Review: Evil Under the Sun

Belgian sleuth Hercule Poirot (Sir Peter Ustinov) is hired by a millionaire (Colin Blakely) to track down the monstrous actress/con woman (Dame Diana Rigg) who stole a jewel from him. This leads him to a Mediterranean hotel where the woman and other assorted guests are staying. When someone turns up dead – murder, of course – Poirot attempts to solve the mystery of whodunnit. Dame Maggie Smith is the hotel owner, a former rival of Rigg’s when they were both chorus girls. Roddy McDowall is a gossipy writer with aims of being Rigg’s biographer. James Mason and Sylvia Miles are a theatre producer and his wife. Nicholas Clay and pale-and-frail Jane Birkin play another couple, whilst Dennis Qualley plays the unfaithful Rigg’s husband.

 

Enjoyable 1982 Agatha Christie mystery from Guy Hamilton (“Goldfinger”, “Live and Let Die”) and screenwriters Anthony Shaffer (“Sleuth”, “Frenzy”, “The Wicker Man”) and an uncredited Barry Sandler (who co-scripted the very disappointing “The Mirror Crack’d”), manages to work in spite of a not terribly mysterious mystery. Usually, being ahead of the game ruins a lot of the fun for me, but when the cast is (mostly) this good, I honestly didn’t care. It’s certainly a more engaging mystery than “Murder on the Orient Express”, and at least it plays fair unlike the 1980 version of “The Mirror Crack’d” (also directed by Mr. Hamilton). Cinematographer Christopher Challis (“The Red Shoes”, “The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes”) gets the easiest job here, pointing the camera at all that stunning scenery (the Spanish island of Majorca).

 

David Suchet may be iconic as Hercule Poirot, but for my money Peter Ustinov is the best screen Poirot. He may not be perfectly Poirot, but he is perfectly Ustinov as Poirot. Unlike Albert Finney and Kenneth Branagh (in the film versions of “Murder on the Orient Express”), Ustinov manages to be an unsubtle scene-stealer without being too heavy-handed or fatuous. I should also point out that Ustinov designed Poirot’s bathing suit himself, it’s a very funny moment with a perfect musical accompaniment. Dame Diana Rigg and Dame Maggie Smith are in top form and seemingly having a whale of a time being horrible to each other. In fact, Rigg is wonderfully horrid in all of her scenes (look at those ghastly bangles she wears!), coming close to stealing the show from Ustinov. On just about equal footing to Rigg is Roddy McDowall as a bitchy gossip writer with the ridiculously inappropriate name of Rex Brewster (!). In smaller turns, Colin Blakely is amusing and Dennis Qualley solid and dependable.

 

I actually think James Mason is a touch wasted and might’ve benefitted from switching roles with Qualley. I was also not terribly enamoured with Jane Birkin, Nicholas Clay, and Sylvia Miles, who seem like then-fashionable casting choices who stand out like a sore thumb today. Of the three, Miles is at least better than usual. However, Clay is his usual dull himbo self, and Birkin’s mousy and anaemic act is equally dull.

 

A bit slow to heat up and the mystery is fairly transparent. However, with (most of) the cast and scenery here you don’t mind too much. An easy, breezy, entertaining, and picaresque vacation by way of a murder-mystery plot. It certainly didn’t deserve to flop at the box-office.

 

Rating: B-