I am an Agatha Christie / Hercule Poirot junkie… So here’s the thing about Branagh’s “Orient Express”: it’s drop-dead gorgeous and maddeningly shallow. Every frame screams luxury, from the art deco interiors to Haris Zambarloukos’ sumptuous cinematography that turns the train into visual poetry. You’ll want to book passage immediately.
But then Branagh opens his mouth as Poirot, and that ridiculous mustache starts twitching with theatrical overacting. He’s playing detective like he’s performing Shakespeare, missing entirely what made Christie’s Belgian genius so compelling – subtle brilliance, not showboat pomposity.
The stellar cast deserves better material. Michelle Pfeiffer delivers genuine heartbreak, while Judi Dench brings regal mystery that hints at deeper secrets. Yet Branagh races through their stories like he’s afraid audiences will get bored. Wrong move… Christie’s strength lies in methodical character dissection, not breathless reveals.
The murder mystery becomes secondary to visual spectacle. We never truly care about these passengers or feel the moral weight of their collective revenge. The 1974 Lumet version understood that Christie wrote psychological studies, not just puzzles.
This “Orient Express” delivers first-class production values with coach-class storytelling. It’s entertainment that looks like art but thinks like commerce. Beautiful, competent, and ultimately forgettable. 6.5/10.
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