newspaper is blaring about unrest in Abyssinia. It’s plain the local police are under pressure from higher up. Rhodes is very close to the Turkish border and people are starting to be afraid of what might be coming.

Oddly, the English tourists seem oblivious. Well, except for Major Barnes, who turns out to be using his doofus persona to cover up something more nefarious. His story would have benefited from a longer film. When everyone leaves, he heads off to go ostrich hunting in Abyssinia. Sure. Why not.

Once at the hotel in Rhodes, Poirot overhears Marjorie and Douglas Gold talking. They had trouble getting to the hotel and Douglas is unhappy about them being in Rhodes. Marjorie, or so Poirot overhears, was the one who insisted they visit Rhodes rather than someplace closer to home. I think this is what happened, but again, poor enunciation and no subtitles. This scene is important because the next morning, Marjorie tells people that it was Douglas’s idea to visit Rhodes; not hers.

Uh huh. Marjorie also ruminates about how awful it is when people divorce at the drop of a hat, instead of remaining together until death do you part. She is, naturally, referring to Valentine Chantry. Chantry is Valentine’s current last name. Commander Chantry is her fifth husband and it’s doubtful that even in 1936 a woman would have been widowed four times.

Pamela, sitting at beachside with Poirot, also can’t help but notice the glamorous, much-married Valentine. She has a more interesting take: that women like Valentine don’t remain married because their husbands eventually get sick of the drama. They watch Valentine order Commander Chantry around like a flunky. To Marjorie’s distress, Valentine seduces Douglas Gold into becoming her lacky as well. Pamela and Poirot enjoy their front row seats.

It’s Pamela who draws the triangle in the sand, illustrating typical human nature. Poirot draws a more subtle conclusion. The mismatch between what he overheard the previous evening with what he hears today is concerning.

The triangle in the sand and in the title might remind you of the Colossus of Rhodes, once one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient world. Rhodes remains a crossroads in the Mediterranean, hence the presence of Italian Blackshirts and potential spies.

A lot of what you should notice about Douglas and Marjorie’s story — and thus understand Poirot’s deduction — was not presented well. He’s apparently a devout Catholic, shown by him crossing himself when approaching the icon-laden altar. Devout Catholics didn’t divorce casually in 1936, unlike what Marjorie claims she fears. Poirot comments that his faith will sustain him in difficult days to come.

Marjorie isn’t afraid of a six-foot long venomous snake, yet later on (I think) she claims to have been frightened by a bug. Again, murky dialog.

All the sideways glances, innuendo, and browbeating of unhappy spouses culminates in Valentine drinking her husband’s pink gin cocktail and dying in agony. I didn’t know that gin could be pink. Apparently, adding a dash of Angostura bitters makes the difference between some low-class sot in the East End swilling plain gin and a tuxedo-clad aristocrat in a resort in Rhodes imbibing a gin cocktail.

Commander Chantry accuses Douglas of trying to poison him, getting him out of the way so Douglas can run off with Valentine. Marjorie is even more distraught.

Poirot is not around to save the day; he’s arguing with customs over not being a spy. Unlike in England, he gets no respect from the local law at any level. This is one of the rare scenes where you’ll see Poirot get angry. Pamela frantically searches for him and since justice must be done and his boat left without him, Poirot takes the case. Just like with customs, he gets nowhere with the police. It turns out Major Barnes knows the local coroner; an Englishman who’s gone completely native. The coroner tells them that the poison was something rare and locally sourced. With no other official help, Poirot and Pamela search the souks of Rhodes looking for the source of the poison.

This is where subtitling the Greek dialog would have saved the movie. We meet the Greek girl again, the one who helped Pamela at the beginning of the episode. Greek girl speaks a few words of English but her blind grandmother doesn’t know a word. I couldn’t understand what was going on and I couldn’t figure out why the Greek girl helped Pamela at the beginning, just that she did.

Poirot saves the day using the Greek grandmother’s information. Sadly, he does not ask the question as to why she was selling snake venom poison to English tourists in the first place. Even more sadly, we don’t get a good summation of the case, leaving me to guess how he made his deductions.

It’s still a good episode, if only to see the scenery and the scenery chewing. The music is terrific. The Poirot themes are played on Eastern Mediterranean instruments adding an exotic touch. That said, it needed more explanation and better enunciation to make it a perfect episode.


The Mysterious Affair at Styles (1990) David Suchet

Watched Friday, 4 June 2021

Fidelity to text: 4 poison bottles. Some complexities are removed to streamline the story. You won’t notice them gone. What you will notice are the added scenes. We meet Hastings much earlier on, recuperating at a hospital and torturing himself with actual film footage of trench warfare. You’ll get more time with Poirot too, helping himself and other Belgian refugees acclimate to the weirdness of English country living.

Quality of movie on its own: 4 poison bottles. It works very nicely other than the sudden and unannounced time travel; well-paced, well-acted, and well-researched as to what was happening in 1917 wartime England. Notice all the women in the background doing what would have been men’s jobs just a few short years before, including several young women straining to move heavy bags of grain that would have been a one-man job. The difficulty for me, as always, was understanding the dialog.

If you’ve been watching Poirot in the order in which the films were released, then you might notice that everything suddenly looks different. Cars, trains, clothing, background characters, street vignettes, everything. Where’s that 1935 vibe? It’s gone because the producers did not film the short stories and the novels in the order in which they were written. They skipped around a bit and finally arrived here. The Mysterious Affair at Styles was the first Poirot Agatha wrote and it could not have its background setting easily rewritten for the mid 1930’s. It’s very much of its time. The war is in full swing and refugees are flooding England. Thus, we are watching a previous bygone era compared to the rest of the Poirot films.

This trip back in time should have been announced with a title card to alert the audience but it wasn’t. This is a mistake because you cannot guarantee the audience is familiar with the source material.

This film gives us more backstory about Captain Hastings when he was a mere lieutenant, fighting for the crown in the war to end all wars. Pay careful attention to the scenes in the convalescent hospital where he’s recuperating. Notice the array of injuries in the wounded soldiers. Those lads were tough to have survived that well considering their injuries. In 1917, handwashing was finally becoming recognized as a sensible thing to do and armies no longer lost half their men to poor sanitation. At least one of the background soldiers must have had terrible burns based on the bandages swathing his face.

Pay attention to the film the soldiers are watching. God only knows why someone (I’m assuming the producers paid close attention to actual convalescent hospital procedures of the time) thought it was a good idea to show shell-shocked veterans footage of more trench warfare. They’d left body parts and comrades behind in that nightmare. WWI was called the war to end all wars because it was so huge and so dreadful. In addition to the meatgrinder the soldiers endured, there were civilian casualties on a massive scale, never seen before. Artillery that could launch shells up to fifteen miles away could be used in barrages on cities as well as enemy troops. That footage you’re watching along with Lt. Hastings is real.

In previous wars such as the Civil War, if you were a few miles away from the front lines, you were not directly affected by the fighting unless family members were serving. WWI not only slaughtered civilians and soldiers by their tens of thousands, it forced entire populations to relocate.

Thus, we meet Hercule Poirot, Belgian refugee, and doing his best to become a British citizen. Everything is strange, unfamiliar, and disorganized. One person is familiar: Lt. Hastings. He and Poirot had met in Antwerp prior to the war in a case where Lt. Hastings was a suspect. I don’t know if we’ll be seeing that incident in an upcoming episode but I hope so.

When murder occurs at the Styles estate, Lt. Hastings knows who to call. Poirot arrives and begins to immerse himself in English country house living. The Cavendish/Inglethorpe family are still doing very well for themselves despite their straitened circumstances. Make sure you notice how badly lit the interior of the house is. The family dines by candlelight because they have to. It’s quite possible that in 1917, even a wealthy family would not have electricity. They’re too far away from the big city where electricity arrived first. And of course, there’s a war on.

One part of the plot that got eliminated was Mary Cavendish’s new job as a Land Girl. Those were the young women, usually upper-class, who went out to the farms to do all the work the men used to do. Great Britain still had to eat and despite the industrial revolution, it was still an agrarian nation that fed itself. It’s mentioned, but doesn’t play the role it did in the novel. That’s too bad because it’s a fascinating glimpse into culture-clash. The young women who participated had their lives changed and who knows what came from that experience?

We also lost the subplot of Mary Cavendish’s (possible) affair with Dr. Bauerstein, conveniently nearby toxicologist. Her husband John’s affair with Mrs. Raikes (widowed for the film but not in the novel) remains although he claims he’s “just helping her out with a loan”. Their story lost nuance and is another demonstration that Agatha paid attention to passion and wayward hearts.

Another piece of lost significance doesn’t have anything to do with the choices the producers made. Poirot gathers all the suspects together and delivers his summation of the crime. Normal and expected, right? Yet Agatha invented this classic mystery trope. She couldn’t write the courtroom scene to the publisher’s satisfaction, came up with this alternative method, and now, every writer in the world uses her technique where the detective tells everyone whodunnit and why.

Watching this scene, I wondered again why Alfred Inglethorpe showed up as asked. He didn’t have to. There’s more (I think) of a reason given in the novel. Here, he shows up because he’s asked. Maybe he thought it was less suspicious. A line of dialog explaining why he agreed would have been helpful.

I enjoyed the show. You will too. But if you’re new to the series or to Agatha’s novels, understand that you’ll be jumping back twenty years in time to when Poirot and Hastings met for the second time on the grounds of Styles.


Four and Twenty Blackbirds 1989 David Suchet

Viewed Wednesday, 5 May 2021

Fidelity to text: 3 and 1/2 staircases. Name changes, new characters, new situations, far more background material and eye candy (including plenty of gratuitous nudity, both painted and real), but the overall arc of the story remains, right down to motive and evidence.

Quality of movie on its own: 4 and 1/2 staircases. The changes and additions worked beautifully, enlarging and enhancing a short story into something larger. It could have been longer, though.

We open with two minor mysteries: Poirot is dining with his dentist (with whom he has a fraught relationship) and being told by the waitress about a regular who’s eating wildly out of his usual routine. Could these two mysteries be related? You bet they are. I’ll solve the first mystery for you. Poirot is eating dinner with his dentist because — other than professionally — he likes the man. Also, Dr. Bonnington likes to see the results of his work in action.

They’re enjoying dinner and speculating why a regular customer of extremely regular habits would disrupt his regular routine. Molly, the chatty waitress, is mystified and wants an opinion. She’s waited on this man every Wednesday and Saturday for decades and he’s never done anything differently before. Poirot, being Poirot, has his curiosity piqued. A few days later, he discovers that the diner has died, supposedly from a fall down the stairs. The nosy neighbor ladies noticed the accumulation of milk bottles although the milkman did not.

I thought that was a mistake, because I would have thought the milkman would leave a note or something and pick up the unopened bottles as they stacked up like dead soldiers. Milkmen, like mailmen, see everything on their route and they know their customers’ habits. Like mailmen, they expect notes from their customers about changes in delivery. Don’t miss that the horse hauling the milk-truck is ambling down the street, apparently unattended, while the milkman runs up and down, delivering and picking up the bottles. The horse knows the route as well as his master does.

I used to have milk delivered to my home decades ago in Norfolk when a local dairy still did delivery. They collected the empty bottles to reuse them. More importantly, milk left standing out on the stoop goes sour fast so I don’t believe they liked leaving them hanging around. Sour milk discourages other potential customers from signing up. That milk, by the way, was far better than any supermarket milk I’ve ever bought. I also purchased (from the dairy) an insulated metal box to sit on my front stoop to keep the milk cold. Sadly, having your milk placed inside a metal box ensures the neighbors don’t see a suspicious accumulation of milk bottles and thus they do not investigate to see if you’ve fallen down the stairs.

But anyway, that’s what twigged the neighbors to call the local bobby. They make the dreadful discovery and we’re off.

Poirot discovers that the old man was a good painter who refused to sell his paintings. That leads to the unspoken conclusion that he had money because if Henry Gascoigne wasn’t selling paintings, then he had to be paying his bills some other way. If there’s money hanging around unattended, then someone will be looking for it. Further investigation reveals the painter’s agent, his model, Miss Dulcie Lang, and eventually, his estranged brother, Anthony Gascoigne, and a nephew, George Lorrimer.

The estrangement between fraternal twin brothers was interesting and more could have been done with it. Henry painted his brother Antony’s wife nude. Was that the reason? Or was it something else? Or both? A bit of backstory would be welcome here, just because I’m always curious about these things. This painting added a second nude woman to the episode in addition to Dulcie Lang, nude model.

I always notice when we get nude female models for artists and not nude male models. There’s plenty of nudity in this show, including Miss Lang herself, seen posing from above. Poirot appreciates the view and moves on about his business. Hastings is conflicted; wanting to gape over the railing with his tongue hanging out and drooling over that hot nekkid redhead while at the same time, remaining a perfect gentleman and pretending he didn’t see a thing.

According to the agent and the model, Henry Gascoigne’s paintings were valuable but couldn’t be sold because he disapproved. With him dead, they can be. Since Henry also had a decent-sized estate, then this is evidence that his fall down the stairs might have been helped along.

But the twin brother who hated him is also now dead, and without a will too. Mrs. Hill, Anthony Gascoigne’s housekeeper, nurse, and companion, is angry and bitter and well she should be. She’s an older woman with presumably no family of her own and now that her employer’s dead, she’s jobless, homeless, and has no legacy to help her out in her own old age. She tells Poirot all about it and mentions the nephew who inherits everything.

Miss Dulcie Lang who probably needs the money (how much does nude modeling pay?) is adamant. She won’t sell her Gascoigne paintings.

The trail leads to the nephew, George Lorrimer. He’s a music hall impresario so you’ll enjoy vignettes of a music hall’s rehearsals, complete with nearly nude dancers. They’re actually wearing skimpy (for 1934) bathing suits. You’ll also enjoy the comedy act being rehearsed.

There’s so much to see in this episode. The Art Deco buildings and interior décor alone are worth the price of admission. Then, because the story revolves around an artist and his model, you’ll get fine art, including a Miró that Poirot appreciates but Hastings does not. There’s also the development of forensics by Scotland Yard, which permits Inspector Japp to enter the scene and comment on how detective work is changing. Poirot uses the forensics department to trap his murderer, or rather, to prove his theory. He knows, with his little gray cells, but knowing isn’t proof.

Hastings and Miss Lemon have their moments in the sun as well. Hastings, in particular, gets to blather on about cricket. His speeches on the subject were unintelligible to me, a non-cricket fan. It reminded me that in Douglas Adam’s universe, cricket is considered by most sentient galactic beings as being in rather bad taste. Poirot has the last laugh about cricket, astounding Hastings and everyone else.

We also, at the end, return to the beginning and Poirot and his dentist. Teeth have a lot to do with solving the mystery. Teeth are why, after Poirot examines Henry Gascoigne’s body in the morgue, he suspects murder. Teeth are one of the clues used in solving it.

You’ll enjoy this episode. David Suchet is in top form as Poirot, the story is tight and well-paced, and the eye candy is top-quality. My only quibble is it could have been longer; more about the brothers’ estrangement, more scenes in the music hall, more scenes with Miss Dulcie Lang, hot redhead, and how Hastings didn’t know what to do with himself when she was in the same building.


The Secret Adversary 1983 Francesca Annis and James Warwick

Watched Friday, 11 June 2021

Fidelity to text: 4 and 1/2 guns. This little wonder is the closest adaptation of the novel you’ll find anywhere. Scene for scene, line for line, this movie is faithful to the point of being weighed down. Novels are often simplified for filming because film is such a different medium. It’s also a medium that doesn’t let the viewer go back when something is unclear. Or at least, it didn’t until the advent of tapes and now DVDs where the viewer can rewind and rewatch an unclear section. But backtracking to figure out a complex bit of plot tosses one right out of the story and back onto the couch.

Quality of movie on its own: 3 guns. Flat and lackluster when it should be racing along vroom, vroom, vroom. Despite being an espionage thriller involving the potential collapse of the British government, kidnapping, and terrorists, Tommy and Tuppence outings should be sparkling, frothy, light as air. This film, sadly, was not. It’s fine. It’s competent. But it never came to life for me.

I’ve now sat through three versions of The Secret Adversary and I have to say this: no filmmaker has yet to do justice to the novel. This adaptation, with Francesca Annis as Tuppence and James Warwick as Tommy is exceedingly faithful yet it didn’t catch the spirit of the novel. They’re young adventurers, footloose and fancy-free. Francesca as Tuppence does an admirable job. James Warwick is … stiff. He resists the call to action that Tuppence leaps after — like a trout after a well-tied fly — yet I don’t recall him being so stodgy in the novel. Yes, he tries to rein in Tuppence but he’s excited too. He’s having fun and showing off for the damsel.

In this film, it feels like Tommy’s merely doing his duty to Tuppence and England. At least he’s being a man about it unlike David Walliams in his version of The Secret Adversary (terrible! Don’t watch it!) where he portrayed Tommy as being less manly than Homer Simpson. I do sense, in this production, that Tommy fought bravely in the war and endured terrible things. Nonetheless, he’s still young, male, fit, and bursting with hormones and that should be demonstrated onscreen.

It’s the actor, not the role, because Tommy has many opportunities to play the stalwart action hero, quick with a quip, his fists, and a handy lantern. He doesn’t even have to take his shirt off to provide the audience with gratuitous nudity and fan service. He rises to the occasion, but there’s always this sense of distance as if Tommy is wishing he were in his quiet garden deadheading roses, instead of doing what he must. You’d almost believe Tommy was lying back, closing his eyes, and thinking of England.

Julius P. Hersheimmer is much livelier than Tommy despite the actor (Gavan O’Herlihy) attempting a dreadful Texas accent. Wikipedia and Internet Movie Database disagree on where he was born (Hollywood or Dublin but in either case, he’s got Irish parents) so perhaps the accent issues arose naturally. Any problems Julius suffers in the script stem from Agatha herself having difficulties writing plausible Americans.

There is one “big name” in the production and that’s Honor Blackman, one of the first Bond Girls. She plays (who else?) the aging femme fatale and adventuress Rita Vandemeyer. Having an actress on hand like Honor Blackman is the reason to rewrite the source material so she can strut her stuff more than merely what the text says. What is Rita Vandemeyer’s backstory? Why is she so desperate for money? How did she meet the mysterious Mr. Brown? Does she have any loyalties to anyone? All fascinating questions that must be answered by the fanfiction writers of the world since the producers didn’t bother.

Well, they wouldn’t, since they were staying true to the text.

If The Secret Adversary gets remade again (assuming it isn’t butchered like the 2015 version) the producers should seize the opportunity and expand Ms. Vandemeyer’s role. She’s fascinating and enjoys the kind of louche life Tuppence wants if only her moral scruples didn’t get in the way. Ms. Vandemeyer has no moral scruples. Sadly, age is catching up with Ms. Vandemeyer which is the only reason Tuppence got the drop on her. That must be the reason she entertains Tuppence’s suggestion that she accept a huge payout and vanish to a quiet, anonymous life where she can grow old and safely deadhead her roses in peace.

Or not! For the likes of Rita Vandemeyer, dying in the saddle might be the preferred option to a long, slow decline.

There is a lot to like about this movie despite the lack of effervescence. The producers went all out on settings, accessories, clothes, even a jaunty score. Those glorious vintage limousines, all Rolls-Royces, I assume. One scene after another at the Ritz making me wish I could time-travel back to 1919 and stay there despite the lack of central heating. Those sumptuous meals complete with sparking crystal and glittering chandeliers and white-gloved waiters.

And the clothes. Oh my God, the clothes. Tuppence, despite her poverty, is a very snappy dresser as is Rita Vandemeyer. So are Tommy, Julius, and everyone else, including various background low-life thugs who still manage to look snazzy. Notice how Tommy, despite his stated poverty, still owns evening wear. He could have pawned his tuxedo, but he hasn’t had to sink that low. Not yet.

One point about the clothes. In 1919, flappers had yet to show up on the scene which is why you don’t see any cloche hats, fringe, or shingled bobs. Most people, unless they were very rich, were making do with older clothes or altering them to fit the changing fashion. Fashions were changing radically compared to pre-war days, becoming lighter in weight, shorter, and less heavily ornamented. For ladies, that meant raising hemlines and removing excess fabric to stay in style. It’s surprising how much a dress can be remade if you’re skilled with a needle and willing to take the garment apart by ripping every single seam. Once you’ve done that, iron every scrap and then recut a new dress using only the least worn pieces of cloth. New clothing was costly so someone flat broke like Tuppence, despite the gorgeous wardrobe you see her wearing, would have done just that. Once you’ve made over a dress into the current fashion, the matching hat gets constructed from the scraps.

That’s why I couldn’t buy that scene where Tommy and Julius come across the little girl on the beach wearing Tuppence’s clothes. Virtually any child (other than a very wealthy one) would have known, coming across flotsam like an expensive, lace-trimmed dress and hat, to pick it up and bring it straight home to mother. Yes, all that cloth and trim would have been worn again but only after it was carefully washed and remade. It would not have become a child’s dress-up outfit for the beach. Mom or big sister would have gotten first dibs. This would even be true of a governess, nanny, or maid for much the same reasons. A new dress? Well worth the hours it would take to remake a free piece of salvage.

Notice also Tuppence’s astonishing and openly worn cosmetics (those eyebrows!). Before the war, that kind of ostentatious makeup was the hallmark of prostitutes and actresses. A vicar’s daughter like Tuppence would have never worn that sort of paint in public. Times changed.

Do you wonder how Tuppence, poor vicar’s daughter but still a member of the gentry, could have successfully posed as a maid for Rita Vandemeyer? Tuppence, like most other members of the gentry and higher up, had watched plenty of maids in action. She imitated what she saw when posing as Rita Vandemeyer’s new maid. Rita bought Tuppence’s story because it was true. Girls like Tuppence had to take whatever respectable work they could find after the war. Plenty of upper-class women accepted whatever story they were told simply to get a servant. Too many former housemaids had discovered the benefits of factory work where you got to go home at the end of the day.

All in all, The Secret Adversary is worth watching. It’s a great period piece and easy on the eyes. But I wouldn’t necessarily watch it a second time.


The Third Floor Flat (1989) David Suchet

Watched Wednesday, 12 May 2021

Fidelity to text: 4 guns. The additions fleshed out a skimpy story and improved the victim’s motivations. They also include Miss Lemon as ministering angel, the play The Deadly Shroud, and a few other changes to the characters. We also get a far more dramatic chase scene at the climax.

Quality of movie on its own: 4 guns. Everything worked beautifully and you get a really nice set of interiors for Poirot’s apartment building, including its inner workings. What didn’t I like? How the film and Poirot treated Mildred, Pat’s friend.

We open with Poirot shrouded under a towel, breathing in steam. He’s got a dreadful cold, all’s wrong with the world, and he needs stimulation to keep his little gray cells from deteriorating still further. Hastings suggests they see a play, The Deadly Shroud. Poirot agrees and is rewarded with an idiot playwright who does not play fair with the audience. Poirot guesses wrong (!) as to who the murderer is and ends up owning 10 quid to Hastings at the end of the evening.

We also meet Ernestine Grant, newly moved into the lovely Art Deco apartment building, Whitehaven Mansions. She takes a flat one floor down from Pat’s flat and two floors down from Poirot. She’s still unpacking but that doesn’t stop her from introducing herself to the neighbors overhead. She doesn’t actually meet Pat (or Mildred) but she does complain about the noise they’re making, dancing up a storm to loud music on the gramophone. She slips a letter under their door, demanding a meeting. Ernestine also meets a mysterious stranger wearing very stylish brown wingtips. She knows who he is, even if the audience does not. Not yet.

The play and the new neighbor do not improve Poirot’s cold or his concern about losing his faculties. What he needs is murder and he gets it and, even better, it’s next door and that very evening.

That evening while Poirot and Hastings are attending the theater and watching the badly written play, so are Pat and Donovan (couple #1) and Mildred and Jimmy (couple #2) going to the theater. Conveniently, they all attend the same production, giving them something to discuss later on.

Poirot and Hastings come home from the theater, Poirot complaining about idiot playwrights who don’t play fair with the audience. His cold remains unimproved.

Pat and Donovan and Mildred and Jimmy also come home from the theater but their evening doesn’t go smoothly either. Pat’s key is missing. The building’s concierge has gone home for the night. The gentlemen spring into action and decide to break into Pat’s fourth-floor flat by smuggling themselves up in the coal freight elevator. It was designed to deliver loads of coal to each of the flats so it can easily support the weight of two adult men.

No fire escapes, I guess, a shocking lapse in public safety. Or Pat didn’t want her windows broken.

The gentlemen arrive in Pat’s kitchen, the lights don’t work, and then they make the shocking discovery that they are not in Pat’s flat. Somehow, the lads miscounted and they’re in the flat below. More shockingly, the flat is occupied by a dead body, blood on the floor. The police are called.

Since Poirot lives in Whitehaven Mansions, he and Hastings are conveniently on the scene. He, naturally, steps in to see what’s going on. Inspector Japp (replacing Inspector Rice in the short story) locates obvious clues in the form of a letter in the victim’s pocket and a monogrammed handkerchief and decides the case is cut and dried. Whoever J.F. is, he shot Mrs. Grant at close range. Poirot is more suspicious; not about the shooting but about the identity of the shooter.

It’s so convenient when the murderer leaves obvious cluse to his identity at the scene of the crime. Almost like a badly written play, one would say.

Looking back on the episode, it’s readily apparent that Poirot figured out almost immediately who had done what. Motivations and proof took longer to work out. Watch for his misdirection: it’s classic Poirot.

The denouement includes the villain’s very self-serving sob story. Keep in mind as you watch that we only have his word for what happened. We have no idea what Ernestine Grant would have actually done after moving into the flat underneath Pat’s flat. We know only one thing for sure and that is that Ernestine Grant moved into the building that day, only to be shot later that evening. We have no proof of anything else the murderer claims.

There’s plenty to enjoy in this episode. The theater scenes are especially engaging, with hammy acting and beautifully dressed patrons enjoying the scenery chewing. There’s an old lady operating a tea stand in front of Poirot’s building when Ernestine Grant moves in. She provides tea to the movers. We meet her again, when the villain escapes by stealing Hastings’ beloved Lagonda motorcar and crashes it into her tea stand. Miss Lemon, doing her darnedest to get Poirot to breathe in helpful steam. Longsuffering Inspector Japp, managing nosy neighbors, needs proof and not speculation.

What didn’t I like? How Mildred, Pat’s friend was treated. She’s an average-looking brunette. She’s a good friend; that’s clear from the opening scenes with Pat. They double-date at the theater. Pat goes with Donovan who wants to marry her, while Mildred’s date is Jimmy.

Unfortunately, Pat is a hot, vivacious blonde whereas Mildred is an average-looking, more sedate brunette. So for that matter is Ernestine Grant. You know what that means in Hollywood. Ernestine Grant’s fate is to serve as murder victim. Mildred’s fate is to vanish completely from the second act even though she must be staying with Pat! Why isn’t she on the scene after the murder, right below Pat’s flat is discovered? Because no matter what Hollywood likes to claim about diversity, sedate, average-looking brunettes don’t count in the grand scheme of things.

They count so little that when the motivation of the murderer is revealed, Poirot asks Jimmy about his attractions toward Pat. Not the woman he escorted to the theater, Mildred. No, it’s Pat who was planning to marry Donovan. Pat needs Jimmy’s strong, manly support in the upcoming trauma of police investigation, newspaper coverage, and trial. Mildred doesn’t just vanish from the scene. She loses her friend and her boyfriend.

Couldn’t Mildred help Pat cope with the trauma? Apparently not. It’s her fate as an average-looking, sedate brunette with an unattractive name to not matter. She gets disappeared even though it doesn’t make any sense. Where did Mildred go? If the scriptwriter had time in 50 minutes to write a completely superfluous scene with the movers asking the tea lady to have a hot cuppa ready for them, the scriptwriter had time to show Mildred onstage with Pat, helping her cope with the shock of who her fiancé truly was.

Or, the scriptwriter could have had Jimmy say he likes Pat well enough, but he’s in love with Mildred.

But no, that’s not what happens because average-looking brunettes with unattractive names don’t rate happy ever afters. Those are reserved for hot, vivacious blondes. Average-looking brunettes remain spinsters and adopt a whole lot of cats as they age, all alone, because they don’t rate a husband unless they dye their hair blonde.

If you don’t have a problem with this issue, you’ll enjoy The Third Floor Flat. If you do, well, you won’t be surprised at what happens to Mildred. It’s business as usual for Hollywood.


Murder on the Links David Suchet 1996

Watched Friday, 18 June 2021

Fidelity to text: 3 knives. There are the usual changes to simplify a complex plot which work. Then there’s the major change which did not work for me because it made the ending wildly unbelievable. Bad Anthony Horowitz (the screenwriter). Bad Anthony. What were you thinking? Do you really believe a woman would do that? I couldn’t buy that ending. I just couldn’t.

Quality of move on its own: 3 knives. Gorgeous, gorgeous scenery, lovely music, a girl singer, old sins having long shadows, and it was … flat. Flat as a golf course, you might say. That is, it has its ups and downs and sand traps and frustrations, yet there’s still plenty to enjoy as long as you don’t find golfing to be a good walk spoiled and you can accept characters being idiots because the script tells them to.

The Murder on the Links was Agatha’s second Poirot novel and her third book. She’s growing as a writer, working out the tropes, and you can see a steadily surer hand in planting clues. One of the interesting points about Links is that the novel was inspired by a real crime, something Agatha only did twice (the other was Murder on the Orient Express which took its inspiration from the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby). In this case, it was a French crime of the century involving Marguerite Steinheil, adventuress, and my word did that woman live a life of adventure. She got away with murder too.

The film opens with newsreel footage of a dramatic murder. If you’re paying close attention, this scene may give the game away early. Then, ten years later, we’re in a French train station. Poirot looks around and deduces exactly what kind of holiday Hastings has arranged. It’s clear from the crowds around them that Deauville in 1936 is not the place Poirot would have ever chosen. His idea of exercise is a stroll along the boulevard while putting his little gray cells through their paces. Deauville is, based on the numerous tennis rackets, bags stuffed with golf clubs, and bicycles, dedicated to lé sport. There’s also serious swimming (marvel at that swimming facility; my local YMCA never looked that good) both in pools and in the frigid ocean (in May!). There are probably equestrian activities outside of town along with cricket fields since there are plenty of English citizens roaming the streets of Deauville. Sweat will be involved, something Poirot abhors. Watch Hastings attempt to dissemble about his ulterior motives and be easily seen through by the master.

We also meet the Renauld family. Paul, the patriarch, is in danger and asks Poirot for help. We, the audience, saw that newsreel but Poirot has not, so we already know that Paul has a criminal past. I’m still undecided if this change helped the film or not. Anthony Horowitz couldn’t assume the audience read the book and he had a lot of material to condense and cram into an hour and thirty-four minutes.

The script follows the novel again until we reach the character of Isabel (Bella) Duveen. In the novel — I’ll wait while you read it — Captain Hastings meets Cinderella on the train. She’s a flapper (the novel is set in 1923), mouthy, forward, everything the good captain finds shocking. She’s also a pretty redhead and he’s deeply conflicted. Cinderella’s real name is Dulcie Duveen and, in the novel, she’s Bella Duveen’s identical twin sister.

In the film, Dulcie is dispensed with altogether. Instead, Captain Hastings watches Isabel Duveen sing sad songs on the hotel’s stage. He’s smitten, despite her not being a redhead. Isabel discovers that Hastings is involved in investigating the murder of Paul Renauld and she pumps him for clues. Why does she do this? In the novel, Isabel (or Bella) has been carrying on an on-off affair with Jack Renauld. There’s confusion over who actually murdered Paul Renauld, Jack’s stepfather (father in the novel but there was a lot of time shifting so we’ll let that pass).

Why does this matter? It matters because in the novel, Bella and Jack are still in love despite his affair with Marthé Daubreuil. They’re both ready to face the guillotine in order to save the other. Poirot solves the case, true love triumphs and the estranged lovers, having proved their devotion to each other, are reunited. Captain Hastings, after various travails, runs off to Argentina with Bella’s twin sister, Dulcie Duveen. He makes a few more appearances in future Poirot novels but Agatha got what she wanted: a legitimate reason to make Hastings disappear unless she needed him for plot purposes.

In the film, there’s only Bella Duveen. She’s estranged from Jack (sensible girl) but apparently, she’s still got strong feelings for him. They are strong enough that she’s ready to go to guillotine to save him. He, in turn, is ready to die to save her. This is despite the fact that Jack’s carrying on with the girl next door, Marthé Daubreuil to the point of marriage. And, at the same time Bella’s trying to save that cad Jack, she is falling in love with Captain Hastings!

I can completely accept Captain Hastings falling madly in love with Bella Duveen, despite her not being a redhead. I cannot accept that Bella, estranged from Jack for what seem to be very good reasons, is willing to die to save him and then, when he’s saved, she runs off to Argentina with another man. I could accept her leading Hastings on in order to save Jack, but if she’s going to do that, she also needs to reconcile with Jack.

This did not make any sense to me. Jack’s planning on marrying Marthé yet Bella’s still carrying enough of a torch to save him by lying about a murder she did not commit but then she turns around and spurns him? Really? This is characters behaving stupidly because the plot demands it. I expect better from a writer of Anthony Horowitz’s stature. He knows how to plot.

Everything else worked pretty well, other than not acknowledging how many servants — including a cook — it takes to run a mansion like the Renauld’s. I really enjoyed the verbal sparring between Poirot and the French detective, M. Giraud. They make a bet as to who will solve the crime and there’s a lovely scene when you’re sure Poirot has conceded victory to his rival. The time changes, location changes, even the addition of the bicycle race are all competently handled. But the film remains … a bit flat.

Maybe more sparkle would have let me accept Bella Duveen acting like an idiot. No, probably not. That said, this is still a worthwhile film, and if you’re watching all the adaptations, you should watch this one too. If you don’t know the novel, you may be able to swallow Bella Duveen’s self-sacrifice followed immediately by her choosing another man. I couldn’t.


The Adventure of Johnnie Waverly 1989 David Suchet

Watched Wednesday, 21 April 2021

Fidelity to text: 3 ransom notes (no murder takes place). It’s close. The major change is having Mr. Waverly hire Poirot before the kidnapping rather than afterwards. It makes sense because films demand immediate action and he’s a worried father who wants to forestall a terrible crime to his only son and heir.

Quality of movie on its own: 3 ransom notes. It looks great, it’s well-acted, it’s got some great scenes, but it was also a missed opportunity. So much more could have been done with the tension between Mr. and Mrs. Waverly. She controls the purse strings and he resents it.

Waverly Hall is a gorgeous example of what generations of time, tons of money, and exquisite taste can do when building the proper country estate for the family. It’s also costly to maintain as evidenced by the abandoned scaffolding right by the front door. This was a missed opportunity. Mrs. Waverly controls the money, not Mr. Waverly. He, as is customary with both gentry and peerage, married Mrs. Waverly for her dowry. He needed the money and she wanted to marry up in the world.

Yet they don’t agree on how to spend the money. Tredwell, the butler, later tells Poirot that Mrs. Waverly doesn’t understand how things should be done, such as proper staffing of the mansion. He is implying that Mrs. Waverly wasn’t brought up properly, like a member of the gentry would have been. When Poirot and Captain Hastings have dinner, the food is parceled out like it’s been counted. If you grew up poor, you know what I mean. Four people for dinner meant four hamburgers and if you wanted seconds, you ate more of the (cheap) mashed potatoes or the cheaper soup made from yesterday’s leftovers and today’s vegetable scraps.

In other words, Mrs. Waverly counted out (cheap) potatoes! To guests!

Mrs. Waverly’s scrimping is even more apparent at breakfast. It’s kedgeree, a dish brought to England from India by returning British colonials. It’s supposed to be boiled rice mixed with cooked, flaked fish, boiled eggs, butter and cream, parsley, curry powder, and raisins. Yeah, that’s for breakfast and so much tastier I’m sure than baked beans on cold toast. But Hastings can’t find anything in the kedgeree other than rice. Plain boiled rice and for guests! This is serious penny-pinching but we’re never told why Mrs. Waverly is so cheap. There must be a reason.

Knowing that reason would have been fascinating. This was the scriptwriter’s chance to shine and fill out what is a very skimpy story. Did Mrs. Waverly resent being married off for her money? She’s the reason the mansion is short-staffed according to the butler. According to Hughes, the builder, Mrs. Waverly is the reason the restorations on Waverly Hall were stopped. Did she resent paying for expensive redecorating? Or did she so dislike spending money, she was okay with letting the roof leak and water and mildew destroy the ancestral home of her despised husband?

We aren’t told. What makes this weird and obviously wrong is that the Waverlys act like a happy couple. There’s not so much as a cross glance between them, despite how poorly they feed invited guests and how the front of the Hall looks like a construction zone. There must be conflict between the two of them — any marriage counselor will tell you how money issues will tear a couple apart like nothing else — and yet we get nothing.

It didn’t feel right. It felt even less right when Poirot reveals who the kidnapper had to be, since every clue pointed towards the only person capable of this inside job. 70,000£ is a pretty darn good motivation. The sudden acquisition of 70,000£ being spent on renovations would be deeply suspicious. If Mr. Waverly had to stop renovations because his dear wife wouldn’t pay for them and she pays close attention to spending, then wouldn’t she notice?

Believe me, I’d notice if my dear husband suddenly began contacting builders to reside the house with cement-fiberboard siding, install new windows, completely gut the kitchen and dining room, and add a fireplace when I know there’s no money to do so.

The only part of the Waverly relationship that rang true was they both loved their son.

There was plenty to like about this episode. Miss Lemon and her miracle filing system was amusing as well as so useful. She demonstrated again why she’s the perfect secretary for a man as obsessed with order as Poirot.

Chief Inspector Japp gave Mr. Waverly a sensible speech about why the police don’t have a pre-crime department. People make threats all the time and never follow through. You’d have to, as Poirot tells Mr. Waverly afterwards, hire a policeman to shadow every citizen every day to have an effective pre-crime department. Pre-crime departments would have their own problems as shown in the movie Minority Report. What if your pre-crime department is wrong? And would you, dear taxpayer, like to pay for this kind of police state?

We got to see more of Captain Hastings and his passion for motorcars. We got to see Poirot interacting with the British countryside in all its messy, weedy, disorganized glory. We got to watch them indulge in a singalong while driving down country lanes! Hugh Fraser plays Captain Hastings and he does a good job portraying an amiable idiot.

In the end, though, the problem with this episode is the central mystery and it’s not Johnnie Waverly’s little adventure. It’s the relationship between his parents. That part of the story needed far more detail than what we got. It was opaque, opaque enough that Hercule Poirot with his little gray cells could not penetrate the veil of mystery concealing the relationship between Mr. and Mrs. Waverly.


The Man in the Brown Suit 1989 standalone

Watched Friday 28 May 2021

Fidelity to text: 4 guns. It’s amazingly close. The main changes were shifting the time to the present day and moving to Cairo and the east coast of Africa. The film was shot in 1988 so what was then contemporary is now an 80’s celebration of big hair, shoulder pads, and aerobics workout clothing. The ladies (and the gentlemen) looked great and then came the 90’s and the dreariness of grunge.

Quality of movie on its own: 4 guns. Don’t believe what you read elsewhere; believe me instead! I was expecting to hate this movie and I didn’t. Not at all. If you can relax and accept Rue McClanahan reprising her role as Blanche Devereaux from Golden Girls, er, I mean Suzy Blair, you’ll have fun.

I sat down for this film not knowing anything other than the cast (the girl detective from Remington Steele? Blanche Devereaux? The Equalizer? The White Shadow? Felix Unger? Really?) and the date change. I’m very familiar with the novel and was expecting a painful movie.

The novel (which you should read) is one of Agatha’s forgotten books, yet it shouldn’t be. It’s as much a romance as a thriller, involving murder, stolen diamonds, political intrigue, mistaken identity, and that’s just for openers.

Anne Beddingfeld is alone in the world, highly romantic, and desperate for adventure. She’s also prone to lengthy internal monologues where she works out the troubles she’s placed herself in. This works in a novel because when you read, you’re permitting other characters to take up residence inside your skull. In the movies? Not so much. Movies don’t go in for lengthy internal monologues or narration; they want snappy dialog and action. Yet the scriptwriter (Carla Jean Wagner) managed to make it work.

Anne (Stephanie Zimbalist) talks to herself, thus keeping the viewer knowing what’s going on in her thoughts. She talks to everyone else. She wears her heart on her sleeve. She wants to live and not go back to her boring, lonely job working at Blockbuster Video (the late 1980’s, remember?) in the mall in Buffalo. She’s such a romantic wannabe adventuress that she gets her and her best friend, Valerie, stranded in the Cairo airport. Valerie flies back to Buffalo in a huff. She leaves Anne behind and trying to discover who just killed (on purpose?) a stranger by frightening him enough to run out into traffic.

We’re off to the races, yet it’s oddly plausible. Of course Anne still has her luggage consisting of mix and match casuals; Valerie threw the duffle bag at her in the Cairo airport. She gets into trouble with the Egyptian police so who else but a representative from the American Embassy would show up to bail her out and put her on a flight back to Buffalo? It’s natural that Anne is broke so when adventure calls, she cashes in her Buffalo plane ticket and maxes out her credit cards to buy a ticket on the Kilmorden Castle in steerage. Well, not really. As the travel agent says — remember those? — it’s called tourist class these days.

The Kilmorden Castle is a smaller cruise ship of the type designed to travel from Cairo, down the Suez Canal, around the Horn of Africa to Mombasa and back. Not every cruise ship is designed to carry 2,000 passengers plus captain and crew. Many are considerably smaller, to serve smaller routes, but they all have steerage, er, tourist class accommodations. Every ship has space below the waterline so why not rent out those berths? Otherwise, they sit empty, not bringing in any money.

Thus, Anne’s onboard the Kilmorden Castle at last and who should she meet but Blanche Devereaux, the guy from the American Embassy who tried to ship her off to Buffalo, Sir Eustace Pedler, and some other, more suspicious passengers. She also meets the man in the brown suit. Their meeting is right out of the novel as well as tens of thousands of other torrid romance novels that followed in Agatha’s footsteps: he’s handsome, studly, injured, escaping from danger, and his injury requires him to show off his manly bare chest so Anne can treat his wounds.

Yes, folks, Agatha Christie developed a classic romance trope back in 1924.

She didn’t describe his manly chest. She didn’t even state that Anne stripped off his shirt, but every careful reader knew: you can’t bandage wounds over top of clothing. Those clothes have to go. Agatha was a romantic at heart, seething with passion, and knew very well how compelling an unsuitable man can be. Your brain shuts off, the hormones take over, and you’ll believe the most ridiculous story because, well, it’s him telling you the absurd story and not the boring guy from Accounting.

This is why, gentlemen, you should lift weights. Then when you take off your shirt, you’ll get noticed in a way you didn’t think would happen. Ladies do notice a manly, chiseled chest and well-shaped biceps. This is an achievable goal, no plastic surgery needed; just time, effort, and pushups.

But back to the ship. The film follows the novel pretty closely, other than simplifying the plot and moving to the east coast of Africa. There’s still the mysterious Colonel, a Moriarty of crime involved in gunrunning, drug-running, and gem smuggling. All the political stuff, economic fallout, and worker riots vanish. The scriptwriter didn’t feel the need to add more plot to a storyline that’s already stuffed full.

The mysterious Colonel has his own henchmen. This gives Tony Randall the chance to appear as four different characters, two of them in drag. Yes, folks, Agatha Christie was once again at the cutting-edge way back in 1924. I will agree that cruise ship passengers back in 1924 or even 1989 would be more likely to be fooled by a man in a dress than they would be today. Back then, well, you were looking at a tallish, ugly woman because what else could it be? There are a lot of us around. Tony Randall is five foot eight, so it worked. It wouldn’t have worked if, say, Ken Howard (6 foot 6 and 3/4 inches) tried to play the same role. He plays Colonel Race instead.

I must single out Edward Woodward (the Equalizer). He plays Sir Eustace Pedler and he’s perfect. Think Bertie Wooster all growed up and in a position of authority. His secretary, Underhill, isn’t Jeeves, having a secret life of his own and Jeeves had none, but there are undercurrents. As in the novel, Underhill’s intense respectability ends up causing trouble for Sir Eustace. Sir Eustace was based on a real person, Major E. A. Belcher. Major Belcher sponsored Agatha and Archie’s yearlong, round-the-world cruise in 1922. That cruise sparked the novel Brown Suit as well as being where she wrote numerous short stories while at sea.

Equally good and equally not able to be replaced by some other actress, Rue McClanahan did a marvelous job as Suzy Blair. In the novel, Suzy comes across as a woman who adores the company of men. Who better than Blanche Devereaux to portray her? She lights up the screen.

Yes, there are some slow spots here and there. Anne can be annoying at times but she also never magically transforms into Wonder Woman or G.I. Jane, capable of mowing down entire armies all by herself. She’s a real young woman using her own resources to rescue herself. You’re left unsure as to what happens to Sir Eustace (did he escape to South America? Let’s hope so!).

The movie worked for me. I enjoyed myself when I did not expect to. You may enjoy The Man in the Brown Suit too. But read the novel first, recognizing that Agatha developed an entire subgenre back in 1924 even though the novel was never marketed that way. The Man in the Brown Suit was a romantic thriller before anyone knew what they were, right down to the meet cute, enemies to lovers, and dramatic and improbably well-timed rescues. That way, you’ll know that after Valerie flies back to Buffalo, the screenwriter didn’t make any of the plot up. It’s all Agatha all the way.


The Adventure of the Clapham Cook (1989) David Suchet

Watched Wednesday, 24 March 20221

Fidelity to text: 4 and 1/2 blunt objects. Everything in the original short story is here, along with added material that enhanced the film. Dialog from the short story is reproduced verbatim.

Quality of movie on its own: 4 and 1/2 blunt objects. I loved it. This was a terrific start to a terrific series.

Let’s start with my using blunt objects as the murder weapon. I don’t actually know how the victim was killed but since the murderer wasn’t a professional and we aren’t told any other details, I’ll assume a candlestick in the boarding house room. Few of us keep pistols around, apothecaries make you sign the poison book, garroting is up-close and personal and thus not often used by amateurs, and knives tend to leave blood spatters, alerting the landlady and the police to a possible crime. After this, I hope to be more accurate as to cause of death.

Hercule Poirot has been filmed many times, both for the movies and for television. He’s been onstage too, as well as radio. With this series, ITV — although they didn’t know it at the time — made history. They eventually filmed virtually every novel and short story that Agatha wrote about Poirot.

Virtually all of them. Think of that! Starting in 1989 when this first episode aired, ending in 2013, there are thirteen seasons with seventy episodes in all. That’s a lot of Poirot, as performed by David Suchet.

Prior to this episode, I’d watched exactly two Poirot episodes and that was a long time ago. This version of Poirot was relatively new and fresh for me. I didn’t have many preconceived notions. Thus, I can answer the most important question you’ll have.

Did The Adventure of the Clapham Cook provide a good introduction to David Suchet, Hercule Poirot, and the series as a whole?

Yes, it absolutely did. We’ll start with the setting. ITV Productions decided to set all the episodes in the mid 1930’s (say 1934 to 1936). Poirot himself spans from 1920 to 1975 (55 years!). It makes sense to stick to one time period for ease of filming. The 1930’s have a wonderful Art Deco look and ITV productions takes full advantage of the esthetics of the period.

Never going past 1936 also lets ITV Productions avoid any mention of the slowly escalating troubles across the channel in Europe. I expect some foreboding here and there about wicked political machinations, but nothing more than that. Remember that Poirot, Belgian refugee from World War I, may not want to speculate about the possibility of another world war. No one did. The last terrible war to end all wars was still fresh and raw in too many people’s memories.

We’re introduced to Poirot and immediately get a feel for his attitudes, mannerisms, obsessiveness over detail, and love for order. We meet Captain Arthur Hastings, the sidekick. Captain Hastings is bluff and rather stupid, a good foil for Poirot. We meet Poirot’s personal secretary and assistant, Miss Lemon. She’s much better looking in the TV show than she is in the books, but that’s Hollywood for you. We also meet Inspector Japp, Scotland Yard, who’ll work with Poirot frequently to solve murders. Inspector Japp develops a deep respect for Poirot’s little gray cells.

The other two semi-regulars from the novels don’t appear but they will. That would be Georges, Poirot’s valet, and Ariadne Oliver, his mystery writing friend.

The film is 51 minutes long and uses every one of them to establish England in the early 1930’s. Poirot’s London apartment building is a model of Art Deco architecture. Mrs. Todd’s house is respectable but not rich. She has a cook and at least one maid of all work. She also has a boarder, further demonstrating that she and her husband are not rich. If you’re renting rooms out, you need the money. We see the cars, the bridges, the streets and parks in London bustling with people, most of them on foot. Lots of trains and train stations too. We also see the cook’s house, inherited from a distant relative way out in Keswick. It’s out in the boondocks compared to London. Poirot is unimpressed by the English countryside and his patent leather shoes suffer from the excursion.

David Suchet was perfect as Poirot. This was his very first outing and it will be fascinating to see if he changes anything in his performance. I can understand why so many people say he’s the definitive Hercule Poirot like Joan Hickson is the definitive Miss Marple. According to Suchet’s memoirs, he studied Poirot, carefully absorbing every word Agatha wrote about him and keeping track of every bit of description, personal mannerisms, and little quirks so he could more completely become Poirot.

The mystery worked too; a perfect demonstration that something insignificant can be far more important than anyone would guess. A minor incident — a cook disappearing suddenly — points to a much larger crime. It is, as Poirot himself says, a reminder to never disregard the trivial or undignified.

Already we see Poirot being as foreign as he needs to be to ferret out facts. He flatters maids and railway clerks to get information. He pays close attention to what his eyes tell him. He’s willing to admit when he makes a mistake, and then captures the escaping murderer when he realizes the mistake the railway clerk made.

Everything we need to know about Hercule Poirot, right down to his obsession with orderliness when he has Miss Lemon adjust the position of a nail by one centimeter, is on display.

If ITV Productions can maintain this level of quality, it will be a pleasure to watch the remaining sixty-nine episodes. I can certainly recommend this one.


Die Abenteuer G.m.b.H. (1929) Tommy and Tuppence

Watched Friday, 14 May 2021

Fidelity to text: 2 guns. I think. It was hard to tell since at least two reels were missing, one near the climax plus the ending. This film was a silent movie, made in Germany, and the filmstock was so deteriorated so I couldn’t always figure out what was happening. The musical score was also missing.

Quality of movie on its own: 2 guns. I think. No score, chunks missing, degraded filmstock, and the format itself all make the movie difficult to enjoy. It will be even harder if you’re not familiar with silent movie conventions.

The basic story arc of The Secret Adversary (published in 1922) is here. You get the missing damsel, secret papers, Tommy and Tuppence looking to support themselves, a wicked adventuress, spies, and a hidden villain. After that, things change and shift.

Let’s start with the physical film. The version we saw (thanks to YouTube) was in bad shape. If it weren’t for the internet, Die Abenteurer wouldn’t be available at all, other than via some film institute’s silent movie festival so we should be grateful we’ve got this version. It’s better than nothing. The other silent adaptation, The Passing of Mr. Quinn (1928), doesn’t exist at all other than through a few photographs and written records.

By the time Die Abenteurer was made (the German title translates to Adventures Inc.), silent movies were at their height. The industry knew what it was doing in terms of acting, staging, direction, camera tricks, stunts, title cards, and the all-important musical accompaniment, played by the theater’s organist. Despite the contrary evidence in front of you when viewing this film, moviemakers knew how to tell a cohesive story. They were good at it, good enough to get customers to pay to watch.

This movie is so damaged that if you are a first-time viewer of a silent movie, you would not believe that filmmakers of the time were competent. The filmstock is terrible, blurry and full of skips. There’s also the problem of the missing soundtrack. A silent movie wasn’t silent. They were designed with a piano or organ score, to be played by the theater’s house organist. The musical score, like a film score of today, supplied the mood, revved up when the action revved up, slowing down in quiet moments. Some scores even came with special effects like a sudden sharp blare to highlight explosions or gunshots.

There’s also the acting. Silent movies depend on dramatic overacting, because there is no dialog. Emotion and speech have to be conveyed via charades. The style of acting looks stagey and weird today. The Die Abenteurer was also a contemporary for 1929. The makeup and clothing look wrong. The men’s hairstyles in particular look odd, all spit curls and Brylcreem.

Silent movies do come with title cards, conveying dialog or other narration, but you don’t want a lot of them because it breaks the spell. Silent movies can be easily translated into foreign languages because gestures and facial expressions are so exaggerated that any audience should be able to understand. Swap out the few title cards and an English audience can easily enjoy and understand a German silent movie.

Part of the film is missing. Scenes stop and then restart somewhere else and it’s clear portions are missing. This is especially notable in two sections. Our hero (we’ll call him Tommy) is suddenly and abruptly walking a tightrope between buildings while carrying a ladder! We don’t know how he found the tightrope or where he got the ladder.

The entire ending reel is missing. We get the climax when the villain is unmasked and then the film stops without even a “The End” title card. A murder is left unexplained and the missing damsel (we’ll call her Jane Finn) still doesn’t know who this mysterious man is who claims to be a relative.

So that’s the chopped-up film that survived the vicissitudes of time.

What did the scriptwriter (Jane Bess, born in 1894 and a prolific writer of German silent movies up until 1933) do with Agatha’s plot? She did what scriptwriters everywhere do: she hacked and slashed, using what she wanted of Agatha’s storyline and discarding what she didn’t. Jane Bess set the pattern: rewrite as you please, whether the source material needed it or not.

For starters, even though the movie is clearly The Secret Adversary, she Frenchified all the names: Tommy becomes Pierre, Tuppence becomes Lucienne, Jane Finn becomes Jeanette Finné and so on. The doomed ocean liner becomes the Herculania but that’s more reasonable: a German production isn’t going to start with the sinking of the Lusitania by German U-boats. We’ll stick with Agatha’s names, however, since that’s what you’ll do when you’re watching the film. Nobody’s talking.

We spend plenty of time onboard the doomed ship with Jane Finn and her brother (!) and discover they’re both secret agents! This is how Jane meets Rita, wicked adventuress. Jane’s brother drowns but, weirdly, the script has a cousin showing up (like in the novel) but the cousin shares virtually the same name: Jane’s brother is George while her mysterious cousin is named Georges. Because of the names’ similarity, I was sure that Jane’s brother would reappear, but no.

Even more weirdly, we watch a hunky stoker on what seems to be the same ship, amusing the child passengers after the sinking. The hunky stoker is none other than our Tommy, er, Pierre. Yet he doesn’t recognize Jane Finn, despite being in the same refugee rescue boat. He’s also so clean, despite shoveling coal into a fiery furnace day in and day out, that he positively glows onscreen.

Then Jane gets kidnapped. Tommy meets Tuppence and somehow, it was decidedly unclear, Tuppence meets the villain and gets a wad of cash to buy her silence about Jane Finn. Except I couldn’t tell how Tuppence knew about Jane Finn. Other people know about Jane Finn, including the spymaster and the minister and the villains. Tommy didn’t know Jane Finn from his days on the same ship but as stoker, he wouldn’t interact with passengers. Except they seemed to be in the same refugee camp when they could have met. I’m not sure if footage was missing.

The setting is often unclear. Tommy and Tuppence got French names but it didn’t seem like any of the action took place in France. Or Germany, for that matter. The hotel remains the Savoy, which is in London but nothing onscreen looked English.

There are fight scenes on staircases, Tommy inching his way up what looks like an airshaft, sprinting across a tightrope with a ladder for no discernable reason, and other primitively staged stunts. As you watch them, realize that it’s all real. No CGI here, just clever camera work, stuntmen risking life and limb, and offscreen mattresses.

I don’t know how Rita gets murdered because the last reel was missing. I’m not sure of the relationship between Jane Finn and Georges, her mystery cousin. That explanation must have been in last reel, along with Tommy and Tuppence’s declaration of love and adventure.

All in all, Die Abenteurer was a weird experience. You could say, looking at how Jane Bess, scriptwriter, attacked Agatha’s prose that this film set the stage for all the other Hollywood adaptations. Things got changed that didn’t need changing at all (names), scenes were added that made no sense (Tommy as a ship’s stoker entertaining kids), scenes were dropped (like comprehensive explanations), and characters who had reasonable motivations in the novel suddenly behave as if they were lobotomized because the new plot demanded they be stupid.

Should you watch Die Abenteurer? Maybe, if you want to ogle what is probably the most muscular Tommy ever (Carlo Aldini, a serious athlete as well as actor). Otherwise, probably not. The story’s difficult to follow, partly due to damage and partly because of the format itself. It’s not that good. If you decide yes for reasons of completeness and curiosity, you’ll lose 76 minutes of your life you’ll never get back.


The Mirror Crack’d From Side To Side (1992) Joan Hickson

Watched Wednesday, 10 March 2021

Fidelity to text: 4 poison bottles. It’s very close. A few name changes, minor but reasonable changes to Arthur Badcock, and similar issues. The big change for me was shortchanging Margot Bence, particularly when she was such a strong presence at the opening and in the novel.

Quality of movie on its own: 3 poison bottles. We’ve now watched all three film versions of The Mirror Crack’d. If you aren’t going to watch ITV Productions’ version with Julia McKenzie (the best one overall), stick with Angela Lansbury’s 1980 opus. It’s also a three-poison bottle movie but when Elizabeth Taylor and Kim Novak go at each other, it takes flight. This version not only never soars, it never leaves the ground. It’s competent. Competently made, acted, shot. And that’s all.

Joan Hickson was 86 when she filmed this movie. I wish I could say she left the stage in a blaze of glory, but she didn’t. This film was not a suitable swansong for her talented portrayals of Miss Marple. It never came to life; a sad verdict when a film is about a fading movie star pitted against her own past and the younger, hotter future star getting ready to displace her.

Miss Marple knows all about getting old, change, and the indignity of being treated like a child (like Miss Knight does to her) when her mind is as sharp as ever even as her body grows frail.

As I watched, I kept thinking about karma and old sins having long shadows. The Mirror Crack’d is loaded with examples. Heather Badcock dies because of the choice she made as a starstruck fan. She probably didn’t understand what risk she was taking; not to herself but to her idol. Did she even know that Marina Gregg was pregnant? Or that her quarantine was designed not to keep her safe but to ensure the safety of the community at large?

Probably not. Whatever else you can say about Heather Badcock, you can say that she would have been horrified if she’d learned the truth. This is a woman who lives to help other people, even when they don’t want or need her help. She died, not knowing why, and I suppose you can say she might have deserved it.

However, being thoughtless and self-centered isn’t a crime.

Ella Zeilinsky, secretary to Jason Rudd, died too. In her case she was blackmailing people, which is a crime. She was also besotted with her boss and the boss’s wife didn’t like it. Since no adultery was committed, only one-sided wishful thinking, was that a crime? No, it was not. We don’t police thought crimes.

Then we come to Marina Gregg herself. She’s endured plenty of tragedy although plenty of it was self-inflicted (the aggravation of five husbands!). She was a movie star; rational thought doesn’t play much part in the acting profession.

Here’s where, by the way, the casting of Claire Bloom as Marina Gregg didn’t work. Ms. Bloom is an accomplished actress but she didn’t make me believe that she was the type of movie star that eager fans like Heather Badcock idolized and movie magazines swooned over. Elizabeth Taylor did. So, for that matter, did Lindsay Duncan in ITV’s version of The Mirror Crack’d, although she didn’t have nearly as much star wattage as Elizabeth Taylor. Claire Bloom was competent, but she is not and never has been a movie star.

Did Marina Gregg deserve to meet Heather Badcock, eager fangirl, and get exposed to rubella, ensuring her fetus would be born with severe birth defects? Well, let’s see. Marina was desperate for children, desperate enough that when she could bear none of her own, she adopted three kids. She rescued them from penury, opened up her home, gave them the chance at a new life. And then, several years later when she became pregnant, she dumped those kids as fast as she could because they weren’t her own. How do you think those kids felt?

Agatha tells us via Margot Bence, photographer, who was one of those abandoned kids. Margot loathed Marina Gregg for what she did to her and her adopted brothers. All of them struggled emotionally after being dumped. Margot had a lot to say in the novel, very little of which made it into the film. This was a real pity because it shows us much, much better what kind of person Marina Gregg was. Let’s quote Margot:

Why shouldn’t I hate her? She did the worst thing to me that anyone can do to anyone else. Let them believe that they’re loved and wanted and then show them that it’s all a sham.

The other two versions of The Mirror Crack’d didn’t spend much time with Margot Bence. In the 1980 version, Margot didn’t get a single line of dialog. In the 2011 film, Margot got a few lines but nothing like her scene in the novel. I expected to see much more of Margot in this film because the opening showed Margot snooping around, shooting photographs, and praying in church before she ever made it to the village fête. It even showed her taking off her wig, used for her disguise! We never get an explanation for why she disguised herself.

 Sadly, the scriptwriter chickened out. Margot’s role in Marina Gregg’s life was once again glossed over, despite what it did to Margot and her brothers. The only reason for this is that once again, Marina Gregg, movie star, is excused for truly awful behavior by everyone around her. She’s Marina Gregg and so does not need to be judged by normal standards of human decency. We don’t get the scene in the novel where Margot tells us that Marina Gregg didn’t recognize her, despite having raised her! Instead, Margot once again gets disappeared.

The karma wrapping around the film was fascinating. Marina Gregg harmed children through her own selfishness and she didn’t care one damned bit. Heather Badcock harmed children through her own selfishness and if she’d known, she’d have been devastated. When Marina Gregg’s compromised baby was born, did she do what most mothers do and do her damnedest to take care of that child? No, she did not. She abandoned that baby (he wasn’t perfect thus fulfilling her need for perfection) to caregivers in an asylum. I’m sure they were competent caregivers but she wasn’t there. She didn’t even visit that child. It was too emotionally distressing for her, according to her enabling husband, Jason Rudd.

And there we are again, making excuses for Marina Gregg, movie star. What happens to everyone on that film set whose livelihood depends on Marina Gregg showing up to do her job? Nobody cares because they’re just spear carriers in Marina Gregg’s life.

This film could have been richer and deeper if the scriptwriters had mined the undercurrents that Agatha layered in. Instead, it was flat and lifeless. Chances that could have been taken, i.e., more time with Margot Bence, were ignored. Discussions of what kind of person Marina Gregg was, what pursuing fame and then catching it did to her. Not there. Disappeared from view like those children.

This version of The Mirror Crack’d was competent, but it could have been so much more. We’re still waiting on an adaptation that does full justice to Margot Bence and her brothers, abandoned by Marina Gregg when they became an unwanted stage prop.


Endless Night (2013) Julia McKenzie

Watched Saturday, 8 May 2021

Fidelity to text: 3 poison bottles. Despite the completely unnecessary addition of Miss Marple, the story hews very closely to the text. The other major change is the Architect. He gets an unneeded name change (to Robbie Hayman) and the boy drowned under the ice becomes his baby brother. Robbie the Architect also gets a far more dramatic and implausible ending than he did in the novel.

Quality of movie on its own: 3 poison bottles but only because that’s the middle of the scale. I really liked most of the movie. When did it fail? When Miss Marple came on the scene. Then it really failed; like the pieces of two wildly different jigsaw puzzles mixed together so even when the pieces fit, the finished picture is all wrong.

Endless Night is one of Agatha’s later novels. Unlike most, it’s a first-person narrative, a technique she didn’t often use. Our hero is Mike Rogers, a working-class lad. He’s wildly different from most of Agatha’s normal characters who, if they aren’t servants, are middle-class at the least. It’s a stunning novel, almost an elegy for lost love and lost chances, and then she burns the house down around you in the last two chapters and you have to rethink everything you’ve read up till that point.

One of the oddities about Endless Night is that it isn’t really a mystery until the climax. There’s no detective onstage. It’s clear from other people’s actions (like Ellie’s lawyer, Mr. Lippincott, or the local constable) that there’s detecting going on, but Mike Rogers remains blissfully unaware of it taking place.

Stuffing Miss Marple into the story felt clumsy and strained at best; ridiculous at worst. One of the issues is why she shows up in Kingston Bishop in the first place. Keep in mind that Endless Night takes place over the course of a year at minimum and that’s taking into account the very unreliable narrator.

Mike’s drifting aimlessly, working at a series of dead-end jobs, when he ends up in Kingston Bishop looking at the sale notice about Gypsy’s Acre. Who should he meet but Miss Marple? She’s visiting a recently widowed friend, Marjory Phillpot. Thus Major Phillpot, an important character in the novel, gets killed off and all his dramatic scenes are assigned to Miss Marple. Mike looks very handsome in his chauffer’s uniform so it’s not surprising that Miss Marple chats him up at the land auction.

Miss Marple keeps visiting Marjory Phillpot, even to the point of traveling with Marjory overseas, just so she can keep running into Mike and pontificating about Gypsy’s Acre, its curse, and the activities of the resident crazy old gypsy lady, Mrs. Lee.

The plot demands that Miss Marple keep turning up like a bad penny. She shows up when Mike meets Ellie. She runs into him in other villages. She meets him several more times in Kingston Bishop, with or without Marjory in tow since Marjory lives there and why else would Miss Marple be there? She shows up during the courtship (quick) and the building of the modernistic horror of the house.

That house must have taken a year all by itself to build after Ellie bought the property. First, The Towers, the original massive heap of crumbling historical stone, had to be demolished. Then the lot had to be cleared, the blueprints drawn up, bids taken, permits gotten, lumber and concrete purchased, and then the house built. It’s a modern pile of concrete slabs with acres of glass windows and flat roofs.

I guarantee the roof leaked within six months of completion.

It’s got curtain walls of glass, ensuring that at night, the outside is a dark force pressing inward and during the day, only the isolation of the place gives any privacy. Being 1955 or so, the glass is single-pane, ensuring the building roasts in the day (greenhouse effect) and freezes at night. Winters would be dreadful, with even worse temperature swings.

Add the decorating, driveways, garages for cars, utility hookups and so forth and we’re talking a long time. Yet there’s Miss Marple on the spot as though she’s moved from St. Mary Meade to Kingston Bishop just so she can keep an eye on Mike and Ellie.

When she’s back home, investigating other crimes, the movie works. When she intrudes for another extended visit with Marjory, it’s like someone else directed the movie and the entire tone of wistful creepiness vanishes. That’s an odd combination, I know, but it’s hard to describe Endless Night without wistful or creepy.

What is she doing wandering aimlessly around Kingston Bishop without Marjory? Spying on Mike and Ellie is the only possible answer.

Eventually, Greta arrives. Miss Marple notices as does everyone else. Hot blondes in low-cut dresses have this effect. Soon afterwards, Mrs. Lee mysteriously vanishes and who investigates Mrs. Lee’s unlocked cottage? Miss Marple, naturally, despite not being a resident of the village. She discovers the wad of cash big enough to choke a horse. Not the police and not Mrs. Lee’s distant relatives who apparently pay no attention.

Then Ellie dies from a tragic accident and Miss Marple suspects murder because when pretty young women die around her, it’s always murder. So Miss Marple snoops around even more!

This leads to the dramatic confrontation inside the folly between the murderer and Miss Marple. She reveals everything she knows: how, what, why, and when including the hidden relationship between murderer and companion.

At that point, the murderer attempts to strangle Miss Marple. He’s young and strong and she’s an old lady. It’s not a fair fight. I was actually cheering him on because this wasn’t her movie! It was his! She was interfering!

This episode of Marple is the last one ITV filmed and it would have made a macabre but appropriate ending to the series if Miss Marple got murdered while sticking her nose into someone else’s storyline.

But no. She escapes but not because she turns into Wonder Woman and develops the strength of ten because her heart is pure. That scene felt really contrived and it was a relief when the deus ex machina of Robbie the consumptive Architect arrives onstage. He discovers to his shock and horror that his boyhood chum had not struggled to save his drowning little brother as everyone thought.

No, dear friend had murdered little brother over a wristwatch. Robbie the Architect then torches the modernistic heap of glass curtain walls and poured concrete. This distracts the murderer from killing Miss Marple.

I was distracted too, trying to figure out what was burning in that pile because concrete and glass are not flammable in the same fashion as timber. The building had flames shooting out of it, yet there didn’t look to me (from seeing the interior during party scenes) that there was enough internal furnishings and wooden floors to burn with that kind of enthusiasm. Maybe Robbie the Architect lit the gas on fire. Only a gas explosion would make concrete burn and maybe not then. Arson of this kind, in this sort of structure, requires accelerants.

If you can separate out Miss Marple from the rest of the movie, it works quite well. There’s plenty to watch, from settings to scenery-chewing actors. The mood overall is a nightmare-tinged dream. Mike is compelling and you can see why Ellie fell for him and equally why his own mother knows he can’t be trusted. Should you watch it? I dunno. If you’re watching all the Miss Marple adaptations, then yes. Otherwise, it might be better to stick with the other adaptations of Endless Night where some scriptwriter didn’t “improve” the novel by shoving her into a place she was never meant to be.


They Do It With Mirrors 1991 Joan Hickson

Watched Wednesday, 24 February 2021

Fidelity to text: 3 and 1/2 guns. Minor characters get removed, Inspector Slack replaces Inspector Curry, a name change here or there. The big change was the ending. It was far more dramatic than the novel — necessary for a film — but badly thought out. There’s also the weird addition of modern dance, Walter’s horse, and a survivor of murder who died in the book.

Quality of movie on its own: 3 guns. This was one flat film. It never came to life, allowing me plenty of time to ask why this murder was so hard to solve. It was obvious! And not just because I read the book!

Up till now, all the Joan Hickson Miss Marple films have been good to excellent. This film is fair, at best. It was flat, flat, flat; flat like the surface of the pond at the climax but without the sparkle.

I can’t tell why exactly, but here goes.

Was it the mysteriously added scene where Miss Marple and her old friend Ruth van Rydock watch a bizarre performance of modern dance set to a modernistic, challenging, virtually atonal score? The three dancers wear what looks like body paint (one rather Satanic) and roll around on the stage with enthusiasm. It’s not Swan Lake. I’m not sure what it was. The only explanations I can come up with are padding, the director’s friends needed jobs, or to prove that Alex Restarick is an avant-garde theatrical type.

Could it be Walter Hudd’s mysterious purchase of a horse for his wife, Gina? At no point are we given a reason why Walter buys the horse. Gina doesn’t ask for one. We don’t see Gina pining over horse paintings or wearing clothing suitable for horses. But suddenly, Walter buys Gina a horse with … money from some unknown source. By the movie’s end, they agree to relocate to the United States and … leave the horse behind?

What about Walter Hudd’s accent? He’s supposed to be from Iowa; an American G.I. that Gina met, fell madly in love with, and married after about a three-week courtship. His accent was all over the map. Deep south? Yep. Texas twang? Heard that too. Midwestern nasal? You betcha. Middle-of-the-road Mid-Atlantic like a TV reporter? Well, sure. This might be due to Todd Boyce’s (the actor playing Walter) own upbringing. He was born in Ohio, then raised in upstate New York, Germany, Chicago, Brazil, and Australia. Even so, when actors attempt accents, they should stick with one for the duration of a given film and not demonstrate their voice acting range.

How about Inspector Slack’s suitcase of magic tricks? I’m guessing that Inspector Slack is preparing an act for some charity function or holiday pantomime. But since we’re never given an onscreen payoff, it’s just a guess. Perhaps the sole purpose of Inspector Slack’s collapsing top hat, brilliant artificial flowers, and magic wand was to provide Miss Marple a clue.

Why did Gina decide to relocate to Iowa with hubby, Walter? She comes across as much more interested in the Restarick brothers despite her husband being the only man on the estate who knows how to fix something or do anything practical. Then he buys her a horse and suddenly — against every bit of evidence we see on screen — she’s madly in love with him all over again?

What was the relationship between Carrie Louise, her three husbands, her daughters (one by birth and one adopted), multiple stepsons by two marriages, and granddaughter? A scoresheet would have been handy. I had to return to the novel to figure out the relationships since the movie didn’t bother to clarify the connections.

Why is a school full of delinquent, socially maladjusted boys who must have at least one 1952-equivalent of an ASBO apiece putting on Romeo and Juliet? I understand theater as therapy. I do not understand any sane director choosing a play where whoever is forced to play Juliet or her nurse is going to be teased to the point of suicide. Or homicide.

Why was the pond so small? This concern sounds like I’m looking for something to carp about but I’m not. In the novel, Edgar Lawson runs for the lake (not a pond!), steals a boat to row across the lake and escape. The boat’s bottom is rotted, he falls into the lake and drowns. Dear old dad dives in after him and drowns too. A lake can be much too big to swim across for an average swimmer and far too large for pursuers to run around it and meet the escapee on the other side. A boat makes sense. However, every time we see this body of water, including when we see delinquent students cleaning out water weeds as a bit of foreshadowing, it’s small. Like small enough to run around it easily and meet an escapee on the other side. Like small enough to swim across.

In the novel, Edgar Lawson’s death is related in a letter. That won’t work for TV. It lacks theatrical drama. Instead, we get a hot pursuit of fleeing Edgar through the woods of the estate and up to the edge of the pond, where he plunges into the water despite not knowing how to swim. At the water’s edge, the police round up the boat and go after him. He still drowns as does dear old dad.

Of all the ridiculous scenes in the film, this one was the most ridiculous. We watch young and agile Edgar run through the woods pursued by old and fat Lewis Serrocold and Lewis is able to keep up! Yet the police, presumably fit even if not young, are unable to keep pace with old, fat Lewis and are left in the dust. At the pond’s shore, they behave like Keystone Kops, getting in each other’s way and permitting Edgar to escape and then drown. I can’t believe the local constabulary would be this incompetent. Nor can I believe that they’d stand idly by on the shores of the pond and watch a fleeing murder suspect and his dad drown without someone diving in to save them.

The novel made more sense here. Edgar escaped in the only boat and the bottom fell out in the middle of the lake, too far away for anyone to quickly mount a rescue. Here, the pond was small and the police had the boat.

Then there’s the first murder. Anyone who thinks about the crime for thirty seconds could solve it. It takes place while everyone else is watching an antique film dating back to 1905 or so. Two people are out of the room, not counting the victim. It’s a locked house. The delinquents are in their supervised and locked dormitory. Who kills victim number one? It can’t be anyone watching the vintage film footage, so that leaves the two people out of sight since the mansion has no servants that I saw, other than the housekeeper, who was watching the film.

When the screenwriters added the bizarre modern dancing, Walter’s soon-to-be abandoned horse for Gina, and the extended chase scene at the climax, we lost details about Gina and Walter and how most of the family would have been happy to have Walter be the murderer. More importantly, we lost the complex backstory of what Lewis Serrocold was really up to with his delinquent students and his accounting background. He was robbing the trust blind and, thanks to placing his graduates in various positions in London, robbing other firms blind too. All that detail gone to watch dancers in striped tights roll around on a stage.

Watch They Do It With Mirrors for one reason: completeness.


Greenshaw’s Folly (2013) Julia McKenzie

Watched Saturday, 1 May 2021

Fidelity to text: 2 poison bottles. The overall arc is there with wills, housekeepers, and gardeners with pasts. Add in a poisonous infusion from The Thumbmark of St. Peter, major character rewrites, a damsel escaping her abusive husband during a dark and stormy night, and an entire added subplot about nefarious medical experiments on innocent orphans and you’ve gone gothic.

Quality of movie on its own: 4 and 1/2 poison bottles. This was a great mashup. The Miss Marple short stories tend to be sketchy and underwritten so they often benefit from scriptwriters running amuck. That is, as long as the scriptwriter controls the material which happened here. I wanted more of the crazy house (the folly in the title) onscreen and more about the nefarious medical experiments.

This installment doesn’t waste time getting started. Our blonde damsel desperately seeks refuge with Miss Marple. Miss Marple has — of course! — a dear friend in need of a secretary on short notice and we’re off to Greenshaw’s Folly, a huge mishmash of architectural styles owned by a dotty lady mad scientist. That’s Katherine Greenshaw, following in her feared and hated father’s footsteps but she does all her experimenting on plants, not orphans. She needs a secretary who doesn’t mind living in a spooky castle and being surrounded by poisonous plants. Nonetheless, there are parts of the castle we are told not to enter.

Louisa and Archie struggle to find their place in an increasingly weird, haunted castle. It’s strange that our lady scientist brews her own atropine eyedrops from deadly nightshade (Atropa Belladonna for scientifically-minded gardeners with a taste for home remedies). She’s got a strange relationship with the local orphanage run by a drunken, gambling priest (a hackneyed trope). She’s got an off-putting housekeeper (Mrs. Cresswell), a ghost enthusiast butler (Cracken), and an ex-con gardener (Alfred) whose hobby is archery. There’s also a creepy houseguest who slinks around, spying and prying, and is clearly up to no good. Then the smarmy nephew shows up from nowhere, hat in hand. This is Nate Fletcher, aspiring actor, and son of Miss Greenshaw’s ostracized sister.

Dear sister married beneath herself and got thrown out of the family by daddy dearest as a result. But when there’s a rich estate, poor relations don’t hesitate to show up at the door, hoping to be written into the will.

The orphanage priest wants part of the inheritance too, after Miss Greenshaw moves onto her reward. The question for the priest is will the money go to rescue orphans or will he waste his share on gambling and drinking? It’s very nice that one of the wealthiest women in the district helps support the orphanage, but there’s a closer, weirder, many-leveled relationship that is gradually revealed over the course of the film.

At this point, mysterious flowers arrive for Louisa from a secret admirer. It’s a lovely spray of lilies, very suitable for a funeral arrangement on a lady’s casket.

The butler dies in what looks like an accident, but Miss Marple knows better. The creepy houseguest disappears under mysterious circumstances. Then, Louisa and Mrs. Cresswell are locked into their rooms while Archie is off on the grounds with the gardener. They watch in horror as Miss Greenshaw is shot to death by an arrow while gardening. An archer must have done it and the only archer around is Alfred, who’s teaching Archie how to use a bow and arrow.

Panic ensues, pushed up to eleven when the evil ex-husband shows up to kidnap his son back.

Is this the end of the plot? No, it thickens still further with a crazy old lady villager who know what Miss Greenshaw’s evil mad scientist father did. The old lady shows up to rescue Archie, but not from his father. She’s trying to save her dead little brother, gone for fifty years or more. She’s afraid Archie will be experimented on.

Is this enough plot for you? No? Good, because there’s still more to come. What is the exact relationship between Nate Fletcher and the Greenshaw family? How about Alfred the gardener and the Greenshaw family? You’ll find out and you’ll applaud.

There were flaws.

Louisa and Alfred are supposed to slowly fall in love but I never felt any chemistry between the two of them. This was an acting problem as well as a script problem. Even without dialog, they could have stared longingly at each other whenever they were in the same room. The camera would have picked up on their desire, but no. That didn’t happen. I suppose the scriptwriter wanted us to think she was pining after matinee-handsome Nate Fletcher. If so, that wasn’t fleshed out either yet it could have been. It would have demonstrated that our Louisa had a genius for choosing the wrong kind of man. Then, when she noticed the right kind of man, it would have been even more satisfying a happy ending.

I would have liked more interaction between the villagers and Greenshaw’s folly. I’d bet a gallon of atropine that the villagers knew plenty about daddy dearest’s mad experiments on innocent orphans. The survivors grew up and did not forget. But other than one crazy old lady, we don’t get this subplot fleshed out either.

We should have gotten more fleshing out with Horace Bindler, creepy houseguest. No one came looking for him after his mysterious disappearance and someone should have. He’s not an eight-year-old orphan with no family or coworkers keeping track of his whereabouts. I also wanted to know who tossed his room after he disappeared and why.

It was also strange that a huge castle like Greenshaw’s folly only had three servants: the butler, the housekeeper, and the gardener. Those gardens alone needed at least three full-time people plus a few extras when the miles of hedges needed pruning. I also can’t believe the housekeeper cleaned that entire pile by herself. And then followed up with cooking and washing up for family, guests, and staff? I don’t think so. The elderly butler wasn’t hoovering those carpets and dusting the chandeliers. This was the chance for a few village chars to show up, gossip about the house’s evil history, and scare Louisa and Archie more thoroughly as well as enlighten Miss Marple.

I also wanted to see more of the house itself. In the short story, the Greenshaw estate is described as being built by an extremely rich man who decided he wanted to have every possible architectural feature added to his house. Minarets, towers, arches, flying buttresses, ogees, widow’s walks, you name it, it was on the house. But the exteriors we did see, while lovely, didn’t say rich man’s bizarre fantasy mansion.

The mad scientist’s laboratory was properly scary and creepy, however. We could have spent more time in there, rescuing terrified children or distressed damsels. Don’t miss what looks like the examination chair from Satan’s dentist, complete with restraints so the patient can’t escape.

I did enjoy seeing the abusive ex-husband get his comeuppance at the hands of a man he would sneer at for his mere existence. Since the evil ex was a doctor, he should have ended up in the mad scientist’s lair and picked up a scalpel or two. Sadly, he didn’t, leaving a wonderfully creepy and gothic plot twist on the operating table.

So should you watch this film? You bet! It’s one of ITV’s best Marple episodes and like The Blue Geranium demonstrates what can be done with Agatha’s Miss Marple short stories. Yet sadly, most of them remain unfilmed.


A Caribbean Mystery 1989 Joan Hickson

Watched Wednesday, 10 February 2021

Fidelity to text: 3 and 1/2 poison bottles. Minor characters are removed, new ones added (mainly island citizens), scenes added or deleted, the island was changed, one character’s rationale is changed, but almost all the changes are in line with the novel.

Quality of movie on its own: 4 and 1/2 poison bottles. I always deduct a 1/2 poison bottle for lack of subtitles as actors, even English ones, mumble. Seeing more of the resort island, especially the local police force and residents was a nice touch; it let the scriptwriter demonstrate that people are people the world around. Aunty Johnson (a new character for the film) provides gossip and evidence and recognizes Miss Marple as a kindred soul: an old lady deeply interested in the goings on of her fellow villagers.

The movie opens with Miss Marple’s house empty, dark, and the mail piling up. It’s a good opening, moving from dreary, rainy, gloomy England to the vivid sunshine and palm trees of the Caribbean. Miss Marple is enjoying an all-expenses paid vacation curtesy of nephew Raymond West to recover from a recent illness in exotic surroundings and plenty of fresh tropical air.

To further emphasize the change from England, the soundtrack changes too. I noticed those steel drums at once and the brighter, bouncier music. We also see far more of the locals than were present in the novel. Inspector Weston gets far more scenes demonstrating his quiet competence. And, remarkably, he knows who Miss Marple is!

The scriptwriters took the trouble of fleshing out Victoria as well, adding a charming scene in which Miss Marple visits Victoria’s Aunty Johnson for tea. Aunty Johnson and Miss Marple hit it off right away as they both understand the true nature and power of gossip: it lets you understand human nature and what people do versus what they say. We also get a sadly true-to-life scene afterwards when Molly, our hotel owner, tells Victoria to remember her place and not take the paying guests off hotel grounds to see the real residents of the island. It spoils the fantasy of paradise when you see worker housing, transportation, and poverty.

Another very atmospheric addition was the exhumation of Major Palgrave, overseen by Inspector Weston. It’s done late at night (I assume to slow down the gossip) and we see the coffin being dug up and hauled out. Good music matches the scene. Inspector Weston gets many more scenes interrogating various characters. He knows his business and the contrast between him and the island governor couldn’t be stronger. The governor is more interested in his stamp collection, not being bothered, and not bothering those higher up the food chain than he’s interested in seeing justice done.

We lose a few characters but they aren’t missed. The biggest character change is Lucky Dyson. She’s still married to Greg Dyson while carrying on an affair with Edward Hillington. Here, she gets a scene with Inspector Weston where she clarifies her motivation in helping Greg Dyson’s first wife, Mary, along to her death. It was a mercy killing because Mary (named Gail in the novel) was suffering horribly as she died by inches from cancer and Lucky, the nurse, couldn’t stand to see her dear friend suffer any longer. In the novel, Lucky is far more unpleasant. She fooled her lover Edward into getting the drugs needed to murder Mary. She then married the grieving widower about a month later. She’s blackmailing Edward over helping her in her crimes. In the film, she’s toying with him because it’s fun but it didn’t seem like Edward helped overdose Mary with morphine.

This motivational improvement does not save Lucky from her fate. The actress playing Lucky was perfect. Loud, brassy, a bottle blonde, she stole every scene she was in. Supposedly she slightly resembles Molly Kendal but only if you aren’t paying attention, you’re seeing her from the back, and if it’s dark.

Molly, I’m sad to say, was a tepid drip of water compared to Lucky.

I’ll be charitable and say the actress playing Molly Kendal was showcasing a woman who was overburdened and being driven insane by her gaslighting husband. Belladonna poisoning would make anyone nuts with its hallucinations and blackouts. But my God was she bland. Nice looking, but there wasn’t any spark. It’s like her entire function in life was to marry the wrong bad boy so he could mooch off her and when he was done mooching, trade her in for a richer, stupider model.

This being a Christie mystery, that richer, stupider model was already waiting in the wings.

The other interesting character was Edward Hillington, but not interesting in that I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the screen. Oh, no. I could not for the life of me see why a livewire like Lucky Dyson wasted time on a tepid, reserved man whose sole purpose in life was capturing, torturing, and killing butterflies followed by sketching their remains. A different actor might have livened up Edward Hillington. I understand why his wife might have married him; boy next door, family approval, there wasn’t much to choose from, but Lucky Dyson? Remove her motive for amusing herself with Edward Hillington and you’re left with, with, well, I don’t know what you’re left with. She can’t be that bored.

Joan Hickson was wonderful as always. She expresses her boredom listening to Major Palgrave so well and her sparring with Mr. Rafiel is a pleasure to watch. And yes, you get to see her as nemesis, wrapped in a fluffy pink shawl at the climax.

The climax was enhanced by the scriptwriter’s choice to emphasize another tidbit of island culture. Aunty Johnson tells the murderer that it’s been nine days since Victoria was murdered. Victoria was buried with a whip in each hand and she came back to see justice done. Was that a hint of voodoo? It could be. I know that in the Episcopal church, you don’t get buried with a whip in each hand if you were murdered. I have no idea if the scriptwriter made that tidbit up out of whole cloth but it helped demonstrate again that Miss Marple was alone on an island, not her own. She took it in stride.

She does return to St. Mary Mead and it is, naturally, gloomy and raining. Oh to be in England instead of a tropical island in the Caribbean.

Add A Caribbean Mystery with Joan Hickson to your must be watched pile. You’ll enjoy your tropical vacation with a side of murder.


A Caribbean Mystery (2013) Julia McKenzie

Watched Friday, 23 April 2021

Fidelity to text: 4 poison bottles. Unusually for an ITV production, this version actually follows Agatha’s storyline. You’ll get the usual removal or consolidation of minor characters. Adding Ian Fleming and James Bond (the ornithologist) was a minor change. Mama Zogbe was a more significant addition but she worked perfectly and inserted a terrific zombie/voodoo element. Canon Prescott got youthened and a happy ending.

Quality of movie on its own: 5 poison bottles. This was excellent. Every part of the movie worked from start to finish. Settings, local color, great acting, interactions between staff and guests, Miss Marple having a real mystery to chew on; you won’t find anything wrong with this version of A Caribbean Mystery. And you get voodoo! Very appropriate for a movie set in the Caribbean.

Since Miss Marple gets around, it’s no surprise when she arrives in the sunny Caribbean, curtesy of devoted nephew, Raymond West, and his profitable career as a literary novelist. It occurs to me that Agatha had a lot of fun with Raymond West. He got respect from the literary establishment unlike her or her alter-ego, mystery novelist Ariadne Oliver. Miss Marple, however, didn’t think much of Raymond’s novels. More amusingly, Raymond’s writing paid extremely well, something that might have been marginally possible back in England in the 1950’s and would be impossible today. Today, literary novelists are at the bottom of the heap in terms of making money at writing, whereas hack genre writers can write fulltime, pay the bills, and afford nice vacations. Their bank respects them even if the literary world does not.

But I digress. I’m still amazed at how well Cape Town, South Africa, stood in for a sunny Caribbean island back in the 1950’s. You shouldn’t be surprised by the coconut palms. They prefer oceanside living (like successful hack genre writers), their coconuts drop into the sea, are carried by the currents and thus you can find coconut palms everywhere in the world where the climate is even the slightest bit warm enough. Even so, you would never guess where this movie was filmed if they didn’t admit it. Many of the actors were fresh faces (at least to me) and that was nice too; I didn’t get mixed up confusing what I was watching with a different character in another movie.

Once at the Golden Palms hotel, Miss Marple proceeds to be moderately bored by her calm and sunny vacation until, as luck would have it, Major Palgrave tells her a boring story about murderers he has known. Unlike most people, Miss Marple is not bored since she’s met many murderers. This vacation has suddenly gotten interesting. It gets even more interesting when Major Palgrave clams up and hastily changes the subject of murderers he has known, followed by him dying that night under suspicious circumstances.

She’s off to the races, meeting Mr. Rafiel and persuading him to listen when no one else does, including the police. Because ITV filmed the Miss Marple novels out of sequence, Nemesis was released in January of 2009, four years prior to this film. In reality, Agatha wrote that novel as a sequel of sorts to A Caribbean Mystery and in it, Mr. Rafiel asks Miss Marple to solve a personal mystery of his own. He was very impressed with her sleuthing and sense of justice in A Caribbean Mystery. The two ITV productions should be considered as independent films since they’ve got nothing to do with each other. ITV hired two different actors to portray Mr. Rafiel to make sure you, dear viewer, don’t connect the two stories.

The situation heats up at the Golden Palms when the hotelkeeper, Molly, starts showing signs of craziness. Then add the voodoo dance done for the tourists and wow! Things get hotter. The voodoo tourist dance reminded me of similar tourist productions in Hawaii (I was stationed there for three years). I got the same sensation that what tourists pay to see has little to do with what the natives do in private. It’s flashy, it’s showy, it’s dramatic, and has little to do with actual cultural practices or religion which are not for public consumption. When Miss Marple visits Mama Zogbe she confirms this fact.

Miss Marple found a gris-gris doll in the shrubbery and wanted to know if it meant anything. According to Mama Zogbe, it meant nothing. She showed off a box full of them, made for the tourists to buy and take home with them to illustrate their stories about their exotic Caribbean vacation.

Later on, Mama Zogbe reveals that sometimes voodoo — when it’s not being used to harvest tourist dollars — is real. She sold Canon Prescott a voodoo charm. He, despite being an Anglican minister, was desperate enough to use a heathen religious system to help him stay on the straight and narrow path. Canon Prescott is a godly man so he knows occult power when he sees it.

Red herrings abound in this adaptation, including the weird dynamics between Lucky and Greg Dyson and Colonel and Evelyn Hillingdon. Watch Evelyn’s face. She’s saddled with a poor excuse for a husband who’s unable to see the value in what he has. Her scene with him, when he accuses her that she’s never loved anyone, is priceless. It demonstrates how obtuse he is and makes the viewer wonder if he’ll ever recognize he got lucky.

Then there’s the weirdness between Esther Walters and Tim Kendall, Molly’s oh-so-devoted husband. For a hotel guest, Esther is awfully fond of her hotelkeeper.

I particularly appreciated the scenes with Victoria and Errol. They’re part of the staff at the hotel. You get a reminder of how much make-believe is involved in tropical resort vacations and how much poverty there is behind the lush vegetation. Victoria needed the money. Don’t forget that when you watch and rewatch this episode to catch all the great bits. Remember it when you go on your vacation so you tip your chambermaid. Those women work hard for their money.

I would be remiss in not mentioning Ian Fleming, would-be novelist. He shows up briefly, looking for the blandest name possible for his new spy hero and finds it in the name of a local ornithologist, James Bond. That’s a true story, by the way. James Bond specialized in birds of the Caribbean and wrote the definitive book on them: Birds of the West Indies. Ian Fleming met him, liked his name, and the rest is spy-novel history. They play no part in A Caribbean Mystery, other than to add a frisson of reality.

The ending pulls everything together very nicely. Just like Agatha wrote it, our hotelkeepers have a more complex background than they admit to. The last few scenes make you wonder what happens next. Not everyone gets their happy ending. Watch Greg Dyson sitting at the bar with Esther Walters. Watch Esther as she realizes what a complete and utter fool she was and how close she came to dying herself a few years down the road. Then watch a flash of a happier future for Canon Prescott and the girl of his dreams.

What a great film. Don’t miss it.


The 4:50 From Paddington 1987 Joan Hickson

Watched Wednesday, 3 February 2021

Fidelity to text: 3 garottes. Minor characters vanish and others are invented. The entire Martine “girlfriend or wife of Edmund” subplot is gone. One murder doesn’t occur although medical malpractice does, amounting to the same thing. Another murder is radically changed in how it was done. The ending is much more dramatic.

Quality of movie on its own: 4 garottes. It was pretty darn good, other than everyone mumbling. I especially liked the added police legwork sections because it made it easier to believe that Miss Marple worked from facts to deduce the murderer and not because she looked into her crystal ball.

This version of The 4:50 From Paddington follows the urtext fairly closely at the beginning, other than excising minor characters. As the movie progresses, fidelity to text decreases. Even so, the story made sense as a movie. In some ways, it made more sense than the novel did.

I’m referring to the added scenes of police legwork needed to identify the first murder victim. They made the story make sense: the autopsy said athlete, allowing Miss Marple to make — based on the victim’s feet — the mental leap to dancer. Miss Marple is always acting on intuition, but intuition isn’t accepted in court. Courts demand verifiable facts, or they should. Miss Marple then made the second leap, based on the victim’s clothes (a mix of good-quality but well-worn and cheap but flashy reflecting wild swings in income) to further deduce that the victim wasn’t always working. Thus, we arrive at a traveling dance troupe with unstable bookings and thus unstable revenue.

It was clearer (despite criminally poor enunciation) that one of the murders occurred because the victim was a ballet fan and not just someone who was an obstacle to the lucky winner of the tontine.

The interview with the lawyer really clarified the story for me. We got a better explanation of why Josiah Crackenthorpe’s will was such an obstacle to the Crackenthorpe grandchildren. This is a weird concept for American audiences where the estate is split up equally between the surviving heirs unless other provisions are spelled out in full. The Crackenthorpe estate, being English, probably fell under the rule of primogeniture whereby the oldest surviving male heir inherits everything other than small bequests to sisters, no matter what their birth ranking, or younger brothers.

Just like a tontine, the winner takes it all.

Miss Marple’s logic as to who the murderer was became clearer with this version because we didn’t get a lot of added subplots and extraneous characters. Since victim #1 was discovered inside an abandoned sarcophagus located inside a locked barn full of other dubious-quality antiquities and victim #1’s body was tossed out of a train onto a particular steep slope overlooking said barn, the initial conclusion as to the murderer’s identity follows easily. The murderer had to be someone intimately familiar with the Crackenthorpe estate.

Why would any member of the Crackenthorpe family murder some anonymous dancer? Some anonymous dancer wouldn’t make one bit of difference to the disposition of the estate. It would make far more sense to arrange convenient accidents for other family members so as to become the sole survivor and inherit everything and not waste time strangling third-rate chorus girls.

Thus, we arrive at Miss Marple’s logical deduction. It’s backed up by police legwork, what the lawyer revealed, and a visit to Somerset House to look up marriage certificates. Somerset House, if you’ve ever wondered what it was (I did!), is the repository for all birth, marriage, and death certificates for all of England and Wales going back to 1837 and only ending in 1970 when those records got moved to St. Catherine’s House at Aldwych. Somerset House shows up frequently in Agatha’s novels. Characters are always visiting to check for secret or bigamous marriages.

There was so much to like about this movie. I appreciated dropping the entire subplot about dead Crackenthorpe brother Edmund’s French fling and possible marriage to said French fling. That was always confusing. In this version, the scriptwriter came up with a plausible reason for the Martine letter that wasn’t nearly as farfetched as Agatha’s original story.

Cedric Crackenthorpe was the very embodiment of a louche, dissipated painter. He admitted — with pride! — to the police why he’d arrived in England a day early: for a tryst with a married woman. He was a smarmy toad, not nearly as attractive to the ladies as he thought he was.

Brian Eastley got to play the hero at the ending and, silly as it was, it worked. It also gave a better reason for Lucy Eyelesbarrow to marry him and not just because she felt sorry for the poor, lost puppy dog. It demonstrated why he was an RAF hero.

The character who didn’t work for me was Lucy Eyelesbarrow herself. She was, as expected, hypercompetent. She got things done. She brooked no nonsense from anyone unless she chose to. But I could not envision any of the Crackenthorpe males or Brian Eastley getting lathered up about her. She was too practical and too much like a bossy governess to be alluring and delicious.

This version also played the dramatic unveiling of the murderer just like the novel. We get fishpaste sandwiches in the dining room as opposed to the ridiculous and wildly implausible reenactment of murder on the train in the 2004 Marple version with Geraldine McEwan. What wasn’t realistic about the fishpaste sandwiches in the novel or in the movie was the very idea that hypercompetent Lucy Eyelesbarrow would have left a bone in her fishpaste.

Not her! Eyelesbarrow fishpaste sandwiches would have been pressed through a sieve three times to achieve the correct smooth, pasty texture. I can’t get over the concept of fishpaste sandwiches. Pureed fish sounds vile, like something that comes out of cans and is fed to cats.

All in all, I recommend this version of The 4:50 From Paddington. It plays true to the novel and when it doesn’t, it makes for a better movie. You may have to watch it twice to make up for the occasional murky dialog but that won’t be a hardship.


The Pale Horse (2010) Julia McKenzie

Watched Friday, 16 April 2021

Fidelity to text: 3 blunt objects. The original story is still here: murder for hire, misdirection, witches, and cleverly disguised thallium. The major change is replacing Ariadne Oliver with Miss Marple and giving her most of the sleuthing (as opposed to Mark Easterbrook who did the job in the novel). Add a few new characters to replace deleted characters, relocate to the early 1950’s, a few other minor changes, and you’re on your way to the bonfire.

Quality of movie on its own: 4 and 1/2 blunt objects. To my surprise, I really enjoyed this ITV outing. They are terribly inconsistent, but here, everything worked, the pace was good, the Pale Horse was English Country Inn porn on steroids, and the actors were all having a very good time. The plot held together, despite a wee bit too much exposition at the end and not enough sleuthing to set up Miss Marple’s deduction in the earlier acts.

I’m using blunt objects for the ratings because the first onscreen murder is with a club, even though all the others are not.

Miss Marple is forced into action by that oldest of tropes: a letter arrives begging for help from a dear friend (Father Gorman) who is then revealed to have been fatally coshed in a mugging gone wrong. We, at home, know immediately that it was murder because no one gets coincidentally mugged right after mailing incriminating evidence to a super-sleuth. Miss Marple recognizes these facts but the police, who depend upon evidence and not intuition, take longer.

She asks the landlady the right questions and, since inquisitive old ladies are perfectly harmless, is even permitted to examine the dead woman’s personal effects. The police haven’t been there so Miss Marple interferes with a criminal investigation — however badly run — and removes crucial evidence for her own sleuthing. Thus, she ends up at the Pale Horse hotel in Much Deeping just in time for the annual witch burning.

How can a movie fail when it’s got a witch burning? Add in modern-day witches hovering about in a very unique hotel in the middle of nowhere and you’ve got something exciting.

Father Gorman’s death is revealed to be part of a larger string of deaths. Interestingly, while each of the other deaths results in heirs getting rich much sooner than they’d hoped, all those deaths were due to … unusual illnesses. Even Father Gorman’s deathbed vigil (prior to his being coshed) was for an unusual illness. Those deaths looked suspicious to non-inheritors, but without a bloody blunt object laying around, a sad illness is not murder.

Except when it is. The right kind of poison, as Miss Marple knows, doesn’t look suspicious.

She starts sleuthing in the hotel full of suspicious guests and very soon, one of them dies under suspicious circumstances. While napping supposedly; but as Inspector Lejeune tells Miss Marple, Captain Cottam wasn’t napping alone. This was one part of the story I wanted more of. Captain Cottam, his wife, Kanga, and their widowed housekeeper, Lydia Harsnet, are staying at the Pale Horse because their house burned down under suspicious circumstances. The implication (normal enough) is that Captain Cottam is having an affair with his hot blonde housekeeper, his hot blonde wife not being enough to keep him satiated. But there’s more! Captain Cottam needs an aphrodisiac to get it up with his hot blonde housekeeper, an aphrodisiac supplied by one of the Pale Horse’s witches. Then, after said aphrodisiac turns out to be poisoned (not with thallium), we get a scene where the hot blonde wife implies she was okay with the affair!

How could the scriptwriter give me a setup like this and then not follow through with soapy answers? It left so many questions, completely unrelated to Miss Marple’s sleuthing or murder for hire.

Anyway. Back to murder for hire. The witches were an interesting bunch. By the end of the film, you know who believes, who loses her faith, and who’s playacting for the money. Thyrza owns the Pale Horse. She’s suitably witchy in an upper-class crazy aunt way and runs the coven.

Sybil is young and ravishing, in an early 1950’s goth manner. She believes. When she sweeps onstage to perform witchery for Mark Easterbrook — swathed in a full-length black cloak — we were hoping she’d be skyclad.

And she was. Sybil dramatically shed her cloak to reveal her gorgeous embroidered azure dress the exact color of a perfectly blue summer sky.

Witch number three was, I thought, the most interesting. This was Bella, the Pale Horse housekeeper and char. She was a sturdy peasant hedge witch, the sort of woman the villagers visit discreetly for love potions, abortifacients, minor curses, and cures for sick sheep. She knows her herbs, our Bella, and she raises chickens for more than just eggs and soup.

Of the three witches, I’d guess that Bella was the only one who had real abilities in the occult. But because she was working class, did the dirty work and didn’t look hot and sexy, the scriptwriter relegated her to the background. Bella, I think, will quietly disappear from the police radar and go back to being the local and anonymous village hedge witch. If you need to know who she is, you will. If you don’t, you won’t.

The other character to look out for was Mr. Bradley, the disbarred lawyer. What a great criminal. He knows the law well enough that you can’t slide a razorblade between him and illegality, yet he remains safely within the law. Watch him explain how to place a bet on some rich relative’s early demise and how that bet is perfectly legal. He knows what he’s doing, he feels fully justified, and he knows he won’t be prosecuted. Other people are taking those risks.

Mr. Venables was fun too. He’s a crochety old man in a wheelchair with no explanation for where his money comes from. Everything about him screams suspicious, but is he really? He denies being involved in burning down the Cottam’s house. I know! Perhaps Mr. Venables was the reason why Kanga Cottam didn’t mind her husband’s affair with their housekeeper. Kanga was having her own affair with Mr. Venables and if Lydia the housekeeper kept her husband busy, she had time for bedsports of her own.

Now that would have been a terrific and unexpected addition to the Pale Horse’s storyline. Instead, we get the usual sweet meeting of young lovers, in this case Mark Easterbrook and Ginger Corrigan. As soon as you see them together onscreen, you know how it will end and it does. The added fillip is having Mark pretend to arrange Ginger’s murder but again, that’s par for the course. He has to be clever, she has to be brave, and they have to help Miss Marple solve the crime.

Kanga Cottam having an affair with a crotchety, scarred man in a wheelchair while her husband’s having his own affair would be new and different and a blow for disabled rights everywhere. But alas, it was not to be.

In any case, I really enjoyed The Pale Horse and you will too. It’s got everything, including a room designed for witchcraft with the best custom-made rug I’ve ever seen. Don’t miss it and feel free to speculate on what happens next for Kanga and Mr. Venables. She’s a merry widow and he’s single so…


Nemesis 1987 Joan Hickson film review

Watched on Wednesday, 27 January 2021

Fidelity to text: 3 garottes. There are a number of changes. Small ones include a few name changes, many dropped characters, and changing the time setting which matters more than you think. Large ones include entirely new characters (which worked) and changing Michael Rafiel a lot (which didn’t).

Quality of movie on its own: 4 garottes. I liked it. That said, it helped enormously that I already knew the plot. Thus, I could follow along when the movie omitted critical information. 102 minutes is not a long running time. This is information that if the film had been just a few minutes longer, wouldn’t have been skipped. This is a real flaw because Bill had issues I didn’t, all stemming from not knowing what the heck was going on.

Movie producers should never make the mistake of assuming everyone in the audience read the book. The number of readers is vastly smaller than the number of TV watchers. If critical plot points are elided over, the nonreading audience will not understand, will not tell all their friends to watch this must-see TV, and will turn away and select something less challenging and more viewer-friendly.

Lionel Peel is a new character. He acts as Miss Marple’s legs in the film. He also takes over some of the tasks that Professor Wanstead performed in the novel. I could see why Lionel was added as he gave Miss Marple someone to talk to throughout the film, allowing the audience to follow her thought processes. He got kind of short shrift there at the end. It felt to me that the tour guide, Madge, (Mrs. Sandbourne in the novel) might be flirting with Lionel as a love interest but that potential plot thread came to nothing. Pity, I thought, since I enjoyed watching Madge in her perky uniform trying her darnedest to shepherd the tour group into keeping on track and on schedule. Lionel and Madge just seemed made for each other.

Another new character was Mrs. Brent (Nora Brent’s mother. Nora was a Broad in the novel. You should be able to guess why the scriptwriter changed her last name. This is a case where I won’t argue.) This was a deeply moving scene for me, when Professor Wanstead interviews Mrs. Brent. It’s been almost a decade since her Nora vanished and she’s still grieving. She is sure her daughter is dead since there’s been no contact for all those years but she doesn’t know.

Like the Joan Hickson version of The Body in the Library showcasing Pamela Reeve’s father, the scriptwriter emphasized what we so often don’t see in mysteries: the devastated family left behind. And they are devastated. It’s nice to see some attention paid to the fallout from a murder and not just on the puzzle the murder presents.

Michael Rafiel is devastated too and in more ways than one. He’s Jason Rafiel’s ne’er do well son and Verity Hunt’s lover. A problem I had with the novel and again with this adaptation is age differences. Mr. Rafiel looks to be about 80 when he dies (or more). Michael, on the other hand, is in his early thirties. So Jason Rafiel fathered a son at age 50? This is certainly possible with a hot young wife, a typical accessory for a business tycoon. But we’re never given details, either in the novel or in the adaptation about Mr. Rafiel’s wife. She’s dead and that’s all there is to it.

I get hung up on bus schedules. Time tables. Age discrepancies. This is one of those cases again where an astute scriptwriter can make changes I would agree with: they have the chance to clarify or fix a discrepancy in the original text.

Michael is presumed to have beaten and strangled Verity Hunt. In the novel, he’s imprisoned in a mental institution. In this adaptation, he’s a homeless bum, living on the street. We are shown what a nice guy he really is by the close relationship he has with his mongrel dog and by testimony from other homeless men about how Michael stands up for them.

Okay. Sure. I can buy that.

What I can’t buy was watching homeless, sleeping on the streets Michael in 1954 or thereabouts looking like he’d just shaved the night before. He was extremely attractive and well-groomed for a bum, with a very fashionable stubble. Nobody wrinkled their noses at him. The shaving was particularly noticeable since any man who doesn’t shave on a regular basis is going to grow a beard pretty darn quick. I watch my husband and our son go days or weeks without shaving and the beard and mustache shows up promptly. More time away from a razor and the beard and mustache get longer. And longer. And longer. That attractive, fashionable stubble requires regular maintenance with a razor.

Hollywood strikes again.

The fashionable stubble on our leading man was made even more obvious by the fact that all the other homeless bums had straggly, arrest-me thatches of facial hair cascading down their chests. Not our Michael. It’s quite clear that a shave, a wash, and a new suit will transform him into a gentleman and that is indeed what happens. This did not ring true to me, although everything else in Nemesis did.

I really enjoyed our tour guide, Madge. I enjoyed even more following along on the tour of England’s historic homes and gardens. Wow. Castles, stately manors, libraries that were several stories high, abbeys, huge gardens. Wow. Just wow. No wonder Miss Marple said yes to Mr. Rafiel’s crazy request to solve an unstated crime. She didn’t just earn 20,000 pounds and bring more justice into the world. She got an all-expenses paid tour of England!

I also liked the three sisters, living in their slowly decaying manor house. This was a building that would never be on England’s historic homes and gardens tour. Not enough history and too much dry rot and leaky roofs. The house perfectly reflects the characters of Clothilde Bradbury-Scott, Lavinia Bradbury-Scott Glynne, and Anthea Bradbury-Scott. If you’re up on your Greek mythology, you may notice certain similarities between the three sisters’ names and those of the Fates: Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. Their companion in mythology is, naturally, Nemesis, who delivers justice and exacts retribution for sin and crime.

There was so much to like about this film. The lawyers trying to administer Mr. Rafiel’s will. The mysterious young women on the tour who kept showing up at odd moments. The other tour members. The scenery. My God but the scenery. Wow.

There are also things to dislike. The movie was difficult to understand at times. Some of the actors couldn’t enunciate worth a damn or their quaint regional accent was thick enough to spread with a knife on toast. Subtitles would have helped.

What would have really helped was about ten more minutes to better explain why Verity Hunt was living with the weird sisters. The relationship between Miss Temple and Verity Hunt. Why Michael Rafiel, whom everyone in town was convinced was a murderer, was a homeless bum and not in jail. Why Mr. Rafiel waited until he was at death’s door to hire Miss Marple.

Heck, why did Mr. Rafiel give such cryptic instructions to Miss Marple? We’re told he liked puzzles and games and manipulating people, but even so. If you want justice done, you don’t make the challenge deliberately difficult.

But those are minor points. I enjoyed Nemesis and you probably will too. It’s a worthy addition to Agatha Christie film adaptations.


Why Didn’t They Ask Evans? (2009) Julia McKenzie

Watched Friday, 9 April 2021

Fidelity to text: 2 poison bottles. To start with, Miss Marple never came near the novel yet here she is: a friend of the family who pretends to be Frankie’s governess. Names were changed, characters were deleted, combined or made up from whole cloth, backstories altered, motivations were radically different. The centerpiece murder itself — complete with false wills, unwitting, dumb witnesses, and not asking Evans — remains the same.

Quality of movie on its own: 3 and 1/2 poison bottles. I’d have given it four poison bottles but that ending was condensed into incomprehensibility. A few minutes here, a few minutes there of scene setting and important dialog would have made all the difference in the world. Sylvia Savage’s two children from marriage #1 appeared not just out of left field but teleported to England from a ball park in China, an easily corrected fault. As it was, Miss Marple had to pull the solution out of her knitting bag because we sure didn’t see her unearthing any evidence for her conclusion.

As with the original novel, we open with our hero, Bobby, out on the picturesque cliffs overlooking the sea. He’s not golfing as in the novel. He’s goofing off, to the amusement of local girls. If you think the opening was designed to demonstrate Bobby’s fecklessness, you’re right. By contrast, our heroine, Frankie, is so assertive she comes across as a pushy, don’t-confuse-me-with-facts harridan in training. If (as the movie implies in a badly underwritten conclusion) they get together, they’ll both be miserable. Frankie will wipe her feet on Bobby, he’ll let her, and she’ll despise him for it.

Bobby discovers the dying man whose last words are “Why didn’t they ask Evans?” and we’re off. Sort off. Bobby refuses the hero’s call, despite the urgings from Frankie (young and pretty and thus it’s incomprehensible that he says no) and Miss Marple (old and sharp but old ladies are routinely ignored by young men). But eventually he rises to the occasion and shows up to rescue Frankie, who’s sequestered in the castle, after his mini London adventure.

Frankie, in the meantime, joyfully accepted the hero’s call and deliberately wrecked her car to enter the castle. And it is a castle. All it needed was a moat. There’re certainly enough crazy people wandering about in terms of family, hired pianists, loony friends, and the headshrinker next door operating his sanitarium full of crazy people, including his own wife.

What the castle is missing is servants. We only see the butler, Wilson, and the lazy, newly hired gardeners who never say a single word. Sylvia, matriarch of the family, bemoans the lack of servants. This is a clue, but a bad one, because it wasn’t followed up on properly. Where’s the cook who would tell Miss Marple family secrets? Where are the housemaids who know all the dirt? Or daily chars from the village who’d know the past history going back five generations? It is impossible for the cook to keep that pile clean when she’s cooking from scratch for a minimum of eight people three times a day plus tea followed by the washing up. There must be servants other than Wilson, the butler, but he’s the only one we see other than the two gardeners lazing about.

Wilson does hint to Miss Marple about Sylvia’s tragic history and the even more Shakespearian history of her two husbands; George (#1) and Jack (#2 and George’s younger brother). But he doesn’t hint enough to Miss Marple to make her solution plausible.

It’s a pity too, because up until the ending, the movie zipped along. We even get deadly orchids to go with the venomous snakes. Check out Tom, Sylvia’s younger son, dangling mice over the snake tanks. Snakes got to eat too and if they’re encased in glass boxes, they can’t go out and hunt on their own.

Sylvia is the heart of the mystery. Once you’ve seen the ending, you understand how she brought it all on herself. Marrying the older brother and then carrying on a torrid affair with the younger brother? Vulgar. Watching younger brother have older brother murdered in China? Vile. Marrying younger brother? Insane, even if it does get her out of prewar China and lets her remain in the castle. Not fighting husband #2 over abandoning husband #1’s children? Unconscionable and a darned good reason for her guilt. Having children with husband #2 despite knowing what kind of man he is? Dreadful, especially when she deliberately neglects these kids because of her guilt over her first set of children. She deserves to feel guilty! That woman brought her misery upon herself because she refused to control her own appetites. She wanted what she wanted and damn the consequences.

In case you’re wondering why Jack Savage (hubby #2) had his brother George’s (hubby #1) kids removed, it was probably to inherit the estates. The son would be the next peer, not him. Boys have become peers in infancy, with mom or an uncle acting as a regent. Younger brothers don’t inherit the estate unless older brother has zero male issue. In this case, the question is why didn’t Jack have the kids murdered along with their father. They were all in China, with no oversight from the British government and the neighbors. If Jack could get his brother murdered (thereby also removing an obstacle for the Japanese invasion), the kids would have been easy enough to slaughter.

Let this be a reminder, folks. If you murder your older sibling to inherit, make sure you kill older sibling’s kids too. They’ll come back and haunt you if you don’t.

There was so much to like about this movie. Watching mad women wander about the grounds in diaphanous white negligees is so gothic and perfectly in keeping with the castle’s own appearance and the sanitarium next door. Listening to Evans talk about poisonous orchids and then watching him later have sex with his flowers. (He was hand-pollinating them. What, you think an orchid collector also raises the specialized insects needed to pollinate every variety of orchid he owns, including those from different continents? All flower breeders have sex with their flowers. They do it with paintbrushes and cotton swabs. Evans has more fun with his flowers than Frankie and Bobby will.)

There’s the shrink, who’s as loony as his patients, and the officious stuffed shirt, Commander Peters, who comes across as incompetent but probably isn’t. We get the louche pianist who flatters Sylvia, ignores her daughter, Dottie, whom he’s supposed to be teaching piano to, carries on with Moira, the shrink’s loony wife, and then chases after Frankie, claiming none of them mean anything to him.

Well, they don’t, or rather they matter very much, but not the way Frankie does. Luckily, she finally comes to her senses, which leads us to the underwritten and unsatisfying ending. Once again, Frankie is stranded by the side of the road (her wrecked car miraculously restored right down to an immaculate paint job). She’s got a flat tire. Bobby, driving the limo, stops to rescue her and discovers the spare is flat as well. They stare at each other meaningfully. Except there’s no dialog. Did Frankie slash her own tires, hoping Bobby would stop? It’s not stated, so the audience is left wondering.

Too much of this movie went unstated. Ninety-three minutes was not enough time. Another ten minutes would have done the trick, filling in the missing bits of plot and then this Miss Marple outing would be the movie it was so valiantly struggling to be. One more pass on the script to better fill the empty spaces that did get filmed with useful and explanatory dialog. Is that too much to ask? Apparently so.


They Do It With Mirrors 2009 Julia McKenzie

Watched Friday, 2 April 2021

Fidelity to text: 2 and 1/2 knives. Plenty of changes, the most egregious being rewriting Carrie Louise’s personality and philanthropism and changing Lewis Serrocold’s motives. Other characters disappear altogether, get combined, or are raised from the dead (Carrie Louise’s husband #2). The first murder weapon changes too.

Quality of movie on its own: 3 and 1/2 knives. But I didn’t care about the changes until the ending! That was when I couldn’t accept the murderer’s motivations. I also didn’t like how Wally and Gina were handled. I had even less reason to accept their glorious reunion than I did in the 1991 Joan Hickson adaptation. I very much appreciated that this version, unlike the 1991 film, did not shoehorn in five minutes of bizarre avant-garde modern dance with accompanying atonal music that had nothing to do with the plot.

Let’s start with the actress you all want to start with. I loved Joan Collins as Ruth van Rydock, Carrie Louise’s sister. She gets top billing although she doesn’t have, sadly, much screen time. When she does, you can tell who the star is. You can also understand why, as Miss Marple says, Ruth and Carrie Louise have a great relationship as sisters as long as there’s an ocean between them. Joan is perfect as the glamour queen whereas Penelope Wilton is equally perfect as her dowdy younger sister.

Carrie Louise is the main focus of the movie, as she is the main focus of the novel. In the novel, however, she’s more acted upon. Here, she’s the one who wants to reform criminals and spends all her wealth to do so. It’s not husband #3, Lewis Serrocold. Instead, he becomes the ever-supportive, adoring spouse who wants everything to be perfect for his beloved. And I do mean Everything with a capital E. He’s also jealous of husband #2 (Johnny Restarick) who shows up unannounced and expecting to move in. There are some funny scenes between the two husbands, present and former.

Carrie Louise comes across as the kind of altruistic do-gooder that you want to avoid. She is so sure she’s right that she doesn’t care or even notice when her notions are hurting the people around her or aren’t working at all. In the case of the convicts she’s reforming, well, some of them might benefit. At a minimum, they’re getting a second chance out in the sunshine and fresh air. Stonygates is far more pleasant than Dartmoor prison although the food may not be.

Make sure you notice the reworking of Dante over Stonygates’ main entrance: Recover Hope All Ye Who Enter Here. It’s a very nice rephrasing but the gate with its sign kept making me think of the sign for Auschwitz. You recall the one: Work Makes You Free.

Where Carrie Louise’s blindness really shows up is in how she treats her daughters.

Adopted daughter Gina is lovely, vivacious, and fun and, based on the flashback, she’s always been that way. Natural daughter Mildred, a few years younger than Gina, is seen in the same flashback as plain, shy, wearing glasses — dowdy alert! — and nowhere near as sparkling. What mother wouldn’t be more invested in the livelier, more charming daughter? Even better, Carrie Louise has the perfect reason to openly and obviously favor Gina. Since Gina’s adopted, she needs more love and attention. Mildred, nerdy and dull, is ignored. It’s a very sharp observation of the flaws in Carrie Louise’s worldview. She doesn’t pay much attention to reality and the real needs of messy people unless it suits her. If it doesn’t suit her, she’ll find a reason to discount them.

You’ll observe the same dynamic between Carrie Louise and Wally, Gina’s husband. He doesn’t fit in either, he’s openly unhappy, but since he’s not a project like one of her convicts, he doesn’t matter one bit.

Nor does Carrie Louise notice the weird and creepy byplay between Gina and Stephen Restarick. Stephen is Carrie Louise’s stepson from husband #2. Since Gina’s adopted and Stephen has a different mother as well as father, they’re completely unrelated genetically. Nonetheless, the implication is that they’ve grown up together as brother and sister, even if only part-time. It’s off-putting how they flirt and right in front of Gina’s husband, Wally, too. Yet since Carrie Louise doesn’t see anything wrong with this picture, neither does anyone else.

The novel handles Gina and Wally much better than either adaptation. I could not understand why Gina chose Wally in the end when it’s so obvious she’s no longer attracted to him. And why should she be? He’s sullen, sulky, ignores her, and doesn’t punch out Stephen Restarick’s lights for pawing at his wife.

Because Carrie Louise takes over the running of the reform school, all of Lewis Serrocold’s motivations get twisted beyond recognition. It doesn’t work nearly as well as the novel did. Altruistic reasons for what he did? Really? This would make things better for Carrie Louise and her convict rehabilitation project? For a supposedly intelligent man, he’s stupid. Thirty seconds of thought would demonstrate the flaws in his plan.

This reads like I didn’t like the film, but I did. It was well-paced, well-acted, looked fabulous (that house!) and showed a very good understanding of the dynamics between sisters. Mildred is so jealous of Gina and it’s understandable. She’s spent her entire life in the shadow of her older, more glamorous sister. That’s why Mildred makes sure Gina sees the old newspaper with the story of her birth-mother’s execution for arsenic poisoning. What I would have liked was an explanation for where Gina got the wig and dress. Did Mildred supply them?

There were so many great scenes, many of them quite funny. I was really enjoying the movie. Then the ending fell apart. Edgar Lawson’s dramatic flight into the lake didn’t make sense. We needed more screen time to explain why he thought that was a good idea. We needed more screen time to explain why Lewis Serrocold panicked and ran after Edgar. Remember, the convict rehabilitation scheme wasn’t his idea. It was Carrie Louise’s. His single goal in life was to support her in whatever she chose to do. Then he abandons her to the long arm of the law to chase after some psycho teenager who threatened him with a pistol?

It made even less sense when Gina decided to choose the man she married and then ignored over the stepbrother she’d been hanging off of (to his great enjoyment) throughout the entire movie. There was a sort of reconciliation between Mildred and Carrie Louise but it was so truncated, it might as well have not been there. It should have been. Carrie Louise needed to have the scales fall from her eyes but it didn’t quite happen. I didn’t get the reconciliation I would have liked between Mildred and Gina either. It wasn’t either girl’s fault that mom played favorites.

A tighter script at the ending would have made this a far better film. Even so, despite the changes the scriptwriter inflicted on the novel, it’s pretty darn good. It’s much better than the Joan Hickson version. I’m looking forward even more now to watching Helen Hayes’ 1985 version Murder With Mirrors. The same novel, filmed three different ways. It’s fascinating to see what’s changed and to see if it worked.


At Bertram’s Hotel 1987 Joan Hickson version

Watched Wednesday, 20 January 2022

Fidelity to text: 3 and 1/2 guns. Everything major is present and accounted for right up until the ending. The problem is way too much compression of the text. In addition, the time period was changed from the early 1960’s to about 1953. At Bertram’s Hotel is one of those books that gains from understanding its era. Things were changing fast and Agatha commented on those changes via Miss Marple.

Quality of movie on its own: 3 guns. The film was so compressed I had trouble following the complicated storyline. Add in unintelligible dialog (we had to replay a scene four times and I still think Miss Marple said “spoon” and not “policeman”) and you get a film that needed to be ten minutes longer in order to be clear. That would have ramped up the tension too.

At Bertram’s Hotel (1965) is the next to last Miss Marple novel that Agatha wrote. The final Miss Marple novel was Nemesis, published in 1971. Sleeping Murder, while published in 1976, was written in 1941 or so. Does this matter? Yes, it does, because Miss Marple has been slowly and subtly aging. She hasn’t lost any of her mental sharpness but her body is getting older.

She can still eavesdrop with the best of them, but she can no longer go after a murderer with weedkiller like she did in Sleeping Murder. She’s also acutely aware of the passage of time and the extensive changes wrought in England over the decades.

Thus, Miss Marple arrives at Bertram’s Hotel. She’s enjoying a two-week vacation courtesy of nephew, Raymond. She’d stayed at Bertram’s as a young girl and is astonished at how unreal it all seems; almost a caricature of an Edwardian-era hotel right down to the uniformed and capped chambermaids. Bertram’s Hotel chambermaids even curtsey like an Edwardian-era servant would and a modern chambermaid would not.

There’s a reason for that behavior but since the movie compressed so much of the text, it’s almost completely lost. The movie is 110 minutes long. It needed another ten minutes or more to explain the background criminal activity that Miss Marple detects. It could have also been longer — thirty seconds here, forty-five seconds there, to explain how she knew to follow Elvira and her Italian racing car boyfriend to that seedy rock’n’roll diner.

There’s a great movie here, struggling to get out. The culture clash elements alone were worth more time. A television room, because the American guests like it! Handsome Irish grooms who don’t know their place! Absentminded Canon Pennyfather who stumbles into the crime, yet the action is so truncated, we get cryptic, unintelligible telephone calls that are supposed to explain and only muddy the waters still further.

At times, I thought there were two totally unrelated plots competing for screen space. We have Elvira Blake and her very unsuitable boyfriend and her estranged adventuress of a mother. We also have a mysterious string of high-stakes robberies involving famous people who couldn’t have done it. Finally, we have a murder. Are the stories related?

Well, yes, they are. Except that we didn’t see enough evidence on the screen! We got significant glances and lingering camera shots of Bertram’s exquisite high tea dessert tray and quick shots of newspaper headlines but not long enough to read and understand said headline. This shouldn’t have happened. The BBC could have filmed another ten minutes; a minute here, thirty seconds there, to show us better how the two stories intertwined. Rationing doesn’t exist anymore. They could have bought more filmstock.

Moviemakers should never, ever, ever assume the audience read the book. Far more people watch TV and go to the movies than read. I’d bet that at least half the audience for the BBC production of Miss Marple have never cracked open a Miss Marple novel. And this is in Great Britain, a literate, reading culture that adores Agatha Christie.

If you haven’t already read At Bertram’s Hotel, you’ll be lost. I know the storyline and I was lost.

Excising most of the gang of thieves plot also ruined what could have been a very tense movie. If you recall the story (read it before viewing), Bertram’s Hotel is so nostalgic as to be unreal. That’s because it is. A gang of thieves uses it to cover their crimes. They’re running a real hotel, with real guests to camouflage the presence of fake guests who are moving stolen goods around.

But what if one of those real guests is a sharp-eyed, snoopy old lady? She behaves suspiciously, asking prying questions, lurking in odd corners and openly eavesdropping. That old lady is in for a world of hurt. Frail old ladies can easily slip and fall down a flight of stairs. An attending doctor’s first thought would not be “she was pushed.” It would be “we need better handrails and how about an elevator to prevent these tragic yet completely normal accidents?” That factor could have been played up considerably, yet it wasn’t. I would think that a criminal syndicate operating out of a hotel would be wary about what the guests saw.  Not this bunch.

I could not figure out how Miss Marple was able to follow Elvira and the Italian boyfriend to the seedy diner. I really couldn’t figure out how Elvira and her adventuress mother were able to reconcile the Italian boyfriend since he was carrying on with both mother and daughter. I know Elvira narrowly escaped murder at gunpoint but even so. Most daughters and mothers I know don’t share their lover and a near-death experience won’t reconcile them to doing so.

The ending in the film was expanded over that of the book. In the book, Miss Marple and the Inspector deduce who did it but they have no proof. The Inspector assures Miss Marple that the murderer won’t get away with it but we don’t know how he’ll prove his case. In the movie version, since you’ve got to have a dramatic moment when the murderer is confronted with evidence of their guilt, you get a scene involving a handkerchief sachet. A handkerchief sachet is a folded over pair of satin pockets that you stuff with your fancy, embroidered handkerchiefs. It keeps them clean and flat. It’s perfect, according to Miss Marple, for stashing illicit love letters and anything else you don’t want seen and she proves it by discovering the murderer’s diary.

This seemed weak, because if a handkerchief sachet is a common place to hide things, then don’t you think that this is the first place an Inspector (or a nosy old lady) will look?

I did like Bess Sedgwick very much, right up to the ending. Please. It was accurate to the book, but it didn’t feel right. She would have run over that peddler on a bicycle. Peddlers on bicycles don’t survive encounters with sports cars so even though Bess wasn’t wearing a seatbelt (they didn’t have them in 1953) it’s hard to believe she would have died in the ensuing accident. Badly injured? Sure. Got away with it? Quite possible. Killed instantly? I doubt it.

Elvira Blake was interesting too, and living proof that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Again, the novel gave us far more material about her adventuress-in-training ways. The movie only gave us hints.

I would have liked to have seen more of that Irish groom, who became a doorman for Bertram’s Hotel. He had a complex relationship with Bess. Was that why he ran to Elvira Blake’s rescue? Or was it because he was the heroic type as well as it being his job to rescue the guests? We don’t get those answers. I don’t believe he was part of the criminal gang running the hotel but again, the movie was poorly written so I’m not quite sure.

I don’t always want my movies to be longer. This time, I did. I’ll have to watch At Bertram’s Hotel a second time in order to catch what I missed the first time. Subtitles would have helped, no doubt, but so would have a better, more comprehensive script and better enunciation.


Sleeping Murder 1987 Joan Hickson version

Watched Wednesday, 13 January 2021

Fidelity to text: 4 garottes. The producers didn’t change much as far as I could tell, other than shifting the film’s time period to the early 1950’s and compressing and removing minor characters. Everything important is present and accounted for.

Quality of movie on its own: 4 garottes. There’s the usual problem of the film quality itself (16 mm doesn’t age well) and lack of subtitles. Other than those technical issues, this version of Sleeping Murder was well-paced, atmospheric, and I could follow it easily. The music score really added to the ambience. Still, there were questions that the plot chose not to answer.

Sleeping Murder was a treat after sitting through Joan Hickson’s last outing (Murder at the Vicarage). The producers got back on track and shot the film so you could see what was going on rather than watching dark shapes move against a darker background. It was sunny, a nice contrast to the very unsunny subject matter.

It always amazes me that people think Agatha writes cozies. She does not, proved again here. The implications of this film’s murderer and his motives are unsettling. If he can’t have the object of his obsession, no one can. Interestingly, this is one of the very few Agatha Christie stories that doesn’t involve money as a major subtext and driving issue. It’s all passion and obsession here; wanting what you can’t and shouldn’t have.

This story also plays into the theme of old sins having long shadows. Those sins can be remembered in strange, unexpected ways.

Which is why we get the stunning coincidence of Gwenda Reed, newlywed expat from New Zealand, finding the perfect house in a quaint village on the English coast. It’s a house that is strangely and startlingly familiar in odd ways. The musical score, something I don’t normally notice in a made-for-TV film, played this up nicely without being over the top. It was cinematic. Normally, TV productions have forgettable scores.

I really have no criticisms of this adaptation, except that it was too short. There were all kinds of motivations and reasons that were missing, hence a score of four garottes instead of more. I don’t know if this was due to the screenwriter playing fast and loose with the text or if Agatha didn’t spell it out in the novel. She wrote Sleeping Murder during the London Blitz and set it aside in a vault (along with Curtain, Hercule Poirot’s last case). Agatha was at the height of her writing skills, writing complex, well-plotted and detailed mysteries. She didn’t slow down until the late sixties.

So why then do we not get more of an explanation of Helen Spenlove Kennedy Halliday’s motives? That’s Gwenda’s mysteriously vanished stepmother. Everyone says she ran off with another man. Everyone implied that she was crazy about men and loose with her affections.

Miss Marple would tell you to never believe what anyone says. She never does. She expects people to misremember, shade the truth, and outright lie and she’s right.

I could figure out (especially after the big reveal) why Helen ran away from the quaint village all the way to India to marry Walter Fane, boring solicitor, who’d relocated to India himself. She was desperate to leave. Why didn’t she marry Walter Fane? Because she’d had a torrid affair with a married man on the ship from England to India and discovered she didn’t want to settle?

Well, okay. Even so, while marrying Walter Fane might not have been the best choice, it was a far better choice than remaining in that quaint little village. She got to leave that obsessed man in the dust.

But Helen said no to Walter Fane on the dock in some port in India.

She boarded another ship and sailed back to England which made no sense. At that point, Helen met Gwenda’s father, Kelvin Halliday, widower with little girl. They fall in love (those shipboard romances! Someone should write a novel) and marry. Okay.

Except they return to England, the place that Helen wanted to leave. Still okay. England’s a big place. Not as big as the United States but it’s certainly large enough that there were a number of counties, cities, towns, and villages to choose from.

Yet Helen agrees to return to the quaint little English seaside village that she couldn’t run away from fast enough. And, let me remind you, for very good reasons. Was this her new husband’s decision and she went along? We don’t know.

This is really important to me, because Helen’s motivations are what drive the plot. Why did she flee the village? Why did she return? Why did she — apparently — flee again with some other man in the dead of night?

We are not given any kind of explanation for Helen’s motives. Yet if she had not returned to the quaint English seaside village, everything would have been different for her, her husband, and her little stepdaughter. For one thing, she might not have vanished in the night, leaving behind a husband who think’s he strangled her and dies a suicide and a traumatized stepdaughter who gets shipped off to relatives in New Zealand.

I don’t have a problem with the unlikeliness of this plot mechanism. I swallowed whole the set of books involving four midgets trekking across a wilderness to throw a ring into a volcano. But I expect reasonably plausible, internally consistent explanations for why the characters do what they do.

I understood Gwenda’s motivations. She wanted to find out what happened and why this mysterious house that she had never seen before triggered memories. She had a chance to learn the secrets hidden from her for her entire life. I understood her husband’s motivations. He wanted his wife to be happy and he was fascinated too.

I understood everyone else’s motivations, from gardeners to former housemaids to lawyers to shop assistants to former friends and lovers. They all made sense.

Miss Marple’s motivations made sense. She knew to let sleeping dogs lie and what would come of disturbing them. Since no one took her good advice and those dogs got roused, she wanted to solve the crime and prevent another crime from happening to Gwenda and Giles.

But we were not told Helen’s motivations. This is one of those opportunities that a good scriptwriter can take and run with. If it’s not spelled out in the book or glossed over or omitted entirely, the adaptation can tell the full story. This is why sometimes (but not always) the movie can be better than the book.

Heresy, I know. But it’s true. If you’ve ever seen Legally Blonde and then hunted down the novel it was based on, you’ll know what I mean. The movie was about one hundred times better than the novel. The concept was there, but every part of the film was better than the novel.

The Agatha project has already proved this concept as well, believe it or not. The 2011 version of The Blue Geranium — a very early Miss Marple short story — was far superior to the source material. It can be done.

Sadly, it wasn’t done here. I can’t blame it on time limitations either because the BBC presents longer adaptations when they want to. Sleeping Murder was 102 minutes long. That’s not a lot of time to fully flesh out everyone’s motivations and yet, other than Helen’s, they managed.

Despite that issue, Sleeping Murder worked for me. I didn’t question Helen’s motivations while watching the film. This came afterwards, while Bill and I were walking around the block on our nightly constitutional. It’s a reminder that Alfred Hitchcock, who knew a thing or two about successful movies, was right.

As long as the audience doesn’t say “wait a minute!” during the movie and wait until they get into the lobby to start dissecting the flaws, the film succeeded.

Sleeping Murder succeeded and it is a worthy addition to Agatha at the movies.


Murder Is Easy (2009) Julia McKenzie

Watched Friday, 26 March 2021

Fidelity to text: 1 poison bottle. Where to start, where to start. There are so choices. This novel (a personal favorite) never starred Miss Marple. Agatha had been writing Miss Marple novels and short stories for over a decade by the time she wrote Murder is Easy (1939) so if she’d wanted this to be a Miss Marple story, she’d have made it one. For this film, ITV’s scriptwriter got out the knives and slashed away. About all that remains from the text after it was run through a woodchipper are names and some methods of death.

Quality of movie on its own: 3 poison bottles. It was an overcrowded mess rescued by good performances. Sometimes, the movie took flight all on its own. However, there was just too much going on in 93 minutes to be able to easily keep track of who was who and why it mattered.

By now, Agatha must be spinning in her grave fast enough to power all of London. What are her heirs thinking? They need to squeeze a few more bucks out of her creativity to stave off the dreadful day when they have to earn their own livings from their own efforts? It feels that way after a missed opportunity like this one.

Murder Is Easy is one of my favorite Christie novels. It has everything, from creepy villagers playing at witchcraft to press magnates who believe their own press. Add in an expat from Malaya, a daring rescue where the damsel rescues herself rather than wait for the hero to save her, and a great murderer who fully justifies the many crimes she commits. It was all done for love, you know; sour, curdled, unrequited, I’ll get my revenge for being spurned, obsessive love, but still love of a twisted sort.

Gone the way of all flesh. A few bones litter the scene. The murderer is still there but her motivation has been radically changed, along with some of her crimes. The press magnate and the witchcraft wannabes gone. Benedict Cumberbatch shows up as Luke Fitzwilliam, returned from the Malayan police force and he doesn’t even get to attempt to rescue the damsel. The damsel (Bridget Conway) had a complete body and soul makeover until she’s unrecognizable to anyone who’s read the novel.

It was odd watching Benedict Cumberbatch emote. This film was released in 2009, a year before he burst onto the world’s stage with Sherlock. When he filmed Murder is Easy, he was just another up and coming character actor; not leading man material and that’s how he’s treated here. His scenes, in fact, were so truncated compared to his role in the novel that he might as well have been dispensed with entirely and all his scenes handed over to Miss Marple (who got about half of them anyway) and to Police Constable Reed who gets more screen time, less billing, and in every way is a more logical person to investigate suspicious doings with Miss Marple. It was fun watching PC Reed learn how to ask questions from the mistress of leading questions.

The film would have been a lot less confusing without Benedict co-sleuthing with Miss Marple. She worked hand in glove with PC Reed and didn’t need any assistance from some hack from Malaya. The other reason for removing Benedict all together was Bridgit Conway’s character. In the novel, he and Bridget solve the murders and fall in love while doing so. In the film? Bridget is not just an American snooping around. She shows every sign of being the kind of crazy that’s its best to back away slowly from. Since this version of Bridget has zero need for a charming young man like Benedict Cumberbatch, then his other reason for appearing onscreen vanishes.

There was so much extraneous plot larded onto the story. Political campaigns? Check. Infighting and betrayal in said political campaign? Check. Crazy, grieving widow? Check. Potential affair between married politician and grieving widow? Check. Socialist doctor who’s got eyes on his elderly partner’s daughter? Check. Vicar with beekeeping hobby? Check. Unpleasant, snobby spinster with simpleton brother? Check. Librarian with missing books? Check. Lingering gratuitous near-nudity? Check. Hedge-witch granny? Check. Herbal abortion potions being passed around like cups of tea? Check. Secret babies? Check. Studly gardener with whom one has a torrid affair? Check. Incest and rape? Check.

There’s also a Persian cat who plays a critical role in the murder but Mr. Wonky was in the novel and besides, every TV mystery needs a cat.

There was just too much going on. ITV would have done better by sticking with the original text which had plenty of action. How could the scriptwriter add incest, affairs, and secret babies and then skip the entire witchcraft rituals run by the local antiques dealer? That wasn’t exciting enough?

I’ve yet to see witchcraft being practiced in an ITV Marple production so perhaps they’re saving it to add to a novel where no witchcraft appears.

Adding Miss Marple wasn’t as terrible as it could have been (see The Secret of Chimneys for an example of what not to do). She gets Luke Fitzwilliam’s opening scene, meeting Lavinia Pinkerton on the train. This was completely plausible as was Miss Marple, known busybody, listening to another old lady’s story of murder and not discounting it. It was equally plausible that when Miss Marple read about Lavinia Pinkerton’s sudden death (murder that doesn’t look like murder) that she would rush off to investigate. That’s what she does. We all have to have a hobby and seeing justice done is hers.

Weirdly, no one in Wychwood Under Ash seems to think it strange when the stranger at the funeral stays. And stays. And stays. Maybe it’s the power of old ladies to become invisible. Maybe it’s because after multiple sudden deaths (how could that not be suspicious?) and far too many characters running around the village streets that the citizens are too exhausted emotionally to comment. At least they all looked different enough that I could tell them apart. I just didn’t get enough time with most of them to care.

Too many subplots never got an ending. Why was Dr. Humbleby’s wife so glad about his death? We’re never given a reason. Why was the Poisons book missing from the library for five years and not just the two weeks needed to look something up? Did Major Horton quit drinking after that dreadful drunken incident led directly to someone’s death? It was implied but never stated. And why oh why did Bridget Conway carry around a postcard of the Empire State Building in her purse? She didn’t know she was going to give it to Luke Fitzwilliam and reenact An Affair to Remember. She certainly didn’t set a date and time. “Soon” does provide one important clue which Luke will ignore because the script tells him to. Don’t do it. Remember, he’s supposed to be a policeman. It’s clear he’s a bad one.

I suppose the reason for watching this film is to see Benedict Cumberbatch before he became Sherlock. If you aren’t a Cumberbitch, you might want to give this one a pass. Otherwise, if you want to figure out the convoluted subplots, you have to force yourself to watch it twice.


A Pocket Full of Rye (2009) Julia McKenzie

Watched Friday, 19 March 2021

Fidelity to text: 4 and 1/2 poison bottles. ITV Productions is unreliable when it comes to fidelity to text but in this case, they were virtually letter-perfect. Miss Ramsbottom was eliminated, as were a few minor housemaids, secretaries, and such. Miss Marple gets one of Inspector Neele’s scenes.

Quality of movie on its own: 4 poison bottles. I really enjoyed this film, Julia McKenzie’s first outing as Miss Marple. The ending was spot-on, with the post office contributing to the mystery by misdirecting the mail. The Joan Hickson version cheated on this issue. What didn’t I like? Julia McKenzie. I kept seeing Jessica Fletcher and not Miss Marple! Joan Hickson and Geraldine McEwan both fit my mental picture of Miss Marple. Like Angela Lansbury herself in The Mirror Crack’d (1980), Julie McKenzie didn’t make me think Edwardian-era spinster.

ITV Productions veer all over the map when it comes to adapting Agatha’s novels. In this case, every minor deletion contributed to a better movie overall. It tightened the plot, keeping it focused on the Fortescue family and their circle. It also, unlike other ITV films didn’t “improve” Agatha’s own text by making up complications out of whole cloth.

In some cases, the improvements do improve the movie. What works in a novel doesn’t generate the drama that a film needs. In A Pocket Full of Rye, Miss Marple deduces the crime like a paleontologist working out the complete body and lifestyle of a dinosaur based on a few teeth and some toe-bones. The Joan Hickson version cheated on the ending to add drama and made Lance Fortescue into an entirely different character as a result. Here, despite the lack of drama (Miss Marple reads a letter) you get a subtle reward, true to the text.

The murderer will not just get arrested. He’ll suffer mentally and emotionally right up until the crown hangs him, as he realizes that he’s not nearly as clever as he thinks he is. No escape for him, thanks to a convenient lorry driver.

I’m unsure about the three gratuitous sex scenes. Agatha wrote very passionate novels but she kept the bedroom shenanigans offstage. She’s an adult, she wrote for adults, and adults all know what they do behind closed doors. We don’t need instruction manuals. Nonetheless — perhaps because they didn’t rev up the drama for the climax — ITV gives us not just a scene showing Adele Fortescue and her golf pro in adulterous action in a broom closet. We get two such scenes with Lance and Pat Fortescue.

I can grasp Adele’s scene. It’s easy shorthand to make sure the audience knows she’s cheating on her much older husband and with whom. It’s sordid, too. A broom closet? When he’s working at a nice hotel? Tacky, tacky, tacky, but a manicurist from Brighton might not expect better. Adele holds the upper hand in the relationship but she’s too dumb to realize it. She also isn’t smart enough to demand better accommodations.

But Lance and Pat? Was this to demonstrate they adore each other? To show that even though they have a luxurious bed handy, they use the back of the hallway door because they’re free-spirited? I dunno. My back hurt watching that scene, along with thinking the actors cheated because Pat’s skirt was clearly in the way, as were Lance’s pants. Miss Dove, the housekeeper, certainly had her ears burn as well as have her opinion of Lance and Pat decline sharply.

I appreciated the scenes showing why Percival Fortescue was fighting with his father. They made it clear that dear old dad was losing his mind. The business was suffering, bankruptcy loomed, and Percival knew he’d have to pick up the pieces. Dad marrying a sexpot manicurist from Brighton was the least of his worries. Lance’s untimely return and demands were a much bigger problem.

Overall, the casting was excellent other than Elaine Fortescue and worse, Gladys, the housemaid. The film industry does this all the time. They show us an actress whom all the characters claim is plain, even ugly, and we, the audience, ask “on what planet?” The Planet of the Beauty Queens, I suppose.

Elaine is supposed to be plain enough that only her money will generate a boyfriend. In this case, it’s Gerald Wright, school teacher and Communist. You know he’s only marrying Elaine for her money but she seems happy enough. But Elaine Fortescue is not plain. She can do far better than Gerald Wright, C0mmunist, and no amount of Hollywood foolishness will make me say otherwise. Miss Marple would agree.

Gladys was much worse cast and, in this case, the Joan Hickson version did better. This actress was not plain. She wasn’t a raving beauty queen, but most of us aren’t. She was pretty in a normal way. Joan Hickson’s Gladys Martin, by comparison, was dumpy, lumpy, frumpy, and the sort of girl who’s so desperate to be noticed by a boy that she’ll do or say anything he wants to keep him happy and around. ITV Productions did do a better job of showing us the relationship between Miss Marple and Gladys and did far better at demonstrating how credulous and gullible poor Gladys was.

Poor Gladys Martin. Destined to be used by the people around her because she’s not smart enough to understand what’s happening to her. Neither does she have Adele’s beauty to cushion her life. As an orphan, she’s got no family to protect her. Only Miss Marple.

Jennifer Fortescue’s character arc was very interesting to watch. Percival Fortescue married her after she nursed him through pneumonia. She’s ambivalent and you wonder why she married him. Her nefarious purpose is revealed, but what happens next? The huge secret she’s hiding has come between them since the day they met. Will they remain married? Get divorced? Jennifer is unhappy, lonely, and bored. She won’t be in the future. Her destiny is left ambiguous as is Percival’s. I spent some time speculating what they would do, because it’s clear that he still cares about her, even if he’s clumsy in how he expresses himself.

I would have liked to see more of Vivian Dubois. We never find out what happens to him — even a paragraph — in the novel. Similarly, he gets short shrift in both film versions. He discovers what he thought was a great payout is a few pieces of jewelry. Agatha does sometimes give us an ending for a minor character like this: see Raymond Starr in The Body in the Library as an example. He loses his bid to escape the hospitality industry via an advantageous marriage but we’re still given a snapshot of his future. With Vivian, we get nothing. ITV could also have changed his name and I wouldn’t carp. Vivian is no longer a man’s name anywhere in the world.

This film worked so much better than earlier BBC production with Joan Hickson. It was true to the text while still being well-paced, well-acted, and fun to watch. Great English country house porn too. Wow. What a house. It needed a lot more maids than Gladys to keep it spic and span. Stick with this version. You won’t be disappointed.


The Murder at the Vicarage 1986 Joan Hickson film review

Watched Wednesday, 6 January 2021.

Fidelity to text: 3 guns. The usual changes of condensing or removing characters, some of whom were important (Dr. Stone and his hapless assistant). The plan to trap the murderer is radically different and worst of all, one of the murderers commits suicide out of remorse. No, they did not. They killed him and they were glad; glad, I tell you. Glad that rascal was dead because he had it coming.

Quality of movie on its own: 3 guns. I did not like this Joan Hickson outing nearly as much as the others I’ve seen to date. The pacing was off, the dialog was murky in the extreme, large sections were shot in the dark, and some characters were so underplayed as to have all the liveliness of a Ken doll. I’m looking at you, Lawrence Redding, louche painter and sex appeal magnet. Not here. The poacher, Bill Archer, must have stolen all of Lawrence Redding’s virility. That makes it harder to understand why Anne Protheroe has an affair with him and why stepdaughter Lettice is jealous and catty about Lawrence’s affections.

Miss Marple made her debut in the short story collection, The Thirteen Problems (retitled The Tuesday Club Murders in the United States). She then went on to star in her first novel, The Murder at the Vicarage. This novel is probably the one most people are familiar with, if they know Miss Marple at all.

Thus, it behooves the BBC to produce an adaptation that is true to the text, since far more people watch TV than read. If you’re showcasing a major fictional character, why not do it right? Tell the story the way the author intended? As always, allowing for the differences between film and text, the BBC does generally do it up fine. They generally did with Joan Hickson’s four previous outings as Miss Marple.

Well, maybe they didn’t. I’m recalling the major rewrite of Lance Fortescue’s character as revealed in A Pocketful of Rye.

And the same proved true for The Murder at the Vicarage. I can accept characters being disappeared because 102 minutes doesn’t allow for a lot of leisurely complex plot development. However, rewriting Miss Marple’s plot to trap the murderer by having him murder an almost entirely new, made-up-from-whole-cloth character didn’t play well with me, particularly since much of it was shot in the dark. The cat was a nice touch, though. The murderer was very careful about not harming the cat while trying to gas the victim.

I really didn’t like the other murderer’s suicide. Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, the guilt, the shame, the agony of knowing they’d killed another person. Well, no. That murderer was quite clear: he had it coming and there wasn’t so much as a snip of guilt. I suppose the reasoning behind this was to make for more drama for the film. Or, the screenplay wasn’t properly developed and so the scriptwriter had to come up with something dramatic.

In the novel, although the crimes are solved, we do not see what happens next. We assume that arrests are made, the case is brought to trial, and the murderers convicted (since Miss Marple deduced the motives and methods, this is a foregone conclusion) and then hung by the crown. The scriptwriter must have decided to finesse this ending with one of their own. That still leaves the other murderer, the instigator of the plot, hanging freely and off-screen.

Another thing I didn’t like about this adaptation was it didn’t spell out the reasons for the murders. There’s always a reason for murder, usually involving money, sex, or fear. In The Murder at the Vicarage, money and sex feature prominently, but you’d never know it from this adaptation.

It’s so bloodless. Agatha is never bloodless. Her novels seethe with passion requited and unrequited. The desperate need for money runs a close second. Sometimes the need for money is to save the estate from ruin, other times it is the dire need to escape living in poverty. In this case, our villains want to run away and live in sin, and be comfortable while doing so. Yet that is never made clear.

One thing I did like was seeing a lot more of Mary, the vicar’s insolent and incompetent maid, and her young man, Bill Archer. Archer is the local poacher. He has regular run-ins with Colonel Protheroe. He’s also, like Mary, a representative of the lower, working-class villagers who normally only show up to add background color despite doing all the work. The same is true of the villagers that the vicar visits only to discover that he’s been fooled in order to get him far away from the scene of the crime. These two sturdy farmers make jokes at the vicar’s expense and it’s a funny scene.

So is the scene involving Griselda, the vicar’s wife and the group of old ladies she is having tea with, including Miss Marple. I would have enjoyed this part even more if I could have understood better what everyone was saying.

Too much of this movie was shot in the dark. There are long, long moments when you’ll have no idea what is going on. It’s dark. Characters are creeping around in the dark, but you’re not sure why. At times, I wasn’t sure who was creeping around in the dark. This includes a lengthy section when a character — who is checking the house for prowlers — could have turned on the darned lights! Nobody investigates mysterious noises in the attic without turning on the lights. These folks have electricity. We see properly lit rooms in the film.

The poor lighting does help conceal the lack of English Country House porn. Other films in this series (to date) have been better, especially The 4:50 From Paddington episode with (oh-my-God look at that fantastic fill-in-the-blank!) Rutherford Hall. The Protheroes supposedly live in a grand house, but it didn’t look that grand to me. It may have been completely authentic down to the baseboards but it didn’t make me drool with envy and dream of redecorating. On the other hand, the church in St. Mary Mead was gorgeous in its own right.

Then there’s the scene that made no sense at all. It wasn’t part of the novel. It didn’t solve the crime. It didn’t advance the plot. It’s Mary taking a basket lunch to church and then tucking it away between a pair of flying buttresses (or something like them) on the side of the church so her poacher boyfriend can find the basket.

Why do this? If the producers were looking to fill airtime, they could have devoted more time to Anne Protheroe and Lawrence Redding’s torrid affair. Or to how awful Colonel Protheroe was. Or to Lettice and her distaste for her stepmother and her father. Or to Mrs. Lestrange. Or why Dr. Haydock was so emotionally involved with Mrs. Lestrange. Or why that painting in the Prothereoe’s attic was slashed. If you’ve read the novel, you can add to the list on your own.

I still think this episode of Miss Marple is worth watching, simply because Joan Hickson is worth watching. She is Miss Marple. Just don’t expect the sumptuous feast of The Body in the Library or A Murder Is Announced. If you do, you’ll be disappointed. I can’t believe I’m going to make this recommendation, but here it is: the 2004 version of The Murder at the Vicarage with Geraldine McEwan — despite its many flaws — is a better adaptation of the novel. If you can only spare the time for one adaptation of the novel, choose that one.


Nemesis 2009 Geraldine McEwan

Watched Friday, 12 March 2021

Fidelity to text: 1 and 1/2 poison bottles. If you’re familiar with the novel, you’ll be aghast at what ITV Productions did to the story line. About all that remains is Verity herself, her tragic life, and Jason Rafiel’s enjoyment of manipulating people. Oh, and the coach tour of the great houses of England. That’s still present.

Quality of movie on its own: 2 and 1/2 poison bottles. I never know what to expect from ITV: excellent or terrible. In this instance, I got both. Despite the screenwriter playing fast and loose to earn his own salary, the movie worked for me, right up until the third act. Then it completely fell apart into an incoherent, illogical mess. The final scene was the rotten cherry atop the rancid sundae.

I liked the first two-thirds of this film. I really did. Introducing a 50’s version of Mission Impossible was a nifty touch. Jason Rafiel sends his last request to Miss Marple via a record on a gramophone. If she cooperates, she’ll win the 500 £ bequest. In the novel, the bequest is considerably larger but Jason Rafiel is considerably richer. Here, he’s apparently a “man of letters” and noted philanthropist. As a “man of letters”, he must not be very rich or else he spent all his wealth arranging the tour.

The tour had a definite And Then There Were None vibe. In the novel, some members of the tour group were sent by Jason Rafiel, but not all. Here, every single person including the tour guide is in on the plot. As you would expect, the bodies start to pile up with the least guilty dying first while Miss Marple unravels the clues about Verity along with figuring out how everyone is related to everyone else.

We’ll start with Michael Rafiel. He’s still Jason Rafiel’s son but with a different last name. He’s also a Luftwaffe pilot, shot down over England after Dunkirk, which is how he meets Verity. Who’s a novice nun. She nurses him back to health and naturally, they fall in love. The sisters of St. Elspeth, Clothilde in particular, are not happy about Verity running off to Ireland with an enemy combatant and tell her so. Verity disappears under mysterious circumstances and Michael gets picked up by the police and spends the rest of the war in a POW camp. He begs his father (a resident alien living in London) to find Verity. Dear old dad refuses and the estrangement begins.

Clothilde is still present, in vastly different form. She’s become a nun at the St. Elspeth convent. We meet her and her Mother Superior, Sister Agnes. A generous, anonymous benefactor provides them with two tickets for the all-expense tour. Naturally, they drop their religious duties in London and race off to see England.

No one else from the novel remains. Even the tour guide gets a character revamp. Raymond West (Richard E. Grant) appears from out of thin air. He’s Miss Marple’s writing nephew so when Jason Rafiel tells Miss Marple she needs a companion, she chooses him. We get some great scenes with Richard E. Grant chewing the scenery and chasing after everyone in a skirt. I don’t remember that predilection from the novels but here we are.

But all the changes worked, until they didn’t. The other tour group members were distinctive, interesting, and had logical if sometimes farfetched ties to Verity. Until they didn’t, when we discover multiple cases of mistaken identities, misidentified wounded soldiers with apparently blind wives, lying lawyers, and tour guides who were intelligence operatives during the war despite not looking nearly old enough.

That was something else I kept noticing. The ages of the actors were wrong. If you’re twenty-two, you have a certain dewiness about you that isn’t present when you’re thirty-two. The action takes place both in 1940 and in 1951, yet none of the protagonists have aged a day. They looked either too young for their part or too old.

But okay. It’s Hollywood.

Then the tour bus gets sabotaged and we get to spend the night in the abandoned St. Elspeth convent. An awful lot of furniture and religious statuary were left behind when the convent was abandoned. I had a hard time accepting that all those icons would be left to rot. I suppose it was the same set of movers who conveniently left behind hundreds of candles and lanterns to light the convent so our heroes can dash about in the dark. There’s a scene where, despite no one having been inside the convent in years, lit candles are scattered all around. Who did that? No explanation.

Then the climax and one ridiculous scene after another. Verity reappearing in her nun’s habit. Where did those clothes come from? The stocks of poisoned cocoa when the convent kitchen has been left empty for years. Why does anyone cart poisons around with them? Yet apparently, one of the characters does just that. And how about impaling yourself on a spear? No one dies that quick. Poisoned cocoa would kill much faster. A spear, plunged through the abdomen, would take hours unless you hit a major artery and bleed out. Since amateurs are not surgeons, the odds are much better that the victim will die of sepsis after hours to days of agony. That’s certainly enough time to get the victim to a doctor.

And of course, our wounded soldier discovers his true identity, recovers some of his lost memory, and meets his grieving — for eleven years — widow. But we don’t get any dialog! Nothing. Not a faint, not a scream, not even “I never forgot you even when I thought I was someone else.” The screen fades to black as though the scriptwriter had used up all his imagination in adding gramophones with the voice of Jason Rafiel directing the action from beyond the grave.

Jason Rafiel is one manipulative jerk, pulling everyone’s strings like a master puppeteer. He has zero empathy for anyone else — including his own son — so it’s not a surprise that he doesn’t care what his little plot does to the unfortunate puppets. I suppose that’s what comes of being a “man of letters”. You stop thinking of people as people. They turn into characters whom you manipulate to suit the needs of the plot.

Then we come to the final scene. Nemesis was Geraldine McEwan’s final turn as Miss Marple for ITV Productions. All future episodes have Julia McKenzie as Miss Marple so one would assume that ITV wanted to give Geraldine McEwan a proper sendoff.

Instead, we get Miss Marple cutting a rose and pricking her finger and bleeding. She stares at her hand and then at the camera. Her expression indicates that she’s just realized what a terrible, awful mistake she’s made. Not signing the contract for another season? Or that she was completely wrong about who actually murdered Verity and two other people? Or that she was wrong about who the true murderer was in all the other cases she solved?

We’ll never know.

What I do know is you should watch Joan Hickson’s version of Nemesis from 1987 instead of this one if you like a coherent plot. That version changed things around too, especially Michael Rafiel’s part, but it was much truer to the novel than this mess.


A Pocketful of Rye March 1985 Joan Hickson film review

Watched Wednesday, 30 December 2020

Fidelity to text: three poison bottles. The scriptwriters changed things, starting with the title! The novel’s title is A Pocket Full of Rye. It’s a tiny difference but there and I have no idea why they did it. It’s like changing names of characters, in this case, Miss Ramsbottom becoming Miss Henderson. Again, there’s no reason for this change other than change for change’s sake because the scriptwriter could. Those changes, while irritating, are minor. There are others, one of which changes the tenor of the film, and I’ll get to them later.

Quality of film on its own: three poison bottles. This was the worst of the four Joan Hickson adaptations we’ve seen to date. I could not understand large chunks of the dialog, even with the sound turned way up. Worse, the ending fell apart completely. This may be due to my familiarity with the novel. It did not work. If, however, you’re coming to A Pocketful of Rye without having read the novel, you may not notice.

Unfulfilled promises by the scriptwriter started in the opening scenes. We see Rex Fortescue skipping along the London street, spontaneously buying flowers for his hot executive secretary, and chortling over reports in a very unbusinesslike manner. We are never given a reason for this behavior. Is it normal? Is this an indication that this just-this-side-of-legal businessman is losing his marbles? We never find out. It’s possible these scenes were designed to tell us that Rex Fortescue is an unpleasant human being, but that’s not what came across to us.

Gradually the story unfolds, centering particularly on the housemaid, Gladys. She’s pudgy, shy, awkward, and mistake-prone. It’s unusual to have a housemaid as a major character, especially if she isn’t a raving beauty destined to marry the lord’s handsome son. Young ladies like Gladys exist to dust in the background and move the plot forward and that is what happens. Gladys sets things in motion and is then strangled very nastily. Her body is left where it lays, hanging out the clothes in the laundry area of the back garden of the hall, with a clothespin on her nose.

Gladys makes and takes anxious phone calls. We see her little room and — another unfilled promise — we see her address a letter to Miss Marple, the old lady who took her from the orphanage and trained her to be a housemaid. The letter never appears again in the movie, despite the fact that in the novel it provides what will be (after the book ends) critical evidence as to the guilt of the murderer.

Elaine Fortescue and her schoolteacher boyfriend disappear entirely. I understand this choice because 103-minute-long films don’t have a lot of time for stray red herrings who aren’t critical to the plot. What I do not understand is eliminating Inspector Neele’s interview with Mrs. Mackenzie. She’s critical to a major red herring in the plot and she’s dispensed with in a few mumbled sentences.

It was never made clear that our hyper-competent housekeeper, Miss Dove, apparently leads a gang of thieves. After she works in some wealthy house for a year or so, she leaves and a few months later, thieves break in. The thieves know the location of the silver, the jewelry, the fur coats, and anything else worth stealing.

Vivian Edward Dubois comes on stage briefly as Adele Fortescue’s fancy bit on the side. Adele is the much younger, glamorous second wife to Rex Fortescue. She does not get along with her stepchildren. They’re all the same age and it’s hard to look at dad’s new cookie who’s younger than you (that would be Percival Fortescue) and hotter than your own wife (Jennifer Fortescue). Here’s a case where a name change would be worthwhile since no one uses Vivian as a man’s name anymore. Vivian has a darn good reason to murder Rex and then to murder Adele but he vanishes from the scene far too quickly.

Another change that you won’t notice if you haven’t read the book is that Jennifer Fortescue has a bad marriage. The bigger one is that she apparently got Rex Fortescue to will her 40,000 pounds just by asking. Not in the book, folks, but I suppose it let the scriptwriter avoid adding Mrs. Mackenzie to the cast, even though she should have been included.

The biggest change was to Lance Fortescue and the ending. I don’t want to spoil the movie for you (assuming again that you haven’t read the novel). No. Just no. It felt so deus ex machina. Then to make that contrivance even more unconvincing, he revealed to Pat that his upbringing was emotionally abusive and thus fully justified. Everything in the text said he was a bad seed from day one. The ending didn’t sit well at all.

I will agree the ending of the story works in a book. It does not work in a movie and so needed to change. We’re left — in the novel — knowing what the end will be (that certain someone meeting the hangman) but we don’t see it. What we get is Miss Marple receiving proof from Gladys in the mail. Remember the letter that is noticed (by Miss Marple and ignored!) in Gladys’ room early on? This is the letter and it never plays a role in the script again. In the novel you get this, after she reads the letter and looks at the enclosed photograph:

The tears rose in Miss Marple’s eyes. Succeeding pity, there came anger — anger at a heartless killer.

And then, displacing both these emotions, there came a surge of triumph — the triumph some specialist might feel who has successfully reconstructed an extinct animal from a fragment of jawbone and couple of teeth.

You just know that the murderer will swing. But we don’t see it. This is where the scriptwriter could have made a useful, even preferable change, similar to the change we got in the film Crooked House. We could have seen the murderer confronted with the evidence that was mailed to Miss Marple, incontrovertible proof of his guilt.

But we don’t. Instead, we get this ridiculous scene where he’s accidentally run over by some random lorry delivered by chance.

No. Just no.

It’s disappointing, particularly since the previous three episodes of Miss Marple were so good. Subtitles would have helped, no question, since I wouldn’t have missed chunks of the storyline. Subtitles wouldn’t save the ending.

They can’t all be gems.


Towards Zero 2008 Geraldine McEwan Marple

Watched Friday, 5 March 2021

Fidelity to text: 3 blunt instruments. This film is yet another non-Miss Marple property that ITV Productions reconfigured to suit their own needs. Miss Marple replaces Inspector Battle. The other major change was removing Angus MacWhirter. Most of his role was rewritten to suit Miss Marple. What didn’t was handed over to Neville Strange (weird, wrong, and creepy) and Thomas Royde. That is, Thomas marries Audrey Strange and poor Mary Aldin is left alone. Otherwise, it’s surprisingly close, right down to dialog lifted from the novel.

Quality as a movie on its own: 4 blunt instruments. I was pleasantly surprised but after sitting through the atrocious hack-job that was Innocent Lies, anything ITV Productions did to this novel would be acceptable. Luckily for us all, ITV did Agatha proud with this adaptation. Miss Marple fit into Towards Zero surprisingly well. I have some quibbles but we’ll get to them.

ITV Productions always delivers on the eye-candy and Towards Zero is no exception. The action takes place at a stately mansion overlooking a cove on the Devon coast. This area must be the English Riviera based on scenic beauty and stunning ocean views. It’s gorgeous. The location was properly chosen because the cove looks to be swimmable, a key plot point. I could conceive of the murderer swimming across this cove at night whereas there are other English coves where that would be impossible. Too wide, too rough, too cold so the swimmer dies of hypothermia, too full of sharks and jellyfish. This cove is sheltered enough that not only is it lined with resort hotels, but the ferry is both small and open.

Tourists (or locals) wouldn’t ride that little boat across rough, choppy waters in the North Sea. Too dangerous. Here? It’s just perfect.

So is the house, Gull Point. Beside getting to ogle the lavish, luxurious house, we even get to see — another key plot point —how it’s wired for servants’ bells. We see the wires connecting Lady Tressilian’s bedroom to her maid’s room. If Lady Tressilian were to ring in the middle of the night, Barrett could respond promptly since the bell would be ringing right over her head.

Since both Inspector Battle and Angus MacWhirter were done away with, Miss Marple gets many of their lines and observations. Where she doesn’t, the new Inspector Mallard does. An Inspector must be present when the most important lady in the neighborhood gets her head coshed in. His constables fill in for Inspector Battle’s constables.

Removing and reworking major characters didn’t always succeed. In the novel, Angus MacWhirter plays a crucial role. He rescues Audrey from suicide. Here, we see her ex-husband, Neville Strange, pulling her back from the cliff and professing his undying love. It was a creepy scene, no question, but if the scriptwriter earmarked Thomas Royde to marry Audrey, it should have been him rushing out to save her, not Neville. It would have made the ending plausible. I could not see a reason why Audrey chose Thomas for her happy ending other than because the script made her do it.

Angus MacWhirter figures out how the crime was committed. Angus MacWhirter lies to Inspector Battle about what he saw, albeit with the same explanation Miss Marple gives. Deductions are all very well, but the police must have facts to work with. Angus MacWhirter consistently demonstrates to Audrey what a competent, caring man is like and so at the end of the novel, you can understand why she runs off to Chile with him. She doesn’t run off to Malaya with Thomas Royde who’s a cipher.

In the novel, Inspector Battle recognizes Audrey as an abused, gaslit woman who doesn’t actually confess to the crime but she doesn’t argue either. It’s a relief and an end to pressure and wherever she’ll end up, it won’t be with her psycho ex-husband. Inspector Battle’s got a valid reason to believe her, since his own daughter was trapped in a similar situation. Inspector Mallard does not.

This was my major complaint about the movie. We don’t see Miss Marple talking to servants or Thomas Royde, Lady Tressilian, or Mary Aldin about the relationship between Audrey and Neville the way Inspector Battle and Angus MacWhirter do in the novel. Instead, she leaps across the cove to make her deductions and pulls part of the solution out of her knitting bag. A few more minutes of film devoted to Miss Marple gossiping with the cook would have more than repaid losing a few minutes of Devon coast scenery. We don’t even get a village parallel explaining why she recognized what Audrey was enduring!

I also wanted a resolution of why no one noticed that Neville Strange was wearing a soaking wet suit. In the novel, this is finessed with raincoats. We don’t get that here (despite the pouring rain), leading one to wonder why no one said anything. This is England! It rains in England like all the time. Every citizen is assigned an umbrella, raincoat, and galoshes at birth. Yet no one notices when Neville shows up at the hotel to play billiards reeking of dead fish and soaking wet. Ted Latimer should have and if he was too drunk to notice, the script should have said so.

Then there’s the denouement, where Miss Marple sketches Audrey with Thomas Royde. Really? He’s a poor substitute for his brother, Adrian, with whom Audrey was going to run away with, abandoning her husband to a life of sin. Thomas Royde has all the personality of a pine cupboard. It’s possible there’s treasure within, but it’s more likely that the cupboard is bare of life and humor.

But these are quibbles. Overall, everything worked. The confrontation scene at the end, where Inspector Mallard and Miss Marple force a confession was masterful. It was funny too, watching Miss Marple accidentally on purpose shove Ted Latimer overboard. We get to watch the murderer break down when his scheme is revealed and that works too.

There are so many good moments.

I really enjoyed watching Kay Strange (wife #2) squabble with Audrey Strange (wife #1). This was played up considerably more than in the novel where everyone was boringly civilized. Lady Tressilian gets several scenes dissecting that scarlet-toed, husband-stealing hussy but even here, we get more complexity. Lady Tressilian also tells Neville that he married Kay and he’s got to stick with her. He made his bed and he’s got to lie in it. Kay was hot, hot, hot; a redhead in a red dress she spilled out of. You can see why poor Ted Latimer carries a torch for her.

This adaptation of Towards Zero is well worth watching, even with the rewrites. It works. It would have been better if they’d kept Angus MacWhirter, but considering ITV Production’s track record of inserting Miss Marple where she never appeared, it’s darn good.


Ordeal By Innocence 2007 Geraldine McEwan

Watched Friday 26 February 2021

Fidelity to text: 3 blunt instruments. Miss Marple did not appear in the novel. There were changes to the murder victims, added characters, deleted characters, even to the setting of the house (it relocated to an island in a lake). But despite all the changes, this adaptation was faithful to the spirit of the novel. Innocent people suffered because a key eyewitness showed up two years too late.

Quality of movie on its own: 4 and 3/4 blunt instruments. There were a few unclear patches, due mostly to mumbling. Otherwise, what a great film. We were riveted. The changes enhanced the story and made it into Shakespearean tragedy.

Ordeal By Innocence could have been ruined by adding Miss Marple.

Instead, it was enhanced because we got the tragic story of Gwenda Vaughn, devoted secretary to Leo Argyle. Gwenda had little backstory in the novel. In this adaptation, she was an orphan whom Miss Marple trained up as a housemaid. Miss Marple encouraged her to strive for something more out of life, to learn, to grow, to reach her full potential. Thus, Gwenda Vaughn, orphan from the working class, becomes a private secretary to a man of letters.

Two years after the murder, Gwenda, who has been quietly in love with her boss all along, finally is on the verge of marrying him. She invites Miss Marple to the wedding — the only person she has to invite — and that very night tragedy arrives. Gwenda was so happy. It was the happiest moment of her life; the eve of her wedding to a man she loved and becoming part of a family, like she had always longed to do, and Miss Marple was there to share in her joy.

Then Arthur Calgary, scientist, arrives with the news that Jacko Argyle didn’t murder his mother. His alibi was true all along. That means, if you’ve read the novel, that someone else in the family bashed Rachel in the head.

She had it coming, by the way. A number of flashbacks proved she was a vicious, controlling harridan. One of the daughters even admits to Miss Marple that they were all better off with Rachel dead and Jacko hanged by the crown.

The family that Gwenda thought loved her instantly turns on her, starting with her fiancé, Leo Argyle. She must have murdered Rachel because she wanted to marry her boss and needed to remove her rival and anyway, she’s not one of us. Notice Leo’s name? There was nothing manly or virtuous about Leo’s behavior, despite his insistence on the importance of character. He shows none and tosses Gwenda to the wolves without a flicker of hesitation. The day before their wedding! He’s a louse, not a lion.

Poor Gwenda. The Argyles turn on her, every last one of them, despite claiming previously that they wanted her. We see her trying on her wedding veil and staring at herself in the mirror, knowing that everything she’d hoped for had turned to ashes in her mouth.

The family continues to tear itself apart, trying to work out which of them did it. Yet, everyone agrees, the most likely person remains Jacko. The crown hung him (an improvement over the novel where he died in prison of pneumonia) and he went to his grave without fingering anyone else. He even told his twin brother, Bobby, that he was doing what was right, for perhaps the first time in his life. Bobby was an added character and a good one. He’s bent like Jacko but in a different way. His actions, whether or not Arthur Calgary showed up, would have torn the family to shreds when revealed.

Philip and Mary Argyle Durant changed too. In the novel, he’s the investigator, not Gwenda. Like Gwenda, he’s an outsider who married in. Here, Philip and Mary have an unhappy marriage because he’s a philandering dog, even indulging in an affair with his wife’s younger sister. But it worked better to have Gwenda doing the investigation rather than Philip; it helped highlight how dysfunctional this supposed happy family truly was. One piece of weirdness for me was discovering Richard Armitage, the actor playing Philip, was also Thorin Smokenshield from The Hobbit films. Yep, that’s Thorin but without the impressive weapons, even more impressive musculature, and thickets of hair. I did not recognize him at all. But he was beautifully cast.

All the actors felt correctly cast, not something I can normally say. They looked like they could be real people you could actually meet in the real world as opposed to Hollywood glamour. Every one of them lit up when they were onscreen, even in minor parts like the car salesman’s wife who told Arthur Calgary how much of a lying cad Jacko was and how, even after everything that happened, she’d give Jacko anything he wanted again.

Another thing ITV did right with this adaptation was they focused tightly on what was, at heart, a locked room murder. Changing the location of the house was another touch of genius. Sunny Point (terrific name because life inside that house was anything but sunny) is now on an island and everyone has to row across the lake in the family’s collection of row boats. The isolation is intense. You can see why, despite knowing that Rachel kept wads of cash on hand, a burglar was never really suspected of her murder.

We’re told everyone — including in the community at large — knows about the money but to get to it, you’ve got to row across a lake in the dark. Most burglars won’t work that hard and the police know it. So does the family, meaning they know it’s one of them. One of them bashed Rachel’s head in with a blunt instrument; furiously, angrily, to the point of smearing brains across her desk. That’s a lot of anger. Burglars tend to be professionals. A burglar would wait in the shrubbery until Rachel left the office and then they’d rob the place.

No, this was an inside job and everyone knew it.

The ending worked too. Miss Marple would be interested anyway. Gwenda’s fate drives her to discover the murderer. She takes full advantage of gossipy staff (Kirsten the housekeeper), distraught family desperate to unburden themselves, and Arthur Calgary, who’s struggling with his own guilt. He thought he was the hero, riding to the rescue of an innocent man, and discovered he was wrong, wrong, wrong.

Miss Marple unraveled the clues provided by personality, character, and circumstances. The solution did not feel like she pulled it out of her knitting bag. And when she left Sunny Point, the family is left to face what they did to themselves. Leo, in particular, has to face his weak, flawed character and utter spinelessness. Ordeal by Innocence is a tragedy that will take a few more generations to end.

Of all the ITV Marple episodes we’ve seen to date, Ordeal By Innocence is the best. Make sure you watch it too.


At Bertram’s Hotel 2007 Geraldine McEwan

Watched Sunday, 21 February 2021

Fidelity to text: one- and one-half guns. The overall plot of Mickey Gorman’s death and motive for his death remain. Otherwise, ch-ch-ch-changes galore. Characters vanish while new ones arise to fill their places, motivations change, and the major subplot involving a gang of thieves operating out of the hotel is replaced with fleeing Nazis. Even Elvira Blake’s flaxen hair vanishes: she’s now a brunette.

Quality of movie on its own: two guns. It looks great, but then ITV puts money into its productions even when they skimp on scripts. In this case, they didn’t skimp on the script. They skimped on rewrites. They had far too much script crammed into 93 minutes so entire portions of the film blurred by at top speed.

At Bertram’s Hotel was always a Miss Marple novel. Some genius at ITV decided that if one Miss Marple was good, then two must be better! And thus, we get the added character of Jane Cooper, chambermaid, following in Miss Marple’s wake and snooping around in places where Miss Marple can’t go. It makes sense because while staff is rarely noticed, they observe everything going on. Jane Cooper deduces, spies on the guests, and reports her findings to Miss Marple. She also gets to show off her deducting chops for the nice police inspector, Larry Bird. This leads to a truly idiotic scene at the end demonstrating how little ITV’s screenwriters know about the 1950’s or the history of policing in England.

Inspector Bird tells Jane Cooper that the force is getting ready to open its doors to women officers. The British police force didn’t wait until the 1950’s. There were female prison matrons as early as 1883. By the turn of the century, socially prominent women had been pointing out for years that women criminals needed women arresting them for propriety’s sake. And so, in 1915, Edith Smith became a constable who could make arrests. Other women police officers followed. Moving up the hierarchy was glacial and the women were kept separate, but English policewomen existed decades before Inspector Bird told Jane Cooper about the possibility.

Then, to compound this historical inaccuracy, Jane Cooper joyously tells Miss Marple that she and Inspector Bird were going to live together without benefit of marriage! In the early 1950’s! Well, no. They would not have done this. Inspector Bird, who comes across as a sharp character, would not willingly jeopardize his career. He and Jane Cooper would date and marry in the socially and culturally approved fashion of the times. The wedding might be sudden if she became pregnant, but they wouldn’t move in together without being married.

Not if he wanted a career and not if she did either. Living in sin was not acceptable for police officers. They were supposed to be moral exemplars for the community.

Then there’s the entire Nazi subplot, taking the place of the novel’s subplot of a gang of super-thieves operating out of Bertram’s Hotel and using doppelgangers of famous people to defray suspicion. The time period is correct for Nazis fleeing Europe for South America. After that, the plot has more holes than Swiss cheese.

First, Jane Cooper, girl detective. She is aware of the weirdness of guests hiding in suite 123 for weeks on end, not coming out of their room, checking in and checking out in the dead of night. Yet she doesn’t question it, despite the torrent of news, books, and movies that talked about escaping Nazis. Miss Marple would have noticed but we’ll give Jane Cooper the benefit of the doubt. She doesn’t know that she can be more than a mere chambermaid, not yet.

Then there’s the Blake family. This gets convoluted so bear with me.

Bess Sedgwick, adventuress, was married to Lord Blake. She dumped him and their daughter, Elvira, years before. She fought in the French Resistance. I think she’s helping hunt Nazis but the dialog was so unclear, I can’t be sure. But Bess Sedgwick, adventuress, should recognize when something’s out of kilter. She’s spent time at Bertram’s Hotel before. Yet she doesn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.

Her former husband is Lord Blake, millionaire and owner of Blake Airlines. He’s been missing for seven years and has been declared legally dead so Bess and Elvira are at Bertram’s for the reading of the will. Ready? The mystery hotel guests are referred to as Blake guests, brought in from Europe on Blake Airlines! Yet Bess Sedgwick —adventuress, French Resistance fighter, and regular guest of the hotel — doesn’t make the connection.

These mystery guests arrive at Bertram’s Hotel via Blake Airlines and then pay their tab with stolen art. No one notices large wooden crates coming into and out of the hotel either. Even a small painting, if it’s valuable, isn’t going to be moved across continents wrapped in a sheet. It’s going to get a custom-built wooden crate with plenty of padding to protect it. No one notices. No one notices the rotating art on the walls either as paintings arrive and are sold and then get replaced.

We are told that Lord Blake disappeared at sea in a plane crash. Maybe he’s enjoying his ill-gotten gains in Argentina but that loose end is left a-dangling for someone writing Miss Marple fanfiction.

I could not wrap my head around this subplot. We’ve got Herr Mutti, elderly Jewish victim of the Nazis and Ladislaus Malinowski, much younger concentration camp survivor (and sometime lover of Bess Sedgwick? It was unclear) working with Bess to capture escaped Nazis yet the Blake connection entirely passes them by. Why did the scriptwriter use the same name for the fleeing Nazi guests and Elvira Blake’s dad if there’s no connection? This is basic writing: don’t use confusing or similar names if characters or events aren’t connected.

Elvira Blake gets changed too, over and above her hair dyed brunette. She’s sort of carrying on with Ladislaus but not really. Her real interest is dear, dear friend, Brigit Milford, whom she feels deeply guilty over. Elvira’s insistence on swimming in polluted water exposed Brigit to polio, crippling her right hand. Then, after practically shoving Brigit into the dirty Italian river, our Elvira refuses to swim. She’s guilty and she knows it, which is supposed to explain her motivations. None of this explains Brigit’s motivations, other than she’s a gold-digger, a very smart girl with a long-range and far-fetched revenge plan, or a total doormat.

I got the distinct impression our Elvira takes after both her parents: mum who does whatever she wants and damn the consequences and dad who provides sanctuary for fleeing war criminals in exchange for stolen fine art.

Throw in blackmailing chambermaids (not our Jane Cooper), matching hats, lying solicitors, Lady Selena Hazy’s own troubles, and twin safecrackers and you’ve got a script that needs more than 93 minutes. Dropping the twin safecrackers would have allowed more time spent on the escaping Nazis.

Oh, and did I mention Louis Armstrong showing up to play jazz for the guests along with his band? He brings along jazz singer, Amelia Walker (very good by the way). Ms. Walker has her own troubles. Bess Sedgwick stole her husband and then Ms. Walker buys fine art stolen by the Nazis.

This is a jampacked movie. It’s much faster paced than the Joan Hickson version but it doesn’t make as much sense. If you must, watch for the sets, the jazz band, and the clothes, but don’t watch if you want to skip reading At Bertram’s Hotel but still want to be able to discuss the novel at a dinner party. You’ll get every detail wrong other than the name of the hotel and a few characters.


A Murder Is Announced February 1985 with Joan Hickson

Watched Wednesday, 23 December 2020

Fidelity to text: 4 and 3/4 guns. The scriptwriters changed a few names, most notably that of the vicar’s cat. In the novel, the cat’s name is Tiglath Pileser. In the film, he becomes a she and is renamed Delilah, permitting the vicar to make a sex joke. For those of you not up on your ancient history, Tiglath Pileser was the name of a series of Assyrian kings (I, II, and III) who ruled more than three thousand years ago. While Tiglath Pileser is a very good name for a well-educated vicar’s cat, so is Delilah. Also, the refugee cook’s name changes from Mitzi to Hannah although that’s one of those changes that didn’t need to happen. Tiglath Pileser would confuse the overwhelming majority of modern viewers and Delilah would not. But Mitzi to Hannah? There was no reason other than the scriptwriter must not have wanted anyone to think of Mitzi Gaynor and who’s going to do that these days? Otherwise, the film follows the novel to the letter. Even the time period remains much the same as the novel was published in 1950 and the adaptation is about 1951 or so.

Quality of film on its own: 4 and 3/4 guns. That missing last quarter gun is due to (again) the lack of subtitles. However, as we watch more Joan Hickson films, we’re getting better at understanding the dialog, even that of quaint, rustic villagers. This film worked beautifully. The producers took their time, allowing the story to unfold as it needed to; no frenetic jump cuts or annoyingly truncated storylines where you say “what just happened?”

This adaptation was wonderful. We really enjoyed it. I will admit the story took its time, but it’s darned hard to compress a complex story into 90 minutes. This version took a full 159 minutes and used every single one of those minutes well. Most movies are the equivalent of a short story; a novel has so much happening that if you try to squeeze it down to 90 minutes or even 120 minutes (two hours), you lose chunks of the plot. There’s no room to explore characters. The camera doesn’t have time to linger.

In this case, we got time. But it wasn’t wasted as I’ve already observed in other Agatha adaptations where I’m left wondering why the camera is focused on a bird in a tree or a lingering panoramic view of a lake and wishing they’d just get on with the story, dammit. This is the same adaptation the scriptwriter gave short-shrift to so that it’s obviously missing chunks of plot. There was time.

In this version, there are scenes of the police inspector driving from one place to another but my word, those one-lane wide English back-country roads between fields and pastures were oddly compelling. They were one step above gravel. It really gave me a sensation of how isolated Chipping Cleghorn was. I believe this conscious choice was made not to pad out the film but to make the viewer wonder why Letitia Blacklock, an obviously well-educated, well-traveled lady of means, chose to bury herself in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere.

This is a village where she knows no one and no one knows her. This begs the question: she has no relatives? Anywhere? No hometown where she grew up? Miss Blacklock had lived in London, yet she voluntarily chooses the back of beyond.

Miss Marple comments on this situation. In decades past, before the disruptions of two world wars sandwiching the worldwide depression, everyone in a village knew each other going back for generations. The locals knew each other’s grandmothers’ scandals. Someone who moved in from the outside would have to be vetted by a respected resident but they would always remain an outsider. Grandchildren might — might! — become insiders instead of being the grandchildren of the Blacklocks who moved in fifty years ago.

But change comes to us all, including backward little villages and thus, we have households full of people who have to accept on faith what they are told. So do their new neighbors. This is who I am. Believe everything I say. Miss Marple, being the astute judge of human nature that she is, recognizes the golden opportunity to lie about one’s background.

As always, she is proved correct: she never trusts what anyone says because her lack of faith in humanity is so often justified by events. Look at the facts and deduce from them. Listen to what everyone says but don’t believe them. Work out how a pile of statements from different suspects line up with each other and, more importantly, where they differ. The truth lies somewhere in that tangle.

Each of our possible suspects notices the same thing — the central heating is on. They also can’t quite believe what they are seeing and hearing and being told, but, because no one knows each other well, they have to accept what they are told.

A Murder Is Announced has more than one liar.

There was one change the scriptwriters could have made to the text that I would have appreciated. We never find out what Colonel Easterbrook’s wife is up to. She’s much younger than her elderly husband. In a village packed with dowdy, real-looking people (the casting directors should have gotten an award because they were spot-on for every single character on screen), Mrs. Easterbrook is glamorous. Old Colonels don’t get to marry hot blonde vixens unless they’ve got something ($$ is the usual object) that the hot blonde vixen wants enough to go to bed with a doddering geezer. Agatha doesn’t tell us what Mrs. Easterbrook is hiding either. I would like to know.

But that’s a minor quibble.

I can’t recommend this particular adaptation enough. It played fair with the text, it didn’t skip any of the clues, the actors and actresses were uniformly terrific and I could tell them apart. They looked like real people, unusual in this day and age when Hollywood routinely casts actors who have been surgically modified into Barbie and Ken lookalikes.

You should read the book and you should watch this movie version. They complement each other beautifully.


I might have worked out the real reason for changing the cat’s name from Tiglath Pileser to Delilah. The scriptwriter didn’t want the audience thinking of any of the cats from T. S. Eliot’s Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats. If you know your Broadway shows, Eliot’s little book of poems became the worldwide phenomenon called CATS in 1980. Those cats had exotic, complex, made-up names like Munkustrap, Jennyanydots, and Rum Tum Tugger. Tiglath Pileser would have fit right in with that bunch. When A Murder Is Announced was aired in February of 1985, the audience might have thought of those singing, dancing cats instead of the vicar’s cat that gave Miss Marple her vital, crime-solving clue.


The Sittaford Mystery 2006 Geraldine McEwan

Watched Friday, 12 February 2021

Fidelity to text: 1 knife. The novel was eviscerated. Miss Marple was shoved in against her will as evidenced by her remaining defiantly offstage for long stretches. The central murder remains as does the séance, the escaped prisoner, and a few names. Characters are added, dropped, and altered beyond recognition. The murderer changes completely and has a wildly different motivation.

Quality of movie on its own: 2 knives. It’s incoherent; the scriptwriters try desperately to shove ten pounds of plot into a five-pound running length. Very atmospheric, though with lovely snow, good music, fine English country house and quaint inn porn (animal heads galore) and Timothy Dalton chewing the scenery.

I want you to queue up Sir Mix-a-Lot and ‘Baby Got Back’ for this:

Oh. My. God.

Look at that plot!

You’ll have to sit through this episode twice (at least) in order to understand what’s going on. This film is 93 minutes long. That was not long enough for all the disparate plot threads to be woven together in a cohesive fashion. The film needed a minimum of another twenty minutes running time to do it justice.

But since ITV productions didn’t do that, you, dear viewer, will be left asking what just happened? Rewind, dammit, so I can figure this one out. That’s what we did. Repeatedly. Yet there were many moments when I still can’t tell you what was going on.

The trouble starts with forcing Miss Marple into a property that was never written for her. This can work: it did with ITV’s own By the Pricking of My Thumbs, a Tommy and Tuppence novel. Not here. In fact, Miss Marple disappeared for long stretches of the film, doing heaven only knows what in Sittaford House, sitting out the blizzard. We assume she was questioning the staff (we only see one servant in the mansion but there has to be more), knitting, and speed-reading Captain Trevelyan’s memoirs. She certainly wasn’t at the Three Crowns Inn, inspecting the body and questioning the guests, even though most of the action takes place there.

An entirely new plot is shoehorned into the novel, vastly expanding Captain Trevelyan’s character and backstory. Suddenly, he’s a war hero (WWI), a suspected war profiteer (WWII), an Olympic skater between wars (I think; the dialog was incomprehensible at many key points), a major contender for becoming the new prime minister (Winston Churchill (!) has a scene with Captain Trevelyan), and he’s a noted archeologist having discovered a major tomb in Egypt back in 1927 that let him make his fortune! Indiana Jones wasn’t this busy.

The point of all this fluffery must be giving Timothy Dalton something to do to earn his paycheck. In the novel, Captain Trevelyan exists to be swiftly murdered. He doesn’t even get one line. In the movie — since it’s Timothy Dalton — when he’s not emoting in front of us, he’s being talked about by the other characters.

Which I can understand. It’s Timothy Dalton and my goodness does he look yummy. Some men age very well and he belongs to that lucky cohort. He’s also got to be expensive so the producers made sure to get their money’s worth. Pity they didn’t spend some of their money on a better script or more filmstock.

Even so, he doesn’t age that well. I had a hard time believing that young, lovely, dewy, eighteen-year-old Violet Willets (Carey Mulligan) fell madly in love with a man old enough to be her grandfather. I know why he did and it’s not just because Violet resembles the woman he callously abandoned twenty-five years prior in Egypt. Violet’s delicious, naïve, and believes every word he says and what man doesn’t want that? As for Violet, she didn’t come across as a gold-digger, which is the usual reason for sweet eighteen-year-olds to marry men old enough to be their grandfather. Or maybe she was and the tacked-on ending where Violet runs off to Argentina with Emily Trefusis proves it. Violet certainly wasn’t very broken up about her husband being murdered on their wedding night.

If anything, she seemed relieved. She got it all. The Trevelyan name, the inheritance, and two tickets to Buenos Aires, and she didn’t have to sacrifice her sweet toothsome body to some old man, even if he was Timothy Dalton.

The Egyptian subplot was of major importance yet it didn’t make any sense. There was the paranormal aspect too, with a ghostly maiden showing up in Captain Trevelyan’s visions. Was there a curse on the gold scorpion? Was he going crazy? The script doesn’t tell us. The ghost appears and then vanishes without any follow-on. The script also doesn’t tell us how an Egyptian servant can show up in isolated Sittaford in 1949 and get hired on, no questions asked. I understand that the servant problem was bad enough that the upper crust didn’t ask as many questions as they could but here? Really?

We know Captain Trevelyan had potentially suspect doings in Egypt. Yet he wasn’t suspicious when this mysterious Egyptian showed up at his door? He’d been having weird dreams about his past. He’s got a burgeoning political career which means close scrutiny of his private life. He’s supposed to be a smart man.

Then there’s the even more incoherent subplot about the escaped prisoner from Dartmoor prison. None of that made sense; not the purchase of the inn a year prior to the events of the story, not the backstory of how the star-crossed lovers met, not how the prisoner escaped from Dartmoor prison and found his way across the moors to be reunited with his paramour and cousin and their eventual escape to freedom.

Add in the American war profiteer who helped Captain Trevelyan make a fortune manufacturing substandard munitions that killed American sailors prior to meeting the enemy. The American war profiteer’s personal aide-de-camp and quack doctor made even less sense. Why did the war profiteer need him around, other than as a dogsbody? There was mumbled dialog that sounded like they were both in the mafia, but it was unclear.

We also meet the incompetent government clerk who — it is finally revealed — is looking into Captain Trevelyan’s background to ensure nothing questionable is revealed to the press, thus discrediting the party. He’s not doing a very good job if Captain Trevelyan was a known associate of American war profiteers and he doesn’t know.

Then there’s Charles Burnaby. In the novel, he’s boy-reporter, Charles Enderby. The name chance was just the start of his complete reworking of motives and backstory. Yet we get no foreshadowing of his dramatic personal life or of his connections to the Trevelyan family. We get almost nothing of James Pearson’s connection to Captain Trevelyan either. We get even less of a reason for Emily Trefusis to be engaged to James Pearson, boy-alcoholic, other than that old standby: he’ll inherit big someday when Captain Trevelyan dies. Maybe that’s why Emily runs off to Argentina with Violet. She gets the money and the girl and doesn’t have to marry the boy-alcoholic.

I could rant on for pages, but the upshot is simple. This movie was a mess. ITV Productions could have saved the cost of Timothy Dalton’s salary and paid for a better script. Or, they could have capitalized on Timothy Dalton and added another twenty minutes of movie, explaining all the subplots and how they wove together. Either way would work.

As for you, dear reader. Skip this film other than for completeness sake. If you do watch it, expect to watch it twice to figure out what’s going on.


The Moving Finger February 1985 version with Joan Hickson

Watched Wednesday, 16 December 20202

Fidelity to text: 3 and 1/2 poison bottles. The most significant change is that in the novel, Miss Marple doesn’t appear until the last few chapters. In this adaptation, she shows up within the first fifteen minutes. The setting is moved to the early 1950’s instead of 1943, when the novel was published. A few characters are combined to simplify the story. A few names are changed, notably the doctor’s sister (from Aimée to Eryl) and the vicar and his wife (from Dane Calthrop to just plain Calthrop).

Quality of film on its own: 3 and 1/2 poison bottles. It felt truncated and overly condensed. Another ten minutes would have really helped in setting up the murderer’s motivation along with the blackmail attempt. Even after combining several characters, the cast was huge and I couldn’t always tell them apart. No subtitles, a real problem because many of the characters are of the lower classes and they were difficult to understand. The quality of the film itself had degraded over the years and transferring to DVD didn’t improve it.

The Moving Finger was Agatha’s third Miss Marple novel, published in 1943. Interestingly, Agatha chose to keep Miss Marple offstage until very late in the novel, when the vicar’s wife, Mrs. Dane Calthrop, decides the police aren’t doing enough and calls in an expert in wickedness. Miss Marple shows up very early here, soon after the poison-pen letters begin arriving.

The novel is narrated by Jerry Barton, recovering test pilot, and thus suffers from all the usual problems of a first-person narration. He’s got to be there to witness events or he’s got to have someone else explain things. Because Jerry Barton isn’t the star and Jane Marple is, we see Miss Marple in action in scenes where she never appeared. It worked, though. If I didn’t know changes had been made, I wouldn’t have noticed.

The film quality was noticeably poor. The Body in the Library (the first Joan Hickson film) looked and sounded much better. It could have been the DVD itself, but more likely, it was that the original film wasn’t well preserved so be forewarned. There were blurry patches throughout and frequently, the lighting was bad so it’s hard to see what’s going on. Add the mumbling and criminal lack of subtitles and you won’t get the pristine gorgeous quality normally associated with BBC productions.

This two-part TV episode was first aired in February of 1985, so allowances must be made. I’m sure no one back then thought we’d be discussing 35-year-old TV shows and yet here we are. VCR’s were just getting popular as their cost came down. Early videotapes were so expensive they were rented, not sold (about $100 per title way back when!). No one dreamed that people would want to watch old TV episodes. It was movies all the way, dear reader.

Times change.

What I disliked about this version was it felt shoehorned into its running time. The Body in the Library, Joan Hickson’s first outing as Miss Marple, took nearly three hours to tell its story. The Moving Finger could have used more time. Mr. Pye, a figure of fun in the novel, vanished from the second half of the film entirely. Thus, we don’t get the charming bit when Mrs. Dane Calthrop comes out of the fish shop. She holds up a lobster and says,

“Have you ever seen anything so unlike Mr. Pye?

So virile and handsome, isn’t it?”

Never let it be said that Agatha can’t be amusingly snarky.

So did Emily Barton, the sweet and distressed old lady who rented Little Furze to the Burtons. Note the similarity between last names; this is serves as a plot point in both the novel and the film, but in the film, the dialog is so murky, it was hard to catch.

There’s also no real reason in the filmed version for Jerry Burton to fall madly in love with Megan Symmington. She’s clumsy, badly-dressed, rude, and off-putting in the adaptation. The novel gives her more time to blossom, making it easier for us to accept our hero sweeping Megan off her feet and whisking her away to London for a makeover into an attractive young lady. Even her makeover is truncated, losing a great scene between Jerry and the fancy London dressmaker, Mary Grey.

‘“Oh, I shall enjoy it — apart from the money — and that’s not to be sneezed at in these days — half of my damned brutes of women never pay their bills. But as I say, I shall enjoy it. Mary Grey shot a quick professional glance at Megan standing a little way off. “She’s got a lovely figure.”

“You must have X-ray eyes,” I said. “She looks completely shapeless to me.”

Mary Grey laughed.

“It’s these schools,” she said. “They seem to take a pride in turning out girls who preen themselves on looking like nothing on earth. They call it being sweet and unsophisticated. Sometimes it takes a whole season before a girl can pull herself together and look human. Don’t worry, leave it all to me.”’

Agatha was a very capable observer of humanity. She also seethed with passion, yet the relationship between Jerry and Megan in the film seems to take place solely because the plot insists on it. The other passionate relationship, between Jerry’s sister Joanna and the Welsh doctor, Owen Griffith, is given even less screen time. Their budding relationship has even less reason to happen in the film. In the novel, the handsome doctor introduces Joanna to a world she never knew existed; important, vital, necessary for life, unlike her previous superficial, London-party-girl existence. All gone.

The doctor’s sister is erased as well, along with her motivation for doing what she did. Similarly, the gloriously beautiful nursery governess, prime plot motivation in the book, serves in the film as lovely, unspeaking scenery. Jerry Burton barely notices her.

If the BBC could devote three TV episodes and almost three hours to The Body in the Library, why couldn’t they do the same for The Moving Finger?

The ways of TV producers are inscrutable. Maybe they ran out of money in their fiscal year.

In the end, The Moving Finger was enjoyable to watch, but I wouldn’t watch this episode again, unless it was to better decipher what the characters were saying.


By the Pricking of My Thumbs 2006 Geraldine McEwan

Watched Friday, 5 February 2021

Fidelity to text: 2 poison bottles. Miss Marple was added to a Tommy and Tuppence novel. The overall arc of the original novel remains. There are numerous changes to time period, the main plot, subplots, minor characters, names, locations, …. It’s a long list.

Quality of movie on its own: 4 poison bottles. I didn’t care that this was never a Miss Marple property! She fit in beautifully, taking the place of an absent Tommy. He’s off gallivanting on some spy business stuff and appears only when needed. The film moved along smartly, and I could usually follow the action despite mumbling on the part of the cast. Great clothes, locations, and most of all, atmosphere.

ITV Marple productions are hit or miss. By the Pricking of My Thumbs, despite Miss Marple never coming anywhere near the original novel, was a hit. She fitted in surprisingly well. We meet Tommy and Tuppence visiting an elderly, unpleasant aunt in a high-end rest home and who else is there visiting?

Miss Marple, naturally.

You would expect to meet Miss Marple visiting an elderly friend of hers at a rest home. Tommy doesn’t listen to Tuppence’s anxiety, but eagle-eared Miss Marple does and away we go. It felt natural, unlike claiming that somehow, someway, Jane Marple is related to Tommy, Tuppence, or anyone they know. She’s not. Miss Marple is what she is: a nosy, perennially curious old lady with a taste for mysterious death. She’s thrilled to go haring off with a total stranger based on disquieting feelings of creepiness and wrongness.

The overall arc of the story remains: a child’s murder under mysterious circumstances and the disappearance of an old lady. You still get creepy villagers, loquacious villagers, friendly villagers, hostile villagers, and the new lord of the manor. You lose Tommy and his co-worker, Ivor Smith, and their investigation into some criminal gang of thieves. You lose the gang of thieves. You also lose the numerous child murders that took place over the years along with other murders of people who look at our murderer with suspicion. There were plenty of child murders in the novel; so many that the actual count is never given. It’s implied that there were at least five. Or more.

And people say Agatha writes cozies. There was also the comment from a loquacious villager to Tuppence about how Sir Phillip loved children but not in the normal way. That didn’t quite make it into the film, although Sir Philip did.

To substitute for the criminal gang of thieves subplot we get young love in the form of a village lass, an American soldier stationed nearby, and the local bobby. We also get a nod to Sir Phillip’s interest in children with an even weirder subplot about filming Jane Eyre and having a younger village lass portray Jane Eyre’s dying friend. This young village lass would give Veruca Salt a run for her money. She proves useful when she tells Tuppence the location of the mysterious house in the painting Mrs. Lancaster gives to Aunt Ida.

Oh, and Nellie Bligh? She’s not just Sir Phillip’s longsuffering and devoted secretary in this version. She’s also the vicar’s wife. She and her husband, the vicar, have plenty of secrets they’d like to stay buried. Or in the vicar’s case, drowned.

Another major change was making Tuppence into an alcoholic. I’m ambivalent about this change. It worked within the constraints of the movie but I can’t see Tuppence ever falling inside a bottle. She’s too practical and too imaginative. She’d be off doing good works in the local parish. Writing racy novels. Running her own detective agency. Becoming a lush because she doesn’t know what to do with herself and she resents not being a spy like Tommy? I dunno.

I suppose the scriptwriter couldn’t conceive of a strong, intelligent, older woman who doesn’t end up with the life she dreamed of as a young woman and yet remains sober. Imagine that. Coping with disappointment with grace instead of addiction. How very old-fashioned.

Tuppence looked great, though, despite dipping into a bottle of scotch at every opportunity. I’ve been recently rereading The Lost Art of Dress by Linda Przybyszewski. Ms. Przybyszewski devotes many pages to discussing how previous to the early ‘60’s adult women did not dress like teenagers, or worse, like toddlers. Teenage girls dressed for their age and planned for when they got enough years under their belts to dress in a more … mature way. Tuppence’s wardrobe in By the Pricking of My Thumbs is a perfect example of this dictate. Her clothes are perfectly fitted and designed for an older, sophisticated, worldly woman who can handle showing off her cleavage and handle men’s responses to said cleavage.

You’ve heard of mutton dressed like lamb? Well, lambs shouldn’t dress like mutton. Sophisticated, classy, experienced ladies of a certain age and experience dress more dramatically. That’s Tuppence in this movie. Our young love interest for the G.I.? She wears pretty sundresses and youthful cardigans. Our Veruca Salt clone dresses still younger. They don’t wear each other’s clothes.

Similarly, Miss Marple dresses for her age too. She’s moved past fascinating men and making their IQ drop as their sap rises. Her clothes are practical and hardwearing.

As in the novel, Tuppence confronts the murderer. It is, however, Miss Marple (since it’s her show) who deduces the plot behind the plot. I thought she was very clever and it made sense. It did not feel like she pulled the solution out of her knitting bag. The village is tiny, isolated, suspiciously clean, and had been ruled since time immemorial by the Warrender family. They had long since died out, although the local church was filled with centuries of memorial plaques dedicated to various family members. So why is a plaque dedicated to Julia Starke smack in the middle of the Warrender family plaques? No one in this inbred, hidebound village with not a blade of grass out of place complains about the desecration?

No, the villagers take it in stride. There’s a reason and not just because Sir Phillip bought the old Warrender estate and moved in, filling the role in the village once filled by the Warrenders. The Warrenders, like the villagers, are described as being inbred.

Inbreeding leads to craziness as well as to birth defects and so it proves here too.

I’ll be honest. I did not expect to like this movie. I like Tommy and Tuppence and wish that their novels would be filmed accurately. They are that rarity in Agatha Christie’s oeuvre: they age, they have a family, and they live in the real world. As the world changes, their novels change, reflecting the era in which they were written. The idea of shoehorning Miss Marple into one of their stories felt ill-conceived at best.

However, it worked. It was fun, it was well-plotted with lots of twists and turns, and yet despite all the changes, it still played true to the overall story arc of the novel. Give this one a try with an open mind. I’d watch it again.


The Body in the Library 1984 version BBC television series Miss Marple staring Joan Hickson as you know who.

Watched Wednesday, 9 December 2020

Fidelity to text: 4 and 1/2 garrotes. There are minor changes, the most important of which is probably the addition of the village idiot (Malcolm) who discovers the burned-out car with the body in it. They also changed the date to about 1950 or so, instead of 1942 when the novel was published. Otherwise, this adaptation follows the text to the point of using Agatha’s own dialog.

Quality of movie: 4 and 1/2 garrotes. It’s splendid. It’s also messier and closer to real life than ITV’s highly polished Marple series, first aired in 2004. Every single character in Marple (in the episodes I’ve seen to date) looks like they just stepped out of the beauty parlor and their buildings and grounds were freshly manicured so as to be presentable to the Queen. In Joan Hickson’s version, they don’t. Grass needs to be mowed, in other words. I would give this adaptation that all-important last half garotte if the BBC hadn’t skimped on subtitles. I had trouble understanding what people were saying sometimes. Luckily, I know the story well. Still, subtitles are important! They make it clear what’s going on. Pay for subtitling, TV producers. Not all of your audience appreciates mumbling.

For all you fans at home, Bill and I have begun a new project in case I haven’t mentioned it earlier. We’re watching Agatha Christie film adaptations. There are many; we’ve counted over 180. This doesn’t include oddities like Knives Out (a homage to Agatha), films disavowed by the Agatha Christie estate (Innocent Lies), or the weird stuff like Doctor Who meeting Agatha herself and discovering what really went on during her eleven-day disappearance in 1926. 

If we want to finish seeing them all in less than four years, we can’t stick to a viewing schedule of one every Friday night. We’ve got to watch a film on Wednesday nights, too. That gives me time to write a review of each adaptation while still working on my own books. It’s that pesky time management problem again, don’t you know. If I’m doing one thing, I can’t do another like write my Steppes of Mars series.

So here we are, interweaving the ITV Marple series (aired starting in 2004) on Friday nights with the BBC Miss Marple series (aired starting in 1984) on Wednesdays. The contrast can be jarring. The first thing (besides the criminal lack of subtitles in the BBC Miss Marple) you’ll notice is that anything filmed on videotape looks blurry and gray compared to film or crisp, high-definition digital.

But you get used to it. The softer focus adds a tinge of nostalgia.

The second huge difference is Joan Hickson. Joan is Miss Marple. Ms. Hickson was 78 when she filmed The Body in the Library and it shows. She is almost an octogenarian, not a woman in her sixties made up to look like one. There is a difference simply in the way she moves and holds herself. As in the novels, Ms. Hickson’s Marple doesn’t go racing after criminals. She lets other people do that, while she focuses on the brain work. She very realistically struggles with not being able to remember perfectly.

It feels very real. This woman is old. By contrast, Geraldine McEwan was 72 when she first played Miss Marple. Six years doesn’t seem like a lot and if you’re 22 and someone else is 28, it isn’t. When you’re 72 and someone else is 78, it’s a bigger gap, like the six-year gap between being age 2 and age 8. Your body changes rapidly at both ends of your lifespan.

The BBC people wanted to make this series as close to the source material as they could and, other than setting the episodes in the nineteen fifties, it looks like they succeeded. At least, I think so, based on this single episode. We’ll see as time goes by.

I noticed a number of things. This England looks messy and unkempt. The people don’t look like they stepped out of central casting. Maybe it’s filmmaking in the 1980’s when the BBC cast what we in the U.S. call character actors in main parts. That is, the actors and actresses look normal like you could see them shopping at Walmart and not like stunningly beautiful refugees from beauty pageants.

The scriptwriters added a village idiot to account for the discovery of the burned-out car with a body in it. This works, although you could never do this trick nowadays. Too many people would complain that it was anti-village idiot despite the fact that every village has one. Or more. Those folks have families too and their families have to cope and so the village as a whole gets to deal with more challenging people, one way or another. Never forget that if you don’t have a village, you can end up in a snake-pit of an institution. In this case, the village of St. Mary Mead is caring and tolerant of our Malcolm although they do not take him seriously.

The scriptwriters also had various locals, including the constable, riding around on bicycles. In 1950, England was still recovering from World War II’s devastation. The country remained near bankruptcy. Rationing for various categories remained in place until the mid-to-late 1950’s. It’s even mentioned in the storyline, when the hotel manager comments that Conway Jefferson doesn’t seem to recognize that rationing exists.

Conway Jefferson is rich enough that it effectively doesn’t. He gets what he wants, except when he doesn’t.

Another good addition was seeing the interview with Pamela Reed’s distraught father. His behavior contrasts nicely with Josie Turner’s behavior on discovering that her cousin, Ruby Keene, was dead. It’s also a demonstration of how having your sixteen-year-old daughter murdered will destroy your life and your family’s life. You will never recover. It parallels Conway Jefferson’s loss of his legs, his wife, his son, and his daughter in a plane crash. That’s why he is still keeping close company with his son-in-law (Mark Gaskell) and his daughter-in-law (Adelaide Jefferson). They are bound together by mutual shared grief.

The other thing that really struck me about this particular adaptation is the sheer disdain everyone had for Ruby Keene, other than Conway Jefferson.

You can make the obvious case for Conway Jefferson’s infatuation. There’s no fool like an old fool and what could a rich, lonely, disabled old fool like better than a sweet-natured, cheerful blonde who resembles his long-lost daughter? And indeed, when we see Ruby interacting with Conway, she’s bright and chipper and attentive.

Everyone else, including her cousin, Josie, despise her for this. Yet everything we see of the actual Ruby on camera shows she’s exactly what Conway thinks she is. Raymond Starr, tennis pro at the hotel, admits he thinks Ruby is dim. He doesn’t see her as smart enough to be a gold-digger. He and other people tell the investigators that Ruby is obedient enough to do what her older, wiser cousin, Josie, tells her to do. That Ruby doesn’t have a boyfriend that he knows of. This is a telling point because if there’s one thing that staff in a large, luxury hotel know, it’s the details of everyone else’s personal lives.

Everyone goes into great detail about how Ruby is rising above her station in life. That Ruby is taking advantage of an old man, who everyone describes as strong-willed and intelligent. That Ruby is no better than she should be. That Ruby is manipulating Conway Jefferson. This is at the same time that characters tell Miss Marple and other investigators that Ruby is vapid and naïve! Vapid, naïve 18-year-olds don’t make good gold-diggers.

You can see the class divide right there on screen in front of you. Everyone is grubbing for money, desperate for money, yet Ruby is despised by her betters for being nice to a lonely old man. She’s not putting out for him.

We see Pamela Reed’s father’s grief when she is murdered. We do not see Ruby Keene’s family’s grief. Josie is the only relative we meet and she doesn’t care. What are we, the audience supposed to think? That Ruby’s death doesn’t matter? I got that distinct feeling, even from Miss Marple, who disapproves of murder.

Ruby Keene did nothing wrong, other than to have a lonely old man pay attention to her. He liked her and she, young and pretty, liked him back. You can see why. Conway Jefferson was safe. He didn’t paw at her like the male hotel guests undoubtedly did while dancing. He treated her well. Like a daughter, in fact, from what we see on screen. It must have been a relief. She could relax and let down her guard because an old man in a wheelchair didn’t want that one thing from her that every other man around her probably did.

It was fascinating to watch everyone else — well-bred, well-educated, upper-class people and their servants — despise Ruby Keene for doing what they, themselves, did. Marry for money and status.

Class differences show up all over the place. Watch the interactions between the village constable, Inspector Slack, Colonel Melchett, and Sir Henry Clithering. They all know their place in the hierarchy. It affects the investigation and who gets to question who and how aggressively. I didn’t notice the class divide nearly as much in ITV’s version.

I’d definitely watch this version of The Body in the Library again. It is far superior to the ITV Marple production with Geraldine McEwan with its radical reworking of the murderer.


The Moving Finger 2006 Geraldine McEwan

Watched Friday, 29 January 2021.

Fidelity to text: three poison bottles. The overall story arc remains the same. The changes range from condensing and removing characters (minor) to adding Miss Marple at the very start (major) and everything in between. The time period was changed from 1943 to about 1953. And Jerry Burton, our hero and narrator? He’s a damaged, alcoholic vet who tried to kill himself via a motorcycle accident. Luckily, Lymstock and poisoned pen letters give him something to do other than brood and drink.

Quality of movie on its own: four and 1/2 poison bottles. I really liked this version. Mr. Pye was a hoot and I got to see a lot more of him than in the Joan Hickson 1987 version. The actors, one and all, chewed the scenery with gusto. Great costumes too, especially Megan’s transformation into Audrey Hepburn. The English Country House Porn is to die for. Wait till you see Mr. Pye’s house. Wow.

ITV’s Marple episodes have been hit or miss for me. Their screenwriters like mucking about with Agatha’s text in order to justify their salary. The results are not always golden. In this case? The Moving Finger was a hit. I got everything I wanted to see more of (like Mr. Pye and his gilded porcelain in his gilded dining room) and, even better, I got to see why Miss Marple was able to solve the crime. There were actual, interpretable clues. These were clues that even doofus audience members like me — always fooled by the red herrings — could grasp.

It’s really enjoyable when I can follow Miss Marple’s logic. I can’t always.

Jerry Burton, our narrator, was less of wet blanket than he was in the 1987 version. His injury was handled much more realistically, something I, as a sometimes cane user, appreciated. He started out with two canes and gradually, slowly, moved down to one and then, sometimes, none. Even so, he never turned into an athlete. He limped and not just when the plot called for it.

It was also much clearer why he fell in love with Megan Symmington in this version.

I had hopes for how the script handled the nursery governess, Elsie Holland, but alas, Hollywood rules held true. In the novel, Elsie is a stunner and Jerry crushes very badly on her, right up until the moment she opens her mouth and he hears her flat, competent voice. The magic flees and she becomes part of the charming and bucolic scenery of Lymstock, permitting him to better see Megan Symmington. Hollywood being Hollywood even when it is British television, Elsie had to have a lovely voice to match her lovely exterior. Thus, we are forced to watch a red-blooded young man kiss the most ravishing woman around for miles (that sundress! My God, she stops traffic with the cleavage she displays and probably threw the Symmington boys into early puberty) and say meh.

Yeah. Sure. I could believe that a man would fall out of a dazed crush when he hears the screechy voice of competent dullness but this glorious in every way version of Elsie Holland? Jerry and Elsie would scamper off into the shrubbery surrounding Mr. Pye’s lovely terrace and inspect the flowerbeds. Closely. At ground level. Instead, we get meh.

This version of The Moving Finger also gave a better picture of the nature of upper-class life in Lymstock. Everyone seemed to know each other well, to the extent that we got to watch how the gentry entertained themselves in little villages out in the middle of nowhere. They made their entertainment as was usual in pre-television days. We get to see the musical evening at Mr. Pye’s, complete with Horace in the original Latin, and badly sung duets. We get dinner parties with sparkling dialog at the Symmington’s with the same people sitting around the table.

I would have given this version of The Moving Finger a higher rating, except I couldn’t always understand the sparkling dinner table conversation. Not every conversation mattered to solving the murder but enough did that it was annoying when the actors mumbled.

Overall, each of the main characters got some screen time, giving me a better feel for their relationships with each other. Here though, the 93-minute run time felt much too short. Dr. Owen Griffith had charming scenes with Joanna Burton, Jerry’s sister in the novel. Most of them were axed, including the most important one where Dr. Griffith introduces Joanna to the real world. In the novel, he dragoons her into helping him with a difficult and challenging childbirth case. In the film, he gives her a picture he took of a diseased spleen. For some mysterious reason, Dr. Griffith is also given a stutter which I do not recall from the novel.

Another mid-sized change was having Joanna do Megan Symmington’s makeover in Lymstock. In the novel, Jerry sweeps her off to London where a modiste and hairdresser turn the ugly (by Hollywood beauty standards and most definitely not in the real world) duckling into a swan. Having Joanna clean up and transform Megan into Audrey Hepburn worked very well. So did Megan’s uncomfortable feelings about her transformation. That would be normal.

I would have liked this version to be longer. I enjoyed spending time with the characters and visiting Lymstock. I wanted more and didn’t get it.

There were moments when I really wanted to better understand what was going on. Did Mr. Pye imply an illicit relationship with the colonel who shot himself in the opening scene? I wasn’t sure. And did the colonel shoot himself? Or was he helped? Again, it was unclear. It was also unclear if Miss Marple was referring to her adulterous relationship that we see referenced to in the earliest episodes of the ITV production. The gentleman in question had a war to fight and “other commitments.” You mean the commitment he made to his wife on their wedding day? That’s a commitment. Adultery is a sin, folks. It’s hard for me to buy Miss Marple having a torrid affair with a married man even when she was young and hot herself.

She has too much moral fiber.

Would I watch this version of The Moving Finger again? Absolutely. Did I like it better than the 1987 Joan Hickson version? Yes, I did. The 1987 version is truer to the original text than this 2006 version. This is one of those cases when watching one after the other is interesting and instructive. You can see where the screenwriters differed. What they thought needed to be emphasized. What they jettisoned. What they changed wholesale or invented. As a writer, watching two different adaptations of the same original text, I enjoyed seeing the differing interpretations and working out why the scriptwriters did what they did.

Scripts matter as much as — or sometimes more — than the actors being cast. Two versions of the same novel show why.


Sleeping Murder 2006 Geraldine McEwan

Watched on Friday, 22 January 2021.

Fidelity to text: 2 garrotes. The producers made dozens of changes from irritating but minor (main character names) to wholesale rewrites. The Funnybones theatrical troupe is completely new. So are the dramatic changes to Gwenda’s mother and stepmother. Oh, and Gwenda isn’t a happy newlywed either, with an adoring, handsome husband her own age. She’s got a fiancé, but he is a much older businessman who remains in India.

Quality of movie on its own: 4 garrotes. I liked this version. Yes, it’s not true to the text, but it was lively and fun to watch. Great actors and actresses chewed up the scenery with gusto. I would have given it a higher score except Miss Marple’s solution was so truncated as to have been pulled out of her knitting bag. There were some other plot holes as well. Worse, plenty of the actors had poor enunciation so I didn’t always know what they were saying. Subtitles would have fixed this issue but alas, ITV Productions didn’t pay for them.

This version of Sleeping Murder is very, very different from Joan Hickson’s 1987 opus. The main beats of the text are there: orphaned young woman arrives in England after growing up overseas and by astounding coincidence buys the house she lived in as a toddler. This is the house where, as a toddler, she witnessed her stepmother being strangled. Miss Marple shows up to solve the case. A few other characters remain, notably Dr. Kennedy, Walter Fane, his mother, Mrs. Fane, a former parlor maid, the former cook, and a clerk in a yarn shop.

After that, the script veers off into new and exciting territory. We begin in India, with color and drama and Kelvin Halliday’s wife dying tragically in a car accident. The grieving widower and his toddler daughter sail off to England, don’t meet anyone onboard ship, land in Dillmouth, and he meets the hot redheaded actress, Helen Marsden. She is the star of a small theatrical troupe called the Funnybones. Sparks fly. They don’t wait for the quickie wedding to the consternation of their servants or the villagers.

Then Helen Marsden vanishes the night before the wedding.

In the current day, we meet Gwenda Halliday, fiancée of some older man whose face we never see. He stays in India because his business is more important than the hot blonde he’s marrying. Instead, he assigns a young, male employee to escort Gwenda around England. It’s always a bad idea to outsource your husbandly duties to a younger man and we get to watch the proof. Hugh Hornbeam does a lot more than help Gwenda buy and rehab a house.

As expected, Gwenda purchases the mysteriously familiar house. Strange memories surface. Hugh turns out to have a dear friend (or distant relative, the film wasn’t clear) named Miss Marple. She arrives and the vivid, complicated past is uncovered.

The novel was almost completely rewritten to incorporate Helen and the Funnybones. As a result, we get to enjoy period music hall song and dance routines, with comedy thrown in. The Funnybones interact with major and minor characters in the past and in the present. I didn’t mind at all. We even get an interesting subplot involving Walter Fane, his mother, and two of the Funnybones.

What I did mind, and the reason for not awarding the fifth garrote, was that the film was too short. Ninety-three minutes was not enough time for Miss Marple to convincingly solve the disappearance of Helen Marsden. She pulled that solution out of her knitting bag. At best, you could say that she’s naturally suspicious of whatever she’s told. Being handed a conveniently saved postcard along with a creepy epigram on the back of an old photograph (so the handwriting can be matched up) makes her wary. So does Dr. Kennedy’s name confusion between Kelvin Halliday’s dead wife from India and potential wife #2, Helen Marsden. I’m guessing here because even though Miss Marple witnessed Dr. Kenney’s mix-up, we don’t see her react.

A minute of added film would have made her deductions plausible.

A few more added minutes of film would have made clear how plot-critical information would have magically arrived from India. Supposedly the film takes place in 1951. I know they had telephones and telegraphs way back then, but you couldn’t get instant information from the Indian bureaucracy that was exactly what was needed to solve the murder. I don’t believe you could get instant information from today’s Indian bureaucracy. Or from any bureaucracy, for that matter. Bureaucracies don’t work that way. It takes time for clerks to go digging through dusty filing cabinets crammed with decades-old records.

There was also the question of Indian policework and forensics in 1934. A tragic auto accident generally leaves some kind of body to be identified. Not in India, which I find hard to believe. No police force anywhere likes loose ends and missing bodies are a major loose end. If the Indian police force can send an officer to Dillmouth, England, they’ll check the wrecked car for a body.

We also didn’t spend nearly enough time with the murderer, establishing their motives. This murderer needed screen time. Otherwise, the solution is because the scriptwriter said so and not because the crime grew organically from the characters.

The connection between Gwenda’s mother and stepmother was really farfetched. Another pass on the script would have helped.

The Funnybones and their interactions with each other and everyone else used up plot space that could have been used to solve these issues. That said, I liked watching them very much and would have liked more screen time with them, but not at the expense of seeing Miss Marple get more real clues and solve the mystery in a fashion that I could follow.

ITV Productions should have splurged on another ten minutes of filmstock. Maybe fifteen.

It’s still a fun movie to watch. And I’ll watch it again.

Just go into this version of Sleeping Murder knowing that it’s not true to the text other than in the most basic way. If you can suspend your critical judgement of hack screenwriters “improving” Agatha Christie, you’ll enjoy this movie.

If you can’t, stick with Joan Hickson’s version which follows the text about as closely as a movie can follow a novel.


Lord Edgware Dies 1934 Austin Trevor as Poirot

Watched Friday, 15 January 2021

Fidelity to text: 3 and 1/2 knives. For an 80-minute-long film, they crammed most of the story in. Regrettably, they omitted two major plot points. Even more regrettably, Austin Trevor must be the worst Poirot ever. He’s tall, lean, and doesn’t have a mustache. I thought he was supposed to be Hastings as the actor playing Hastings — short, round, and with a mustache— would have fit the bill much better.

Quality of movie on its own: 2 and 1/2 knives. For an 80-minute film, it drags. The pace is glacial. All the actors seem made of wood. The action never goes outside of a building. All the sets look similar to one another, making sure the audience gets confused as to where the action is taking place. The two most important roles (Poirot and Hastings) are woefully miscast. Among a forgettable cast, the actress playing Jane Wilkinson (aka Lady Edgware) stood out. Jane Carr lit up the screen and made us believe her motivations. Too bad the script fell apart in the ending, doing a real disservice to Ms. Carr in both the film and her career.

This was interesting. Interesting is a good word because it doesn’t imply a value of “good”, merely … interesting. It’s a curiosity. This is probably the oldest filmed version of an Agatha Christie adaptation floating around. Other, older films are lost or buried deep inside U.S. Army warehouses — next to the Ark of the Covenant — never to be seen again.

Already, this film demonstrates all the reasons Agatha didn’t care for movie versions, although she did like her plays. She wrote plenty of them, after all. However, her plays were written as plays and thus fit within a set running time and were designed to work on a stage with whomever the casting director could dredge up. Everything a novel needs is jettisoned by a playwright.

Movies are different. Movies tend to reuse existing novels. The studio hacks the novel into shreds to make the story fit onto a screen. Then the director casts whomever the studio wants to promote, despite having other, far more capable and appropriate actors available. We’ll start with Austin Trevor, the actor playing Hercule Poirot.

He’s too darned tall. He was one of the tallest men on screen. Tall, thin, no mustache. He looked nothing like our image of Poirot, whether it be Peter Ustinov, Albert Finney, David Suchet, Kenneth Branagh, or even John Malkovich. Many other actors played Poirot over the years but they, too, look more like Hercule than Austin Trevor did. Some of his stiff woodenness was an artifact of moviemaking at the time, but not all of it.

Richard Cooper, portraying Captain Arthur Hastings, was equally miscast. He actually has Poirot’s round, short silhouette and sports a mustache. In fact, at first, I thought he was Hastings until both actors came to life and began acting. Trevor gave us a bad Belgian accent to indicate who he was, but otherwise nothing about him said Poirot. As Hastings, Richard Cooper played the buffoon in virtually every scene, but alas, he did not steal those scenes. I know that Hastings started out as a parody of Watson but Agatha never wrote him as a complete idiot.

An idiot to be sure, but a partial one. Her Captain Hastings never walked into walls, while this Hastings does.

If you know the plot of Lord Edgware Dies (in the United States, the novel was retitled Thirteen at Dinner although the movie was not), you’ll see that the overall story arc is followed closely, after making allowances for an extremely short running time. Most of the minor characters, including the Duchess of Merton, vanish without a trace. Oddly, the Covent Garden taxi driver gets several minutes of screen time, allowing the director to make Hastings the butt of another joke.

That was a poor choice because it forced the screenwriter to omit two crucial parts of the plot. The first was why Lord Edgware had to die. Bill had to ask me and since I’d read the book, I knew. Bad scriptwriter, bad scriptwriter. The second major omission was how Poirot came to realize who stabbed Lord Edgware in the back of the neck with a corn knife. That entire sequence, involving the Judgement of Paris, was skipped but it’s crucial to understanding how Poirot worked out the solution.

The Judgement of Paris is also crucial in understanding why victim number three had to die, stabbed by the same corn knife.

After watching the film, I finally googled corn knives because I kept seeing in my head a machete used to chop down cornstalks. A corn knife never shows up in this film, by the way. Back in 1934, movies didn’t show murder victims sprawled out on the floor in pools of blood with knives sticking out of them. At least classy movies didn’t do this although I don’t know about low-rent films for the tenement market.

Understanding what a corn knife is helps to understand how the murderer killed the victims. The novel doesn’t go into gruesome detail (Agatha never does) but she does explain how the murderer knew how to utilize a corn knife most effectively and not for its intended purpose. And it fits! It’s perfectly in keeping with the murderer’s character.

A turn-of-the-century corn knife was used to shave off corns on the feet. They have a long, narrow, razor-sharp blade, the better to shave off layers of bad skin without removing healthy skin. It’s home surgery on your feet. Apparently, they were common in England so Agatha assumed when she used the phrase “corn knife” in the text, everyone would understand her.

As I mentioned previously, I had something quite different in mind and never could figure out how the murderer smuggled a machete around in 1930’s vintage London. The murderer didn’t. The passage of decades and medical techniques concealed the past. And, demonstrating poor choices on the director’s part, we never see a corn knife so we don’t know how easily one can be smuggled inside and then wielded at the last moment, surprising the victim.

Agatha also assumes that you, dear reader, recognize the Judgement of Paris. Paris is the handsome young son of Priam of Troy. He has to decide which of the goddesses (Aphrodite, Hera, and Athena) are the most beautiful. The goddesses all bribe him. He likes Aphrodite’s bribe the best (Helen of Troy) and from that decision we move onto the Iliad, followed by the Odyssey.

The Judgement of Paris works beautifully in the novel. It demonstrates who’s had an education and who has not. It reveals hidden identities. It’s a crime that the scriptwriter omitted it entirely because without this scene, the final murder and the unveiling don’t make much sense. Again, Agatha didn’t like the movie versions of her novels because she didn’t like watching her carefully constructed plots get butchered to suit some director’s ‘vision’.

Overall, this was … interesting.

I wouldn’t watch it again. I am much more interested now in seeing David Suchet’s version. You can bet I’ll be looking for the scene with the Judgement of Paris. It will also be refreshing to watch a Poirot who looks like my mental image of Poirot instead of a long, lean, rangy, tall man who’s been shaved within an inch of his life, being closely shadowed by a clone of Tweedledee.


Innocent Lies 1995 French travesty adaptation of Towards Zero

Endured Friday, 8 January 2021

Fidelity to text: 1/2 gun. There are similar incidents, particularly a young boy being shot by another young boy with a bow and arrow. Otherwise, nothing, zip, nada, not even the names match and for good reason, too.

Quality of movie on its own: 1/2 gun. The house looks great! It’s a piece of Modernist architecture — I guarantee the roof leaks — on the French coastline with a great collection of pre-WWII modern art. Nice clothes too, along with 1938 vintage cars and scenery I haven’t seen a thousand times before. Otherwise, it’s dreadful.

Well, folks, Bill and I took one for the team when we sat through this train wreck. Why did we watch a (deservedly) obscure French film as part of the Agatha Christie movie project?

Because Innocent Lies began as a French interpretation of Agatha’s great 1944 classic Towards Zero. This stunning novel has yet to be filmed in English in anything close to the original text. The closest we get is the Marple adaptation of 2007 with Geraldine McEwan as Miss Marple. I’m dreading that one. If you’ve read the novel, you know that our detective hero is the criminally underused Inspector Battle. You also know he’s not Miss Marple in drag.

But I digress. It must be from having my brain put through a blender.

Some history first. Innocent Lies was supposed to be Towards Zero. The screenwriters decided that the text wasn’t exciting enough and that they could do better than Agatha. Apparently, there wasn’t enough incest in the novel. When Rosalind Hicks (Agatha’s daughter) saw the script, she demanded that the producers remove all references to Agatha Christie and Towards Zero from every single part of the production including the advertising. All the settings, characters, and placenames had to be changed as well. Even the date gets altered to 1938. The only mention you’ll see is the last line on the closing credits where the producers admit that they were “inspired” by Agatha Christie but the film has nothing whatsoever to do with her or her books. The Christie Estate disavowed the film.

So going in, we knew we were going to be disappointed. Sadly, we were wrong. It was even worse than expected. French films like being arty and vague and this one is arty and vague in spades. It’s beautifully framed and shot, yet as a viewer, the story they were telling was incoherent. Entire subplots arose and vanished without explanation.

Even the murder that starts the show is never explained! Who murdered the snoopy British Inspector? How was it committed? Who knows? Who cares? Not the director or the scriptwriter.

Did anyone associated with the film ever speak with actual French policemen to discover how the French police solve crimes? Obviously not, when the local inspector’s civilian daughter is the one working on the case. Is this because she can speak English? No, because the inspector can too, as he demonstrates during his speech to the interfering inspector from Scotland Yard.

Could Scotland Yard inspectors be as incompetent as our hero, Alan Cross (played by Adrian Dunbar; sure hope he earned a big check for this role)? I don’t see how. Inspector Cross brought his eight-year-old daughter across the channel to the crime scene — on the eve of what everyone knew was going to be a future battle zone — because he couldn’t find anyone in the whole of England to watch the kid. He becomes obsessed with our heroine (Celia) to the point of trying to cover up murder. He has sex with the suspect while interrogating her!

I don’t know why he became obsessed when the actress playing Celia was a thumb-sucking black hole into which emotions could be poured forever. The French inspector’s daughter was far more vivid and alive. Don’t expect to recognize Kiera Knightly. She’s got a bit part as eight-year-old Celia. She might have said one word.

Then there’s the whole incest plot. Brother Jeremy and sister Celia apparently murdered Jeremy’s twin brother as little kids, while playing William Tell. The murdered twin brother is so negligible and unimportant a human being that he isn’t even named. By anyone, including the scriptwriter. I checked Internet Movie Database to be sure and yep, no name. That murder (it was fun!) leads directly to the obsessed passionate love affair between brother and sister.

Yeah. Sure.

This main plot is relatively clear. You’ll want to take a shower afterwards to wash off both the ickiness and the stupidity but you can sort of follow it.

Then we get the subplots. There’s Jeremy’s wife, who’s Jewish and trying to save her parents from Nazi Germany. She vanishes, presumably with her parents. Did they escape? Why did Jeremy marry her? Why did she marry him? We’re never given answers.

Celia’s fiancé number two (fiancé number one committed suicide when he was treated to a front-row seat exhibition of the depths of Celia’s and Jeremy’s twisted affair) just walks away, abandoning Celia to her fate. He was the smartest person onscreen by miles. He was going to marry this girl in six days! He doesn’t (I think) get to watch Celia and Jeremy in action but even so, he’s there and then suddenly he’s not. Walking away was the smart move, but it sure doesn’t imply that he loved Celia.

Angela, Alan Cross’s daughter fills no purpose onscreen at all other than to show that he’s as incompetent a father as he is an inspector with Scotland Yard. She’s got plenty of obscure, arty screen time, playing with dolls and seashells. To show innocence maybe? The kind of innocence that French filmmakers love to corrupt as quickly as possible because they’re deviant perverts? After all, you have to demonstrate your modern ways of thinking somehow. This lets you have it both ways: you enjoy corrupting minors while saying tsk-tsk.

How about Lady Helena Graves (Joanna Lumley who’s also Dolly Bantry in the Marple series)? She’s flirting with the Nazis. That could have been more interesting, but it’s brushed aside. She’s also apparently covering up Jeremy’s other nasty actions, but this plot thread vanishes too.

There are refugees. There’s the threat of war looming over the horizon. Everyone is afraid of what’s coming. It’s background noise. I suppose the purpose was to show how self-centered and oblivious our characters were.

Four murders were committed. Young boy with bow and arrow. We get a sort of explanation. Fiancé number one is killed in a highly suspicious car accident. We get a sort of explanation but it’s hard to buy. You see something icky (before you marry that crazy girl so you should be counting your lucky stars and buying lottery tickets) so you drive your car into a tree? Sure. Whatever. The prying British inspector is shot. We never get an explanation of how or why, despite the camera lingering on his body and particularly on his untied shoes. Huh? Lady Helena is found dead. That murder we get shown in flashback in all its gory detail. I would have preferred less flashbacks and more minutes devoted to solving the Inspector’s murder.

None of the story made sense. Loads of arty flashbacks did not advance the plot although they did demonstrate that the house has a truly marvelous conservatory that must be cared for by an army of gardeners. Everyone behaved as if they’d never heard of rational thought or decent behavior or understood how police investigations are actually performed. The movie was 88 minutes long and it dragged. Even so, I’d have sat through another ten minutes if they had explained what the heck was going on.

The house was nice though. It’s a piece of modernist architecture loaded with contemporary (for 1938) cutting-edge modern art and a conservatory on par with Longwood Gardens. Looking at the house’s roofline, I guarantee it leaks. I know the conservatory does, because they always do. Maybe mold and mildew infiltrated the house and damaged the brains of everyone living there.

Do not bother watching this film. If you are an Agatha Christie film buff and are watching every film associated with her for completeness’s sake, think very, very hard before sliding this disk into the DVD player. There is no brain bleach. You won’t get those eighty-eight minutes of your life back. Don’t do it.


N or M? 2015 David Walliams film review

Watched Friday, 1 January 2021

Fidelity to text: One gun. As in the previous Partners in Crime adaptation (The Secret Adversary), the names matched. Everything else, large and small, was altered and nearly always for the worse.

Quality of movie on its own: One and 1/2 guns. The sets were outstanding as were the wardrobes. We laughed often, sometimes when the script called for it! All the other laughs came from the lame and inane script. We also really enjoyed our cheese plate. Thank God I had some wine left over from when my sister visited. I needed that glass.

What a way to start the new year. We sat through a terrible, inept adaptation of one of Agatha’s more underrated novels with her underrated detectives, Tommy and Tuppence. On the other hand, that means there’s nowhere to go from here but up.

As with The Secret Adversary, N 0r M? needed a working script. There were times when the movie genuinely came to life and we laughed where we were supposed to. Those times felt few and far between because the in-betweens were so God-awful. Three or four more rewrites of the script and this adaptation could have worked quite well. It’s not like the BBC can’t afford schmucks with Underwoods to write coherent narratives. They certainly spent plenty of bucks on fabulous location shooting, gorgeous fifty’s vintage sets, cars, and wardrobes. But no. No actual writers were on hand or were harmed or were paid.

Some of the mistakes were so basic! Let’s start with Tommy’s newest get-rich-quick scheme: Beresford’s Barnets. Supposedly, barnets are wigs. Wigs often feature in Agatha’s novels, usually when a character is concealing their identity or setting up an alibi. Okay. Wigs were also very popular in the 1950’s so why wouldn’t Tommy invest still more of his and Tuppence’s lack of money into wigs. Yet Tommy uses the word “barnet”. I’ve never heard of this word before and some googling led to where the word came from. It’s Cockney rhyming slang for hair. Yet our Tommy tells Tuppence that this is classy and will attract a better class of buyers.

As if. Any reasonably competent writer (or unpaid intern) could have learned what I just learned in two minutes. If Tommy wanted the alliteration, he should have said so. Or made a joke. Anything! Or maybe this was intended as an only-in-England joke to further demonstrate Tommy’s complete ineptness. But why didn’t Tuppence call him on it?

By the way, if you’re wondering what happened to Beresford’s bees? Colony Collapse Disorder cropped up and conveniently killed all of Tommy’s bees. Could he investigate this mystery? No, he could not, moving instead to another get-rich-quick scheme bound to fail.

Here’s another groaner that made me scream at the TV screen. N is our mysterious superspy villain. No one has any idea who N is. No one even knows if N is a man or a woman. Yet at the climax, N is revealed and has the opportunity to shoot everyone who knows N’s identity. Yet N does not! This makes zero sense. Less than zero sense. Superspies, particularly if they’ve gone freelance as N supposedly has, do not ever let their identity be known. Yet N, because their life is over, allows a whole slew of witness to live.

Spare me.

If you recall the novel, N did not work alone. N had a partner; M. M was written out of the script as far as Tommy and Tuppence were concerned. Yet the character remains in the film, fulfilling the same role as in the novel. But they are not ever revealed as M, despite being M.

One of the truly interesting themes in N or M?, the novel, is its setting. Agatha wrote and published it in 1941. Although she wrote contemporaries, they are kind of timeless. She doesn’t pay much attention to politics, who’s in charge, or current events. Not so with N or M? It is very much of its time, when Great Britain was fighting a desperate war for survival against the Axis forces. Dunkirk took place from 26 May through 4 June 1940. The London Blitz started soon after. Everyone in Great Britain knew that even more terrible things were in store for them. They did not know that the Allies would win the war. They didn’t know if Great Britain would survive as an independent nation.

Anxiety and fear run through the novel, imbuing every page with dread of what the future would bring. Every character knows that sons, brothers, fathers, uncles would die far away. At the same time, they were quickly learning that, unlike in the Great War (well within living memory), Great Britain itself was not safe. Bombs killed civilians indiscriminately, including babes in arms. Equally upsetting was the knowledge that very few people had any control over the momentous events happening around them. They had to cope as best they could.

Today, we look back on World War II and we don’t understand the paranoia and fear. We know how it ends. The people living through it did not. Think about what you were planning on 1 January 2020 for the upcoming year. Were you expecting to live through widespread shortages, a pandemic, mass quarantines, and having to wear masks whenever you set foot out of your home?

In early March of 2020, if I went into the bank wearing a mask, the tellers would call the police. Soon thereafter, if I went into the bank without a mask, the tellers would call the police. Did your crystal ball tell you this scenario back on 1 January 2020? Mine did not.

All of that underlaying fear and anxiety in early WWII was lost when the TV adaptation was moved to the Cold War. There was paranoia, along with plenty of rationing (which oddly does not show up in either Tommy and Tuppence film which, again, if any research had been done, would most certainly have done so). But the dread of knowing that every male in your family between sixteen and fifty was on the chopping block is gone. In 1952, the men in your family were either already dead or back home.

There was so much wrong with this film. Here’s a minor bit. Tommy and Tuppence’s car was in a shambles at the end of The Secret Adversary. A few months later and the car, despite rationing and their total lack of income, is showroom new. The only hint of money troubles is a stack of bills marked Past Due that Tommy riffles through.

Another point that sticks in my craw. The nuclear scientist gone rogue steals the super-duper atomic bomb that he’s selling to N (I guess. It wasn’t made clear). He loads the bomb on the truck by himself (!) and then drives it out of the top-secret base and the guards don’t notice. Really? Really? When everyone is afraid there’s a commie under every bed? Then he leaves the second magic key hidden behind a paper-backed picture and the paper-backing looks like it came straight from the frame shop.

And how about that femme fatale blonde assassin? Six feet tall, full-length fur coat, cheekbones to die for, and striding through the scenery like a Valkyrie and no one notices. She steals a lorry and runs over a man in front of Tommy and Tuppence after lurking outside the umbrella shop that they’re lurking inside and they don’t spot her.

Tommy and Tuppence bicker throughout. Yet, unlike in the novels, there’s never any sensation of passion between them. They adored each other in the novels, to the point that their daughter, Deborah (gone and replaced by the conveniently away at camp George) comments on how sweet it is to see them holding hands despite their advanced age of 46.

Agatha’s novels are full of passion, yet it seems to go unnoticed. I suppose that the mere concept of happily married people who still have the hots for each other after twenty years is unacceptable to us moderns.

Instead, we get Tommy emulating Homer Simpson without the manliness. Worse, Tuppence is not like Marge Simpson who adores her husband and has a lot of common sense. She’s more like Lucy Ricardo with that edge of contempt towards Ricky, except when Ricky saves her from her idiocy. Except I can’t accept Tuppence’s adoration of Tommy, like I can of Marge for Homer. Homer does come through, on occasion. When Tommy does, it’s by accident.

I did work out the reason for Tommy’s magical facial hair: he never has any, despite how far away his is from a razorblade. It’s a symbol of his complete lack of testosterone.

Should you watch this? I know that films are not novels. Novels need to be rewritten for films and, sometimes, to suit changing times. I understand combining characters or removing them altogether because a film doesn’t have enough time. This adaptation, however, had nearly three hours to fill. They could have used more of the original plot, even with changing the setting to 1952.

Yeek. The answer is no. Save your time for something better.


A Murder is Announced Geraldine McEwan January 2005 review

Watched Friday, 25 December 2020

Fidelity to text: 3 guns. You’ll get both major and minor changes, the biggest being complete rewrites of three separate relationships along with discarding the Vicar, his wife, and their cat. That forced the screenwriter to come up with a different, less plausible reason for Miss Marple to arrive on the scene: like Jessica Fletcher, ITV Production demands that Miss Marple be related to just about everyone, whether it’s likely or not. For an elderly spinster, Miss Marple sure has a lot of extremely distant relatives but no close ones who are still alive.

Quality of film on its own: 3 and 1/2 guns. I’d have given it that last 1/2 gun except the ending fell apart, due to the scriptwriter’s desire to rewrite Agatha’s own better, more plausible and dramatic choice in how to reveal the murderer. This was a poor choice, but in line with other poor choices that ITV Productions has made with Marple. They have to be unique and cutting edge and different and you can’t be any of those things by remaining true to the original source material. Sometimes this works, if the source material is scanty. Not this time! There was plenty of material to use.

I’m discovering that I never know what I’m going to get with ITV’s production of Miss Marple adaptations. We watched a few out of order and then went back to the beginning with season 1. A Murder Is Announced was the fourth and final episode of season 1.

As always, it looks gorgeous. That spa that Miss Marple stays at is astounding with stunning blue tile everywhere. There’s a castle in Scotland, and of course the charming village of Clipping Cleghorn. Agatha came up with great placenames, although she didn’t have to work at it. Great Britain has loads of offbeat and unusual names so mixing and matching must have been easy. The village of Clipping Cleghorn is where we start having problems.

It’s so clean! So manicured! Every building looks freshly pressure-washed.

That house the nice lesbian couple live in (Miss Hinchcliffe and Miss Murgatroyd) is a palace. Their cobblestone drive must have been weeded mere moments before the filming began. I have never seen such immaculate cobblestones. There wasn’t even any moss on them and considering England’s climate, that is unusual. Their house was huge and God only knows how two women, running a farm on their own, managed to keep it up without servants. I got the distinct impression from the novel that while Miss Hinchcliffe and Miss Murgatroyd are managing, they aren’t rich enough to live in what used to be the squire’s house. They’d be able to afford the English cottage equivalent of a doublewide. This house is not it.

Miss Hinchcliffe and Miss Murgatroyd are the first of the major relationship changes. In the novel, their relationship is implied. Here, watching them hold hands and kiss, you know they’re sharing a bed. Since the vicar and his wife and their cat, Tiglath Pileser (but more about the cat later) were written out of the script, Miss Murgatroyd suddenly becomes Miss Marple’s distant relative. This explains why Miss Marple is invited to stay and — gasp! — possibly notice the illicit relationship between Miss Hinchcliffe and Miss Murgatroyd.

Even in 1951 or so, I doubt Miss Marple would care. She’s seen every aspect of human nature before. Since the two ladies in question are well-behaved, discreet, take good care of their farm, and are not murderers, she won’t gossip. It’s not like she’s unfamiliar with the concept of a Boston marriage. Those go back a long way and plenty of women have lived together to save money and provide companionship. It’s only tacky moderns like us who have to ask prying questions about who is sleeping in whose bed.

Colonel Easterbrook lost his wife, Laura, along with her glamorous and possibly criminal past. Instead, we get a made-up story about his being drummed out of the army in disgrace, his drunkenness, and his being estranged from his daughter. He gets a new relationship with Mrs. Swettenham, something that did not exist in the novel. Mrs. Swettenham is revealed to be a single mother — gasp! — who’s son, Edmund, heartily disapproves of the relationship because he’s a selfish, grasping toad.

Edmund, in turn, loses his chance at happiness with Philippa since in this version, no relationship exists at all. They flirt and eventually marry in the novel. Not here. Even though Edmund and Philippa are apparently the only unattached people under the age of thirty for miles around, they don’t notice each other. He’s too busy prying into his mother’s love life to have one of his own. For her part, Philippa has too much to hide.

The love triangle of Colonel Easterbrook, Mrs. Swettenham, and Edmund is further complicated by the presence of his black Labrador Retriever (I think). The dog was written into the script to prove that Colonel Easterbrook isn’t married and has only a dog to talk to, poor soul. Then the dog disappears even though there were occasions when his dog would have been by his side. I don’t think the screenwriter had any idea of how close a lonely man can get to his dog. The dog showed up in one scene and was apparently crated in a back bedroom the rest of the time. No one would do that to their only companion. England is a nation of dog-lovers meaning Colonel Easterbrook’s neighbors would have complained vociferously about his treatment of his dog. He’d end up on charges because of dog abuse long before he becomes a suspect in a murder.

The dog also did not help Miss Marple solve the mystery, like the Vicar’s cat, Tiglath Pileser, did. The cat served a real purpose in the novel, adding that random element of serendipity. Miss Marple would have worked out the crime on her own but the cat made sure of it.

The other relationship change was to ensure the viewer and Miss Blacklock were suspicious about the openly icky relationship between Patrick and Julia, her visiting young, distant cousins. They’re brother and sister but they sure don’t act like it.

You may ask if this adaptation did anything right besides gorgeous settings and costumes. They did. Mitzi, the refugee servant was much closer to the novel, even retaining her name and gaining a nationality (Swiss). Her treatment by Patrick was similar: he harassed and teased her and she had to put up with it because she was a foreigner, refugee, and servant. He, as a scion of a good family, could be nasty to a helpless and trapped person and get away with it.

Zoë Wanamaker placed Letitia Blacklock and she was very good. All the actors and actresses were very good other than that the casting director is showing a decided taste for prettier than normal. If you watch the Joan Hickson version of A Murder Is Announced, you’ll see at once what I mean. Those actors and actresses looked like real people you would meet on the street in your hometown. These actors and actresses look like actors and actresses pretending to look like real people. Kind of the same way the village of Chipping Cleghorn is an idealized vision of a tiny village out in the middle of nowhere rather than the dirty, messy reality complete with weeds and cow manure in the streets. Even the pig sties were neat.

But I could live with all of these changes. Compressing a complex novel down to 94 minutes of screen time is difficult. If you aren’t familiar with the novel, you won’t even notice.

Until you get to the end, when it all falls apart. I could not accept how the murderer figures out that Miss Murgatroyd is a danger. Maybe subtitles would have helped, but I doubt it. It wasn’t set up properly. Then Mitzi (Catherine Tait was wasted in this role) bursts onto the scene screaming about who the murderer is! In the novel, you get Mitzi being very brave and risking death to unmask the killer. Here, you get a temper tantrum from a difficult servant.

You do get to see the Easterbrook/Swettenham triangle resolved but in the most cursory way. I suppose the participants realized, after numerous murders, that life is short and decide to bury the hatchet but not in each other’s skulls. It felt forced, as if the screenwriter needed some sort of happy ending after three people were shot, poisoned, and strangled respectively and couldn’t write anything better. Goodness knows the actors and actresses tried.

Watch this version of A Murder Is Announced for completeness’ sake, but unless you really want to see that spa again, don’t watch it a second time.


The 4:50 From Paddington 2004 Geraldine McEwan film review

You may also see this titled What Mrs. McGillicuddy Saw!. That’s the title used in the American market since the British publishers believed that Americans wouldn’t recognize the railway reference in the title.

Watched Friday, 18 December 2020

Fidelity to text: 2 and 1/2 garottes. The screenwriter made a lot of changes. The largest, without a doubt, is reworking the murderer’s motivation to make us ooze with sympathy for the trap in which he finds himself. He also murders one less person than in the novel, because hey, he’s doing it all for love and not for love of money. Miss Marple wouldn’t use this phrase but I will, because she’d agree: as if! Another major change was adding a completely new character to investigate. And Noël Coward, of all people. He wasn’t in the novel either, but there he is, entertaining Lord Mountbatten with Lucy Eyelesbarrow. She gets around, that girl. If you’re familiar with the novel, you’ll recognize plenty of other discrepancies, both large and small.

Quality of film on its own: 3 and 1/2 garottes. I got caught up in the story, despite the criminal lack of subtitles. I didn’t remember the novel well, so I wasn’t looking for mistakes or adaptation errors. I would have given this adaptation a higher rating except for the criminal lack of subtitles and the fact that I could not figure out how Miss Marple made that deductive leap to unearth the murderer in the last fifteen minutes. The complete lack of a reason killed the movie for me. This is one case where adapting the novel would have been an improvement. Agatha doesn’t give an explanation for Miss Marple’s leap of deduction either. She just knows.

So here we are with the third ITV Production of Agatha Christie’s Marple. We’ve now gotten organized enough to watch the productions in order of original air date (December of 2004 in this case). Sadly, as I mentioned earlier, ITV doesn’t feel the need to follow Agatha’s own order of short stories and novels. They play fast and loose with the timeline.

They also played fast and loose with the novel.

Characters vanish, not surprising since a 94-minute movie doesn’t have a lot of time for quaint natives, faithful servants, and local color. Mysteriously, 94 minutes did allow enough time for Miss Marple to interrupt Noël Coward’s song routine with Lucy Eyelesbarrow in the middle of a cocktail party to ask for her assistance in locating a body. That was not in the text, but it worked in the film. A few minutes were spent showing how incredibly well-connected Lucy is: she was Noël Coward’s temporary housekeeper and he was pathetically grateful to have her services. Thus, Lucy arriving at Rutherford Hall and offering her services to the hard-up Crackenthorpe family and having them eagerly say yes was easy to accept.

Since it has been decades since I read The 4:50 from Paddington, I didn’t notice that the railway clerk was rude and officious instead of being Miss Marple’s helpful great-nephew. Yet it worked. Two daft old ladies claiming they’d seen a murder and the body had been thrown from the train? They’d get exactly that response.

John Hannah showed up as the local inspector (Tom Campbell) who also, conveniently, rents out rooms to boarders. Miss Marple moves in to enjoy the quaint village, a fact he has a hard time believing. Unless you watch a lot of TV, you might remember John Hannah best as Jonathan Carnahan in The Mummy from 1999. He was just as fun to watch interacting with Miss Marple, since she remembered him as a naughty, apple-stealing lad from St. Mary Meade and here he is, all grown up and a police inspector, no less.

John Hannah’s character becomes even more important at the end of the movie because the screenwriter decided that Lucy shouldn’t choose between Cedric Crackenthorpe and Bryan Eastley as in the novel. No, this completely made-up character steals her heart and there’s no guessing about it, unlike the novel where Miss Marple knows who Lucy chooses but she refuses to say.

The date was changed, to an earlier time. The movie takes place at the end of 1951 (or thereabouts), but the novel was published in 1957. It wasn’t noticeable. Here’s a noticeable set of changes: Harold Crackenthorpe’s wife becomes a character. Harold doesn’t get murdered. Harold becomes far more of a rotter than he was in the novel, since in addition to being a shady financier, he’s also a lecher and a rapist. I believe Harold didn’t get murdered in the film as it demonstrated what a big-hearted guy our murderer was, not offing an obvious cad who deserved it.

A very noticeable change was having the murderer’s motivations becoming almost noble. He murders only two people instead of three and he does it all for love. Well, no. Not really. He does it because of the money. He wants to marry money and if various members of the Crackenthorpe family die (as in the novel), there’s more money left to be divided between the survivors.

We actually have to witness Miss Marple telling Emma Crackenthorpe that it was love on the murderer’s part causing him to strangle a woman in cold blood. Gag. I have no idea where the scriptwriter’s head was because Miss Marple has never excused murder before. Not that I can recall. I could be wrong, but I don’t think so. Miss Marple’s statement echoes various characters telling each other that love is all that matters. I can’t agree because so does behavior and the Crackenthorpe family may believe in love, blather on about love, but they sure don’t act like they love each other.

Something else that threw me out of the film was the scene when the murderer is identified. Miss Marple was eating fishpaste sandwiches (sounds disgusting, doesn’t it: pureed tuna) in the train compartment with five other people. She pretends to choke on a fishbone and Mrs. McGillicuddy recognizes the murderer. Except Mrs. McGillicuddy was on another train in a similar situation to her original sighting of a murder being committed. Then people in both train compartments pull some sort of magic chain that make both entire trains stop!

Really? Really? I don’t know which element seemed more unrealistic. That they could successfully reenact the strangulation scene for Mrs. McGillicuddy using trains that pass in the night or that any railway in the entire world would ever allow the passengers anywhere near the brakes for the whole train. Other trains run on the same tracks too, you know, and if passengers start pulling the magic chain emergency brake, you’re going to get trains rear-ending each other, accompanied by trainloads of costly damage, injuries, death, and lawsuits.

I looked up the scene in the novel and Agatha did not write anything so foolish as trains that pass in the night and magic chain emergency brakes. Once was enough for the novel, getting the story in motion. Instead, the identification of the murderer takes place over tea in the dining room and it is far, far more realistic (as these things go).

What finally killed the movie for me, besides Miss Marple saying that it was all for lurve, was I could not tell from the action on the screen how she knew. Subtitles would have definitely helped here as I couldn’t always understand what everyone was saying. But I don’t think so. The novel isn’t clear how Miss Marple worked out the identity of the murderer. It’s like it came to her in a dream and she ran with it and got lucky.

I can’t accept that copout. Not all of Agatha’s efforts were stellar and this lack of explanation isn’t typical. Even Homer nods on occasion. This particular moment was the scriptwriter’s chance to shine. They could have added a scene or two showing us how Miss Marple solved the crime. I’m sure they could have come up with something clever that would fit into the text, something that wouldn’t be as egregious and flat-out wrong as making Miss Marple a party to adultery when she was young and pretty.

Luckily, we did not get subjected to that little bit of whimsy again; Miss Marple staring longingly at a sepia-toned photograph of a handsome young soldier to inform the audience that’s why she remained a spinster.

Unluckily, the scriptwriters did not come up with a plausible explanation for how she deduced the identity of our murderer. They made plenty of changes but didn’t make the change that mattered the most.

What can you do? If ITV Productions ever releases this episode with subtitles, I’ll probably watch it again to see if I’m wrong about the scriptwriter. I’d like to be because I’d like to believe that Miss Marple doesn’t rely on dreams to direct her sleuthing.


The Blue Geranium 2011 TV adaptation film review

Fidelity to text:  3 poison bottles. The original story is there but it’s been expanded far beyond what Agatha sketched out, especially considering how minimalist the source material is.

Quality of movie: 4 & ½ poison bottles. It’s good on its own merits and it’s a more interesting story than the original short story. Only purists will carp.

This was our third watched episode of the ITV’s Agatha Christie’s Marple television adaptation of Miss Marple novels and short stories. We don’t watch these episodes in order so for you completists, this film is episode three of season five.

The quality of the production is really holding up, based on the three episodes we’ve seen to date. These films don’t feel like television episodes. They feel like movies in terms of sets, costumes, background music, acting, and pacing.

I was, I admit, apprehensive about this particular episode after our terrible experience with The Secret of Chimneys. That movie was dreadful; a pale, castrated shadow of the novel which didn’t involve Jane Marple in the first place.

Why was I concerned this time? The Blue Geranium is an actual Miss Marple short story, not another story shoehorned into the series so the TV producers could make more episodes and thus more money. However, like Chimneys, The Blue Geranium storyline was attacked by scriptwriters.

In this case, the scriptwriters made the story better.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with the Miss Marple short stories, The Blue Geranium is one of Agatha’s earliest short stories involving Jane Marple. Jane is still evolving as a character. Agatha also used the hackneyed and awkward trope of a group of people sitting around a dinner table telling true crime stories to see if the other dinner guests can figure out whodunit.

This is not a trope I’m fond of. There’s no tension because the mystery is secondhand. The mysteries are pared down to skeletal remnants, another reason not to care what happens to the participants. In these short stories, Jane is the winner of each competition. She always knows because someone in the village of St. Mary Mead did something similar. She’s also twittering and dithery, in her black lace mittens and lacy fichus and fluffy pink wool shawl. As Agatha developed Jane Marple, she became a more active, competent amateur detective and less of a caricature of a ye olde Victorian Spinster Lady with a capital L.

The mystery in The Blue Geranium is still there but it has been amplified. The original protagonists remain: George Pritchard, his crazy wife, Mary, Nurse Copling, the mysterious psychic, Zarida. The other protagonists, chatting over dinner, vanish with the exception of Jane and Sir Henry Clithering.

An entirely new cast of characters have been added to flesh out the story from the skeletal remains: George’s ne’er-do-well brother, his wife (George’s old flame and Mary’s sister), their kids, the vicar, the vicar’s niece, the doctor, the social-climbing neighbors, the golf club set, the artist, the mysterious drunk, the list goes on.

And it works! It works so much better than the original story which was clever in terms of clues but nothing special. Suddenly, the characters have become breathing, living people in terms of motivation, family dynamics, and an entire school of red herrings rather than the paper dolls we started with.

The Blue Geranium is still there.

For those of you who are not gardeners, geraniums do not come in blue. Nor do hollyhocks or primroses. Those flowers come in a lot of colors but blue isn’t one of them. This is important to the storyline and it provides a clue right in the title to the more scientifically-minded reader, who remembers basic chemistry class.

As an aside for you non-gardeners, very few flowers are blue. Every other color is present in the garden other than blue or true black. There are loads of green flowers; mostly small and on trees which is why you don’t notice them. When gardening catalogs claim a flower is blue, they are lying. The flower is actually a shade of purple. If you’re an ad copy writer, you describe the blossom in lyrical terms to fool the unwary gardener into believing that yes! This flower will be blue! Blue dahlias! Blue tulips! Blue hyacinths! Blue violets! Blue hydrangeas (important clue here*)! Blue geraniums and hollyhocks and primroses!

These flowers are not blue.

They are shades of purple and violet. Hold a blue hyacinth blossom up to the sky on a clear, sunny day and you’ll see how purple it really is. If you want actual blue flowers, like an indigo bunting is blue and a bluebird is not, you’ll have to grow Himalayan Blue Poppies and good luck with that endeavor since those are one of the fussiest flowers in the world to grow.

Those blue carnations you get at the florist? They’re dyed.

But back to the film. The added elements held together beautifully, explaining the complex motivations far better. Jane fits in much better too, since she’s on the spot during the crimes and not commenting on them from a bloodless remove over dinner. She’s involved. She knows these complicated, hurting people. Then, at the last possible moment, she realizes the truth. She makes a daring, last-minute move to save the day, rescue the innocent, and name the true villain.

One thing about the film I did not like. Mary, who is suitably crazy and antagonistic, is described by the other characters as a glutton. They imply she’s ruled by her appetites (which she is). They claim she’s fat, even obese.

But she’s not. We see Mary out of bed in a fitted blue dress (you’ll never see a flower that shade of blue). Yeah, she’s no size 6. I’d say about a size 18. She’s overweight but the way the other characters talk, she’s morbidly obese. She is not. She is the size of a normal woman. Perhaps carrying some extra weight during the rationing period after World War II was cause for comment and that’s why the scriptwriters did this.

It was jarring and a reminder that Hollywood has no idea what normal people look like. In Hollywood, if you have any body fat at all, you’re obese and if you’re a normal weight, you’re morbidly obese, but if you’re actually obese and you’re the flavor of the month, you’re a freedom fighter against unrealistic standards of beauty until you stop being popular. At that point, you become — once again — disgustingly obese and you should vanish so decent people don’t have to witness your flabby self.

But other than that criticism, I really enjoyed The Blue Geranium. The scriptwriters’ additions fleshed out the story beautifully, making a mediocre short story into a compelling, I’ll watch this again film.

* Hydrangeas come in three basic colors: white, pink, and what gardening catalogs euphemistically label blue although it’s really more of a purple. If you manipulate the acidity of your soil, you can magically alter the color of your hydrangeas, turning pink flowers blue-ish and vice versa. White flowering hydrangeas remain white. It does take a growing season and some knowledge of basic chemistry along with a soil testing kit.


The Body in the Library December 2004 adaptation from ITV’s Agatha Christie’s Marple TV series

Watched on Saturday, 5 December 2020

Fidelity to text: 3 and 1/2 garrotes (the murderer was radically altered although crimes and motivation still fit perfectly within Agatha’s own text). There were some other minor modifications. The other most important change is the date. The novel took place in 1942. This filmed version was set around 1950.

Quality of movie: 4 garrotes. Gorgeous. Despite the sudden change of murderers, the film held together almost perfectly. The reason for the almost? I couldn’t accept the murderer’s motives. Remember that the scriptwriter revamped Agatha’s choice of murderer. It worked and if you’re unfamiliar with the novel, you won’t notice. If you’re familiar with the novel, you will most definitely notice and might throw what’s left of your cheese platter at the TV set.

We’ve been watching ITV’s Agatha Christie’s Marple TV adaptations out of order. Bill and I decided to be more systematic about watching all the Agatha Christie films. This will allow us to see if the producers have any kind of overall arc in mind. Agatha didn’t but producers play fast and loose with novel adaptations all the time. So they might! We’ll see.

Thus, we’ve seen three Marple adaptations already (The Secret of Chimneys, The Mirror Crack’d, and The Blue Geranium all from season 5). So we’re going back to the beginning and already, there’s a change.

We’ve got a different Miss Marple!

The first three seasons of Marple had Geraldine McEwan in the title role. I’d gotten used to Julia McKenzie. Ms. McKenzie took over for seasons 4, 5, and 6. It must have been a shock for the audience at the time. You get used to seeing a particular actor or actress in a role. It feels right. Then, something happens and things don’t look right. I doubt if the ITV producers gave an in-series explanation for the sudden altering of Miss Marple’s appearance, voice, and mannerisms. This isn’t Doctor Who where the good doctor regenerates whenever the producer feels like shaking things up a bit.

It also felt decidedly odd to see David Walliams appear as a minor character when he’s also Tommy Beresford in the Tommy and Tuppence Partners in Crime TV series. He’s still a doofus.

But now that we’re watching Marple in order, we’ll see if the producers explain away the substitution. Something along the lines of  a character telling Jane Marple “my that rest rejuvenated you.” I’ll inform all of you if Doctor Who appears on the scene.

What’s weird is even though we are being systematic, ITV wasn’t systematic at all in their selection of Miss Marple properties to adapt. Oh no. They started not with Miss Marple’s first introduction, which would have made sense and followed the canon. They could have filmed the short stories and novels in order of publication, like the Poirot TV series did. That allows for character development and the possibility of an overall story arc.

Under that sensible and understandable circumstance, Miss Marple’s first TV outing should have been The Tuesday Night Club, a short story first published in 1927. Or, they could have used Miss Marple’s first novel to start the TV series: The Murder at the Vicarage (published in 1930).

No, ITV, for baffling reasons of their own, chose to begin Marple with The Body in the Library. This was Agatha’s second Jane Marple novel, published in 1942. In between Vicarage and Body are a number of short stories so it’s not like there wasn’t plenty of material to choose from.

Then they filmed the episodes apparently at random. It doesn’t look like they used each short story. They did adapt novels that Miss Marple didn’t inhabit, probably to fill out the TV seasons since there aren’t as many Jane Marple properties as there are Hercule Poirot stories and novels. Even so, that’s strange. See my review of The Secret of Chimneys which was published long before Jane Marple was a twinkle in Agatha’s eye to see what can go wrong.

The ways of producers are mysterious.

So here we are, with the first episode. I liked Geraldine McEwan as Jane Marple very much. She’s much more like an elderly spinster than Julia McKenzie who reminded me of Jessica Fletcher at times. The adaptation is gorgeous. No expense was spared on those glorious sets, costumes, automobiles, and cast of thousands including a dance orchestra.

Because the setting was moved forward in time from 1942 to 1950 (or so), we got some backstory for the Jefferson family and why these people are hanging together when they’re not related. It made sense in the context of the movie.

There’s a strong sense of past grief hanging over this movie. Conway Jefferson lost his legs, wife, son, and daughter to German bombs. His household now consists of himself, his widowed son-in-law Mark Gaskell, and his widowed daughter-in-law, Adelaide Jefferson. Adelaide has a son, Peter, from her previous marriage to an RAF pilot, shot down in the war, leaving her a pregnant widow. She married Conway Jefferson’s son, Frank, and was widowed again.

We also get to see Miss Marple gazing wistfully at a sepia-tinged photograph of a handsome young soldier. Relative? Crush? Fiancé? Adored lover with whom she had a torrid affair? We aren’t told. Apparently, this change was enough to incite the viewing public into believing the producers had desecrated Agatha’s memory because of course it had to be a torrid affair! This demonstrates so clearly Miss Marple’s own viewpoint: she always believes the worst of people because it’s so often true.

In this case, I’d say that we moderns are completely unable to consider that it’s possible for men and women to care about each other without having hot, banging sex at all times. That young man could have been a relative, you know. There wasn’t a single family in England that didn’t lose young men to the Great War. Agatha was well-aware of that fact. Then, when she was writing The Body in the Library (1942), England was at war again, with young men dying in agony all over Europe, North Africa, and Asia. World War II must have brought back every miserable memory and loss endured during the first World War.

All I can say to people getting their knickers in a twist over Miss Marple gazing at a portrait is get over yourself. People die and their family and friends grieve, sometimes for the rest of their lives. It doesn’t mean sex was involved.

But back to The Body in the Library. People who don’t read Agatha Christie or don’t read her carefully, think she’s bloodless and bland, like the coziest of cozy mysteries. They are wrong. A strangled eighteen-year-old girl and a sixteen-year-old girl burned to death are not cozy. Those girls had their entire lives ahead of them, as Miss Marple knows very well.

The Body in the Library is steeped with passion, requited and not. There’s also social opprobrium (everyone believes Colonel Bantry was carrying on with a platinum blonde despite all evidence to the contrary). Money and the desperate need for it (Mark Gaskell and Adelaide Jefferson among many others). The burning desire to elevate one’s station in life (Josie Turner, Ruby Keene, and Raymond Starr among others). And murder, when all else fails.

So we watched and enjoyed and ate our fancy cheese platter. Dancing, music, crime solving, the fanciest, classiest hotel I have ever seen on film, even hot Latin gigolos making sure lady guests are very happy. Wow. Scene for scene, dialog for dialog, this adaptation followed the novel faithfully, considering the constraints of movies versus text.

Then the ending and the reveal of the murderer and the motive.


What? No. Please don’t do this to me. I know what the darned plot is and yes, the scriptwriter’s invention fits. But it wasn’t right. It didn’t feel right. It felt like the scriptwriter decided to be ‘relevant’. To bring dusty, musty, fusty old-lady Agatha into the modern world. To make a ‘statement’.

I ask you. Why? The novel was fine as it was. To anyone familiar with the novel, this new ending will not come as an improvement (unlike the adaptation of The Blue Geranium, which was greatly enriched compared to the original source material).

On the other hand, if you have not read the novel, you probably won’t have a problem. Assuming you don’t understand that the movie adaptation is set in 1950 and this kind of story in 1950 is … unlikely to say the least.

Times change, people change, cultures change. People still remain people and are subject to the vagaries of life. The thing to remember is that cultures change very slowly and what’s acceptable, even commonplace today was not commonplace or acceptable or even recognized in 1950.

The Body in the Library is worth watching for so, so many reasons. An actual understanding of cultural mores in 1950 isn’t one of them. These people are modern-day Englishmen and women who time-traveled back to 1950, carrying their modern lifestyles with them. Like Doctor Who.


The Mirror Crack’d (2011 TV adaptation) film review

Fidelity to text: four poison bottles (it’s pretty close, with most of the major changes being made to minor characters along with one added major character, replacing someone else)

Quality of movie: four poison bottles (pretty good on its own merits)

This was our second episode of the ITV’s Agatha Christie’s Marple television adaptation of Miss Marple novels and short stories. We are, obviously, watching these out of order. Not that order matters since the various filmed episodes don’t follow the order of publication of Miss Marple novels and stories. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this series (six seasons in all) and wonder how ITV got six seasons and 23 episodes when there were only twelve novels and some short stories, here’s the answer.

ITV didn’t want to kill a cash cow so they transformed other Christie novels into Miss Marple properties. The first episode we saw was Secret of Chimneys, because Bill is hard at work on the Complete Annotated Secret of Chimneys. I call their productions films because even though they are made for TV, they really are 90-minute-long films. Anyway, ITV’s version of Chimneys was dreadful with a capital D.

Some lines of dialog of remained along with character names but otherwise, Chimneys was butchered and our hero, Antony Cade, castrated.

I will admit I did not have high hopes for The Mirror Crack’d. I was, thankfully, proved wrong. I enjoyed it. So did Bill.

One of the major, throughout-the-series changes that ITV did to Miss Marple was to set all the episodes in the 1950’s, whether or not the actual source material took place during that time period. Miss Marple arrived in 1930 (The Murder at the Vicarage) and departed in 1976 (Sleeping Murder). Quite a range there, spanning the tail-end of the Roaring Twenties, the Great Depression, World War II and its aftermath and finishing up in the mid-seventies.

Nonetheless, it works here. I didn’t have a problem with the period wardrobe (great!), the timeless luxury of an English Country Estate (Gossington Hall), the 50’s cars (what tailfins!), or how the characters behaved. It all felt correct. I’ve seen other movies where the characters are supposedly acting in a historical, but they feel like they just walked out of the Starbucks down the street, decaf skim latte in hand.

The film follows the book reasonably closely, allowing for usual condensing needed to turn several hundred pages of novel into a 90-minute movie. Since the adaptation is close to what Agatha wrote, the plot is coherent, with no major holes. The changes include setting the story in the 50’s, several minor characters disappear (including Heather Badcock’s husband but he was a nonentity so he didn’t matter anyway), and two more important changes.

There is no Vincent Hogg, gossip columnist to the stars, in the book. He’s a great addition, however, funny and malicious. He’s also, as would be expected with Hollywood types, one of Marina Gregg’s ex-husbands. His arm candy, Lola Brewster, was in the novel and here, she steals the show. She’s six feet tall, redheaded, and with a va-va-voom figure encased in red satin. Wow.

I noticed. Bill really noticed. Every time Ms. Brewster came on stage, he noticed. It was hard not to notice when the cameraman noticed, making sure his camera lingered on Ms. Brewster’s phenomenal cleavage. As would be expected with Hollywood types, Ms. Brewster was Jason Rudd’s former lover and a rival to Marina Gregg.

Such is Hollywood.

The actress playing Marina Gregg was a marvel. Because of her performance, I could really grasp why Agatha named the novel The Mirror Crack’d. It had never been clear before.

For those of you not up on your Tennyson, the title refers to this verse in his epic poem, The Lady of Shalott.

“Out flew the web and floated wide —

The mirror crack’d from side to side;

“The curse is come upon me,” cried

The Lady of Shalott.”

What was the point of this title? Agatha Christie always had a reason for her choices and this choice of title was important. In this case, Marina Gregg, Hollywood movie star, was suddenly and dramatically confronted with a truth she had not known and it destroyed her. I had never made the connection until I saw this film. It was interesting and got me to look up Tennyson, but I didn’t get it.

Now, I do.

The other major change was the movie within a movie that Marina Gregg was filming, Jason Rudd (hubby #5) directing. It was to be her comeback film: a biopic of Nefertiti. I don’t remember that at all from the novel. But it worked. It didn’t feel shoehorned in as Miss Marple and her friend, Dolly Bantry, go sleuthing on set.

What was truly interesting about the film was, for the first time, evaluating the character of Marina Gregg, Hollywood actress, in a way that I had not when reading the novel. I’m thinking in particular of how everyone around Marina Gregg made excuses for her behavior because she was so beautiful, so talented, so creative, and had suffered so deeply in her art and her life. A careful rereading of pertinent parts of the novel showed that although Agatha didn’t make a big deal of it, she wasn’t excusing Marina Gregg the way her retinue did.

What did Marina Gregg do? Well, she was a movie star, so you can start with that. But what was unforgivable to me, today, was her adopting three young children and then, when she became pregnant with a ‘real baby of her own’, she abandoned those children. Dumped them off like an unwanted litter of kittens in some alley. No one, other than one of the kids (grown to adulthood in the novel) disapproves of this behavior. If you’re a famous, beautiful movie star, it’s okay to adopt children and then walk away when they’re no longer useful for your self-image.

It’s always worthwhile to reread a good novel to see what changes as you, the reader, grow and change. When I first read The Mirror Crack’d all those years ago, this part didn’t bother me. It does now.

Something else I didn’t know until after I saw the film and did some basic research was discovering that Agatha had based the central, inciting incident on a real-world example. Gene Tierney, luminously beautiful movie star was pregnant in 1943. She volunteered at the Hollywood Canteen and a fan, ill with rubella, broke quarantine to see her. As a result, Ms. Tierney gave birth to a severely handicapped daughter who was institutionalized for most of her life. About two years later, according to Ms. Tierney’s autobiography, she met the fan again at a garden party and the fan admitted sneaking out of quarantine to meet her.

For those of you who don’t know, rubella is included in the standard MMR (measles, mumps, rubella) vaccine given to every little kid soon after birth. The vast majority of people who develop rubella get a rash for a few days and make a full recovery. If you’re in your first trimester of pregnancy, your baby is doomed to congenital rubella syndrome. You’ll either miscarry or the baby will be born with a variety of major handicaps. It’s heartbreaking and that’s why we get a vaccine against a minor disease.

It’s not minor if your baby suffers.

The Mirror Crack’d was a very good adaptation of the novel and we both recommend it. It worked on its own as a murder mystery, while remaining true to the source material, both in form and in spirit.

I can say I’m now looking forward to seeing more of ITV’s Agatha Christie’s Marple episodes based on this film. I have no idea if future episodes will be any good. At this point, having watched two episodes, ITV has a fifty percent failure rate.

So we’ll see!


Secret of Chimneys Movie Review

Fidelity to text: One gun (some names match and the house is terrific)

Quality of movie: One gun (plot holes you could sail battleships through)

My goodness, but those are low rankings. Remember, this is on a scale of one to five, with one being the lowest and five the highest. Officially, this is the third Agatha Christie or Agatha-like film I’ve reviewed. We’ve watched several of them in the past, but I didn’t review them so we’ll have to re-watch them.

Darn the bad luck.

Or good luck, I should say, since watching virtually any of the other adaptations will take the taste of this stinker out of my mouth.

Where to start with this mess. Deep sigh. Let’s start with the first of a series of egregious changes the producers inflicted on a fast-moving thriller with a studly romantic leading man.

Here’s number one: Miss Marple solves the crime. Miss Marple! I ask you. How could Miss Marple show up when Agatha published The Secret of Chimneys in 1925? Miss Marple arrived in 1927 in a short story and then in 1930, in the novel The Body in the Library. Chimneys marks the first appearance of Inspector Battle, criminally underused in both prose and film.

After that, it gets worse.

In the novel, our hero is Anthony Cade, an adventurer with a past. He’s virile, a stud, not entirely honest, dashing, daring, and everything else you want your romantic lead to be. You can see why Virginia falls in love with this exciting man of action. In the film, he’s relegated to a supporting player with about fifteen minutes of screen time. He’s also been thoroughly castrated by the film-makers into a whiny, ineffective dull dweeb. The actor playing Anthony Cade also looks so much like the actor playing Bill Eversleigh that I had trouble telling them apart. Bill Eversleigh is supposed to be a waste of space and he is. In the novel, the contrast between the two men is immense. Here, it’s not.

Virginia Revel, our heroine, is no longer a dashing widow-about-town. Nope, she’s become Lord Caterham’s younger daughter. At least she can’t be confused with Bundle, Lord Caterham’s other daughter.

The entire plot of derring-do, international intrigue, African connections, missing heirs to thrones, secret letters and tell-all memoirs, jewel thieves, and visiting detectives from France vanishes. Instead we get a mess that Agatha would have never written. I would agree that Chimneys can be preposterous at times, but her plot held together even when it was far-fetched.

This mess did not.

The other characters are treated equally badly. Lord Caterham? Completely rewritten. Treadwell, the butler, gets a sex-change with no explanation. Other characters vanish entirely and totally new characters show up. Some of these characters get murdered too, so the reason they appear is to die, not because the film-makers wanted to show fidelity to the original text.

George Lomax remains as does his secretary, Bill Eversleigh. George Lomax is similar in that he’s a bureaucrat trying to solve diplomatic issues for the good of England. He becomes not just irritating, but obviously and openly incompetent, which he is not in the novel.

A huge diamond still disappears. That stays the same.  Entirely new characters get murdered. There is virtually nothing left of the original story, other than a few names and sometimes a line of dialog here and there.

Why did the film-makers do this? My best guess is that the makers of the BBC television series, Agatha Christies’ Marple, ran out of actual Agatha Christie stories about Miss Marple. This fiasco appears late in season 5. Since there was money to be made, other Christie stories got shoe-horned into submission and here we are. A Miss Marple mystery that never featured Miss Marple in the first place.

That brings us to the movie itself. I should say TV episode but it’s about 90 minutes long and feels like a movie rather than a Jessica Fletcher Murder She Wrote episode.

As a film, the action moves along reasonably well. The dialog was clear. The house standing in for Chimneys is fantastic, a really premium English Country House on steroids. Those floors! That carved paneling! A secret passageway hidden behind a Vandyke painting of the Duke of Richmond! Balconies and stately grounds and suits of armor!

I have no idea how they keep that house clean and those thousands of acres of gardens manicured and all that stonework repointed when there appeared to be two, count them, two servants. That would be the thieving maid, run off in 1932, and the other maid, elevated to the position of head housekeeper even though she was named Treadwell, like the butler in the novel.

The acting was decent, other than the utterly bland Ken doll the casting director located to play Anthony Cade. There must be some actor out there who can channel Errol Flynn because that’s who should be playing Anthony Cade. Not some piece of carved pine with plastic hair. The young man is probably quite nice in real life but he did not light up the screen and make me -> feel <- why Virginia fell at his feet, panting to get to know him better.

Some of us radiate charisma. The rest of us just muddle along.

The mystery plot, however, was atrocious. There were obvious red herrings everywhere. The African connection was a throw-away line. There was no lost heir to the throne. The reason for the theft of the jewel was absurd. No one behaved in character, least of all Lord Caterham. Parts that could have been interesting, like the motivation of the National Trust representative, were given short-shrift. She, by the way, was far more vigorous and manly than Anthony Cade was. None of the writers seemed to have any idea what servants do or how they would act in the mid-1950’s (which is when the main story takes place). Miss Marple pulled the solution out of her handbag. George Lomax was supposed to be capable and yet seemed unable to do the most cursory of background checks. And then, when a character’s true identity was revealed, everyone still used his false name and position in life even though he couldn’t have possibly been that person!

If you’re watching all six seasons of Agatha Christies’ Marple, there’s no reason to skip this episode, even though you won’t watch it a second time. If you don’t know that it’s based on a wildly different novel, you’ll notice the plot holes but they won’t be as irritating as if you’re expecting a story that is close to the actual Secret of Chimneys.

Eventually, someone will make a good filmed version of The Secret of Chimneys. The novel is very much of its time, written in 1924 and published in 1925, so that time will be far off in the future, when we’ve gotten over our chronocentrism and quit judging people of the past by the standards of today.

This movie was bad. Knowing what the original story was and what the movie could have been, makes it worse.


The Murder at the Vicarage December 2004 version

Watched Friday, 12 December 2020

Fidelity to text: 3 guns. The overall storyline is there. However, the scriptwriters chose to insert an unnecessary, even egregious backstory for Miss Marple. Um, no. Just no. There were other issues as well, some relating to changing the date from 1930 (when the novel was published) to 1951.

Quality of movie on its own: 3 and 1/2 guns. The film was well done but the scriptwriters shoved in things that weren’t needed, ensuring that solving the murder got short shrift. I still can’t figure out how Miss Marple deduced the solution to the murder. There are also no subtitles, criminal in this day and age. Not all the characters had perfect diction, mumbling ensured some critical lines were lost, and other characters had challenging accents. Hey ITV producers: not every viewer has perfect hearing. That’s the point of subtitles.

The Murder at the Vicarage was published in 1930. This ITV production is set in 1951 (the camera pans across a calendar to make the point crystal clear although whoever produced the calendar got the days of the week wrong. August 1st, 1951, is Wednesday, not Tuesday.)

I understand why ITV’s producers changed the story’s year. The entire series is set in the 1950’s. It’s easier to film a TV series if you can keep using the same costumes, cars, accessories, etc. rather than needing a warehouse stocked with 40 years of material (1930 – 1971). You also don’t have to worry about your star never aging despite the passage of decades.

But novels set in 1930 reflect different cultural issues than novels set in 1951. Never forget, Agatha wrote contemporaries. Not historicals. Thus, something that was a major scandal in 1930 (divorce!) would be less scandalous in 1951. In 1930, every man around had served in the Great War. In 1951, it was World War II. Some men (and women) served in both wars. WWII was a different war, a bigger war, a war in which British civilians suffered directly and hugely. In 1951, they were still suffering because wartime rationing never ended.

As a modern viewer, I’m looking at this plot (set in 1951) and asking myself, why didn’t she get a divorce? I could understand this better if the film adaptation took place in 1930. Divorce was far more scandalous. You really could be socially ruined. However, the scriptwriters didn’t give us a good reason for murder.

There was a perfectly good reason that would explain the murderer’s rationale but I suppose there wasn’t enough time. That time, which could have been better spent on storytelling, was wasted on an egregious subplot about Miss Marple’s past (completely made-up from whole cloth, let me tell you).

No. Just no.

Miss Marple did not, as a hot young woman, have a torrid affair with a married man. The screenwriter’s own storytelling flagged here because why was young Jane seeing her married lover off to war while his wife was nowhere to be seen? Young Jane is kissing him in public in the train station in front of a crowd! If my husband was going off to risk get killed in battle, you can bet I would be at the train station noticing if some hussy was kissing my husband goodbye. I was in the Navy for about ten years and let me tell you, families don’t ignore their spouse’s deployments. If they can possibly be there to wave goodbye one last time, they are.

Proof again that far too many Hollywood-types have zero real-world experience with the military and all its permutations.

Another time-wasting change from out of the blue was swapping a silver-stealing burglar and his hapless assistant for a French professor and his granddaughter who claimed to be researching Colonel Protheroe’s historic mansion. Why did the script do this? The logical conclusion is it further demonstrated how evil Colonel Protheroe was; apparently Agatha’s own words were inadequate. No, you have to drag in French resistance fighters, betrayal to the Nazis, and embezzling to justify his murder.

Another time-wasting change? Anne Protheroe is suddenly best buddies with Miss Marple. She was not. This change was apparently to make us feel sympathetic for Anne, because she and Miss Marple had something in common: adultery. Um, no. This change culminated in Miss Marple praying in church while the murderers are hanged, again to show (I guess) what a difficult choice Miss Marple had to make. She could further the case for true love or she could choose justice.

Except that Miss Marple, like Hercule Poirot, seriously disapproves of murder, no matter how much the deceased deserved it.

But I’m wasting time, aren’t I. What was the reason the screenwriters could have given us to explain why the murder took place?

Money, naturally. If divorce throws you into poverty, then a lead divorce, via the barrel of a gun, makes sense. We do not get this explanation. We don’t get any kind of explanation why our murderers choose murder and not, say, running off together to Argentina where no one would know they were living in sin. When I read mysteries, I expect a good reason for murder. It isn’t something that comes naturally to most of us.

And, in fact, Agatha provides this very justification for murder in the novel! The murderer didn’t want to live in poverty with his paramour. A lead divorce ensured inheriting a huge estate. A legal divorce led to poverty. This motivation was right there in the text, yet the scriptwriter ignored it in favor of making up an adulterous affair for Miss Marple.

Maybe they thought this would make Miss Marple more interesting, relevant, and human. After all, we should all fall prey to our animal instincts at every opportunity. Why deny yourself an adulterous affair if that’s what you want? Who cares what his wife thinks? She doesn’t matter. She’s just the boring wife who’s never even seen on stage. Honoring vows is for boring, bourgeois commoners following outmoded modes of behavior; not for special people like us.

There are things to like in this adaptation.

The scenery and sets are gorgeous as always. The clothes are to die for. The ladies (for the most part) wear the most wonderful, stylish clothes including gloves and hats. The gentlemen look great too. We really lost a lot when our culture decided it was socially acceptable to walk around in pajama equivalents in public.

One thing I didn’t like about the scenery is a personal quirk: every single expanse of grass looked freshly mowed, and with a gasoline-powered rotary mower too. A manual reel mower clips the grass and scatters the clippings where they lay in clumps. They (dear son mows our lawn with one) do not provide sleek, carpet-like grass unless you like shag carpets. This touch is not period-correct as everyone in 1951 used a manual reel mower, assuming they weren’t using sheep or scythes. Nobody had an emerald-green lawn that looked like a velvet carpet, with not a clover blossom to be seen.

Gasoline powered rotary mowers had yet to come into widespread use. That wouldn’t happen until the 1960’s. Also, remember that wartime rationing, still ongoing in 1951? No one’s going to waste gasoline on an expensive gasoline-powered rotary mower when a reel mower cost nothing but muscle and there was already one in the shed. Gasoline went into cars.

In addition, every single garden we saw had been meticulously weeded prior to the camera coming near it. Real gardens have weeds. I promise you, you can mow, edge, weed, rake, and trim in preparation for the Queen’s visit and while you are waiting for her motorcade to arrive, weeds will appear out of thin air. Leaves will skitter down on your newly mowed grass. Someone will throw a soda can in the middle of your herbaceous border. Guaranteed. Yet that didn’t happen in St. Mary Mead.

Another amusement when you’re trying to work out how Miss Marple actually solved the mystery is playing spot the character actor. ITV Production must have, at one time or another, used every actor and actress in England. Make sure you spot Mark Gatiss (Mycroft Holmes) as the thieving curate and Miriam Margolyes (Miss Phryne Fisher’s aunt Prudence) as a neighborhood busybody.

Should you watch this? Yes, at least once, as part of watching every film adaptation of Agatha Christie.

After the first viewing, you may want to watch a second time to dissect the flaws in the script. As I said, we could not figure out what gave Miss Marple the clue that allowed her to solve the mystery. Subtitles might have helped, but they might not have. The solution may not have been in the script so it couldn’t be filmed. Otherwise, save your time for a film adaptation you haven’t seen yet.


Crooked House film review

Because of our ongoing interest in all things Agatha Christie, we’ve begun watching movies based on her books.

There are a lot of them so we’ve got plenty of filmed murder in our future. The adaptations will vary wildly in quality and fidelity to the source material as I’m sure you can imagine.

I’m going to rate the films two ways.

The first is fidelity to the material. This has nothing to do with the quality of the movie since movies are a radically different medium from a novel. That is to say, what works in a novel won’t work in a movie and vice versa. We’ll use (depending on the murder weapon) little poison bottles, little knives, little guns, little candlesticks, etc.

Five poison bottles indicate the film follows the novel virtually line for line. One poison bottle indicates that while the name of the film matches that of a Christie novel, the plot was made up of whole cloth by the scriptwriter and the Christie estate should disavow all knowledge of the film (while still cashing the check).

The second rating will be the usual stars. Five stars is a terrific movie and one star means don’t waste your time other than for completeness’s sake. As always, your mileage will vary. We’ve loved movies everyone hated, despised the ‘best movie of the year’ and disagreed about plenty of others. The proof is in the watching so you may adore what we hated.

With that said, let’s get to Crooked House.

Four poison bottles for fidelity

Four stars for movie goodness

I really enjoyed this movie but I have to say, thank God for subtitles. It crammed a lot of plot and an army of characters into 115 minutes, while often refusing to enunciate properly. That is one of the reasons for the missing fifth star. I couldn’t always tell what was going on and thirty seconds of explanatory dialog here and a minute of clarification there would have made all the difference.

Five extra minutes of film; that’s all I ask for so I can better keep track of who is who and why I should care.

The filmmakers did do a good job of hiring different looking actors and actresses so I could figure out who was who. It’s frustrating when Hollywood hires anonymous, cookie-cutter blondes who all visit the same plastic surgeon and get their clothes from the same stylist and their hair and makeup from the same beautician. It’s darn hard to tell them apart. The same is true of the typical collection of Ken dolls, although actors are allowed a tiny bit more freedom in their appearances.

Glenn Close, playing Edith De Haviland, was a marvel. She perfectly embodied the steel-willed, do-what-is-needed, aristocratic sister-in-law of the first murder victim. I also liked Honor Kneafsey who played Josephine. Other very talented people showed up, but they didn’t always get enough to do. Christina Hendricks (playing Brenda Leonides) in particular, looked decorative for no discernable reason. But that, I suppose, is why Aristide Leonides married her. Why else do elderly millionaires marry Las Vegas dancers? It isn’t their ability to discuss Proust.

On the other hand, our male lead, Max Irons (playing Charles Hayward), was a Ken doll. Very good looking but he came across as bland and spineless. If he and Sophia Leonides get together (left up in the air in the movie but this definitely happens in the book) you know what his fate will be. Sophia Leonides will steamroller him and he’ll learn to like it and she’ll despise him for knuckling under. Torrid affairs with manly gamekeepers and studly stone masons will soon follow and the only thing he’ll do is whine.

I can see why people won’t like this movie. It was talky but I like snappy dialog. It didn’t race from one scene to another with frenetic jump cuts but I hate those. I enjoy a slower-paced movie where I can figure out what’s going on and not get left behind at the starting gate. It was English Country House porn on steroids which I adore. That was one crooked house those people were trapped in, with surprises behind every door. God alone knows how they keep a castle like that dusted especially since the director got rid of all the servants who should have been filling up the backgrounds with housekeeping activities. There were some changes to Agatha’s text which purists won’t approve of. I’ll get to them later when I discuss the fidelity of the movie to the novel. But I liked this movie very much and I would watch it again.

Now as to the four poison bottles for fidelity to the text.

There were changes from Agatha’s novel, but most of them consisted of amping up the interactions to make the film more dramatic and more claustrophobic. Most of them worked for me. Here and there, for you purists, the movie dialog was taken word for word from the text. Other things got shortened or truncated but that’s what movies do. They remove what can’t be filmed like inner monologues. Some characters — the tutor and Brenda — got short shrift and their subplots and story arcs almost completely vanished. Again, 115 minutes doesn’t leave a lot of room.

A major change was Sophia Leonides’ character. I remembered her from the novel as more of a clinging vine damsel-type. In the movie, she’s a ball-buster and Charles Hayward (our hero) is going to regret marrying Sophia in spades if he is stupid enough to do so. I wouldn’t argue with this change because it emphasized how crazy the Leonides family was and how Aristide Leonides knew that his granddaughter, Sophia, was a chip off the old block and the only one of his heirs suitable to control his empire. She had the spine to fight back; the rest of the family rolled over and played dead.

The other major change was in the ending. I have to be careful here so as to not reveal whodunnit and why. Suffice to say, Edith de Haviland gets a much more dramatic exit, doing what has to be done, and the movie is much better for it. This event is now front and center, instead of being reported on afterwards in a few bloodless paragraphs as happens in the novel.

Give Crooked House a try. It’s two hours of your time and you’ll have a very nice feel for how crooked the house was, what it did to its inhabitants, and what a control-freak Aristide Leonides was. It’s not a perfect adaptation. So what? I enjoyed it and I recommend it. Best of all, if you only watch your Agatha Christie instead of reading her, you’ll have a very clear idea of the plot. You won’t make a mistake at a dinner party when you discuss the novel and whodunnit and why it mattered so much.


The Secret Adversary July 2015 TV film adaptation review

Fidelity to text: one gun. The names match. Jane Finn remains a woman of mystery. The secret adversary of the title remains. Virtually everything else was altered from a little to a lot.

Quality of movie on its own: one & 1/2 guns but only because it started off well and I like 50’s clothes and sets. After that, it devolved steadily into ridiculous plot contrivances until Bill and I were groaning, catcalling the actors, and rolling our eyes at what we were watching. Keep in mind that I’m not a harsh judge of movies. This movie did not hold together.

As with so many of the Agatha Christie film adaptations, The Secret Adversary was a television show. In this case, the BBC produced a series called Partners in Crime. The series set out to follow Tommy and Tuppence’s adventures. For those of you keeping score at home, Agatha wrote four novels and a loosely connected series of short stories about them. Tommy and Tuppence start out as bright young moderns in 1919 and gradually age in real time until Postern of Fate (published in 1973), when they’re in their seventies.

The producers filmed one season: The Secret Adversary consisting of three one-hour episodes, aired beginning in July of 2015. N or M?, also three one-hour episodes, aired beginning in August of 2015.

The series was canceled after the release of the two film adaptations and after watching The Secret Adversary, I can see why. I doubt if N or M? will be any better but that one is still waiting in the queue. I shudder to think of what I’m in for.

So, what went wrong? The BBC is well-known for good adaptations of great British literature. They spend the money to do it up fine. Watching the three episodes back-to-back, just like a movie, showed that they spent money on costumes, sets, accessories, music, acting. Everything in fact except the single most important component of any movie.

The script. The foundation of storytelling.

It was dreadful.

The Secret Adversary didn’t work as an adaptation and it didn’t work as a standalone movie for newcomers who’ve never heard of Tommy and Tuppence.

We’ll begin at the beginning. For some mysterious reason, the BBC decided to set the story not in 1919, right after the demobilization of the Great War, when England was awash in returning soldiers who couldn’t find jobs but in 1952. 1952!

This completely changes the tenor of the story. Agatha wrote her novel when the war was still fresh and raw, England was still recovering, and there was massive social unrest everywhere. Bolsheviks were lurking around every corner. Russia had endured a violent revolution, the tsar and his family murdered, the continent was soaked with blood, and political repercussions from the Great War were everywhere.

In addition to all that, the industrial revolution was gearing up faster than ever, motor-cars were showing up all over the place, women were finding a much louder voice than ever before, and servants suddenly discovered that factory work paid better and was less demeaning. The entire social structure of England was under attack.

I suppose that wasn’t enough background excitement for the BBC so instead we get 1952. It was the Cold War so they could shoehorn Communists into the plot. Perhaps they needed to recoup the money they’d spent on other TV series set in 1952. Those sets, cars, costumes, and accessories were going begging so why not reuse them?

In the novel, Tommy and Tuppence are both in their early twenties and single. They meet by chance on the street. They’re both broke and looking for work; any kind of work will do. They knew each other from years before, but this time, it’s different. Sparks fly and romance blooms.

Not in the TV series. Our heroes been married for years. They have a son, George. A golden retriever. A charming 50’s cottage although I have no idea how they afforded it, any more than I understand how they afforded their very stylish wardrobes. They must be in their 30’s. Youth fled as waistlines thickened and hairlines receded, at least for Tommy.

Passion seems to have fled too, since we see Tommy and Tuppence sleeping in twin beds. I know the movies and 50’s vintage TV stuck to this trope to pretend that sex didn’t exist but come on. Real married couples slept in double beds with each other back then. I have no idea why the BBC made this choice, unless it was to emphasize that Tommy and Tuppence are sexless and boring.

They shouldn’t be this way. In the novels, they adore each other, they’re hot for each other, and that doesn’t change as Tommy and Tuppence grow old.

Agatha did something rare with Tommy and Tuppence. They married and stayed happy, despite the usual traumas of life. I appreciate seeing a married couple still in love and working as a team, rather than Hollywood’s standard set of tropes. You know the one: you get two possibilities. The exciting run-up to the wedding when everything is fresh and wonderful and our happy couple is so in love. The other standard story is the miserable, collapsing marriage leading up to the acrimonious divorce.

It is nice to see a happy couple. Although Tommy and Tuppence are not happy. They’re more like roommates. One thing that remains true to the novel is they are broke.

Why are they broke? Because of another script change. In the novel, Tommy is brave, stalwart, not given to flights of fancy and he’s not easily fooled. He’s young and fit. He’s brave. Here, Tommy is overweight, dopey, and so passive that he meekly goes along with whatever Tuppence and the villains want him to do!

And, he keeps bees. Or rather, he is trying to set up a beekeeping business so he can make money selling honey. Yet he is so obtuse, he hasn’t read the beekeeping manual that came with the hives. His son (showing the kind of respect Bart Simpson shows to Homer) rats Tommy out to mom. There were no bees that I recall in the novel. Perhaps the scriptwriters were thinking of Sherlock Holmes retired in his old age to tend bees in the countryside.

It was so stupid. The way they behaved together was nothing like the books. In fact, they reminded me of a mashup of two different married couples you are probably familiar with.

In this film version, Tuppence comes across as Lucy Ricardo, although more stylish. Tommy resembles Homer Simpson, but more buffoonish.

Yes, you read that right. Tuppence doesn’t have the commonsense that Marge Simpson does. Tommy isn’t as smart as Desi Ricardo. Worse, he doesn’t have the bravado of Homer Simpson, although the waistlines are similar.

They were a well-dressed couple; I’ll give them that.

Unlike Homer Simpson, Tommy also has magical movie facial hair. No matter what was happening or how long he had been held captive, he was always freshly shaven.

This was maddening to watch. They were idiots! The plot was idiotic! Virtually every single character went through the plot-grinder, coming out radically different on the other side.

As an example, Julius Hersheimmer, American millionaire from Texas, becomes an African-American millionaire who made his fortune developing artificial sweetener. Jane Finn herself is no longer his long-lost first cousin. No. That wasn’t interesting enough. Instead, he claims Jane is his niece (there is a noticeable age difference). Was she his niece? No! She was his cookie on the side, waiting in the wings for his divorce to be finalized.

Mr. Carter becomes Tommy’s enabling and bumbling uncle, not the capable spy-master he was in the novel. Albert is no longer the cockney liftboy who Tommy and Tuppence meet and take under their wing. No, he becomes an inept version of Q from the James Bond series. He’s a science teacher at a boys’ school and fond of gadgetry.

The villains are still villains, but they’re incompetent too. They certainly don’t seem to be in it for political gain. We get a few hints, but nothing like the novel. Rita Vandemeyer becomes almost comical, as a fading opera star with a white Persian cat. She’s supposed to be an adventuress, a woman of mystery, someone who is dangerous and can hold her own in a man’s world. No more.

At least the secret adversary remains.

The ending was a hash of loose ends and ridiculous contrivances. A jar of honey figures prominently, shoehorned into the plot to justify Tommy’s taste for get-rich-quick schemes that will leave his family in financial ruins.

Should you waste three hours of your life on this adaptation?

Only if you want to see the great clothes everyone wears. Tommy and Tuppence’s 50’s vintage cottage is good eye-candy as well. The sets are nice. Otherwise, there are better choices. Watch this version of The Secret Adversary only if you plan on seeing all the filmed versions of Agatha’s stories and you’re doing it for completeness’s sake.