Review: Death on the Nile

Detective Hercule Poirot (Kenneth Branagh) is aboard a steamship travelling on the Nile along with passengers celebrating with honeymooners Linnet (Gal Gadot) and Simon (Armie Hammer). Also on board is Simon’s rather unstable ex Jacqueline (Emma Mackey). At some point a murder occurs on board and hey, lucky a certain Belgian detective is on board to solve the mystery, right? Sophie Okonedo and Letitia Wright play a jazz singer and her niece, Annette Bening plays a famous painter whose son (Tom Bateman) is a friend of Poirot, Jennifer Saunders and Dawn French play Linnet’s godmother and her nurse, Russell Brand is a meek doctor whom Linnet left for Simon, and Rose Leslie plays Linnet’s maid.

 

The 1978 film version of Agatha Christie’s “Death on the Nile” was an attractive, entertaining star-studded affair with Sir Peter Ustinov chewing scenery without being self-indulgent. However, a fairly transparent mystery lessened my enjoyment a bit. This 2022 version from director-star Kenneth Branagh (whose “Murder on the Orient Express” did little for me either) is a self-indulgent wank with an only slightly more well-hidden mystery, much less interesting stars, and far less enjoyment overall. Director-star Branagh is in full self-serving egotist mode, and it’s to the detriment of the film as the insistence on giving us a prologue concerning Poirot’s war service gets the film off to an agonisingly slow start it never recovers from. 40 minutes into a 2 hour film and there had been no death on the Nile yet. At least when Sir Peter Ustinov played the part in wonderfully colourful fashion, it added colour without adding unnecessary padding to the runtime. Branagh as Poirot is distractingly ridiculous to no good humour or colour at all. It’s good to be the director-star I guess. The egotism is also on show with his cinematic style, the camerawork calls way too much attention to itself. You’re not making a David Lean epic for crying out loud, Mr. Branagh. It’s a whodunit, stop focussing on the camera swooshing and old jazz standards and tell the damn story. Branagh’s direction really does kill this.

 

The cast around Branagh is uneven, though the characters themselves are pretty interesting across the board. Sophie Okonedo, a well-cast Annette Bening, and a welcome (Dawn) French and (Jennifer) Saunders all make their moments count, though the latter two are a bit underused. Armie Hammer does a fine English accent and is certainly not miscast here, but a few sexy moments register uncomfortably due to his…well, he’s allegedly been a very bad (and very creepy) boy off-screen in recent years let’s say. We also have two noted ‘Covid sceptics’ or anti-vaxxers in Letitia Wright and Russell Brand, but there’s nothing in their on-screen casting that proves problematic in the viewing to me (though Wright is a bit dull). In fact, the only issue with Brand is that he’s not given enough to do. His admirably straight, rather quiet performance is a bit of a surprise. Less impressive is the wooden and charisma-deprived Gal Gadot who is out of her depth here in an important role, and an overwrought Emma Mackey who seems far too impressed with herself in another important part. The sand has more life to it here than Gadot.

 

The scenery is lovely, Branagh’s direction egotistical and ham-fisted as always. Scripted by Michael Green (“Logan”, “Blade Runner 2049”, “Murder on the Orient Express”), the mystery is transparent. The performances pretty uneven. No, I didn’t much go for this one.

 

Rating: C