John Malkovich

The ABC Murders, 2018 (television miniseries)

Watch the trailer:

This is the second adaptation of The A.B.C. Murders on this list, and it’s a dark, twisted take on the tale, much the antithesis of its comic predecessor. Writer Sarah Phelps did several Christie adaptations for the BBC, and each one is grim and thrilling. (Her And Then There Were None, in particular, is like a gut punch.) This version is no exception. At the heart of it all, though, is the curious casting and even curiouser performance of John Malkovich. Malkovich is the kind of performer who doesn’t so much bend himself to fit a role as he does bend the role to fit him. His Poirot is one we’ve never seen before. Here is a man whose glory days are behind him, whose loneliness haunts him, and whose future looks bleak. He’s noticeably older than we expect, with an almost ordinary white mustache and goatee, and clothes that have perhaps seen better days. But his mind is sharp and flinty, his eyes sparkle with fascination at each new move the villain makes. He’s like a Poirot from the multiverse, a version we didn’t know was in there but who is nevertheless a living iteration of the character. It’s a weird take, but it works.

4.

Kenneth Branagh

MurderontheOrientExpress, 2017*

DeathontheNile, 2022*

AHauntinginVenice, late 2023

Watch the trailers:

I’m grateful to Kenneth Branagh for bringing all-star Christie adaptations back to the big screen. I’m frustrated with Kenneth Branagh for starting off with remakes of MurderontheOrientExpress and Death on the Nile, two of my all-time favorite films that were done perfectly the first time. I’m intrigued by Kenneth Branagh for making such bold changes in his adaptations, like conflating characters or rewriting major plot points; but I’m also disappointed in Kenneth Branagh for his failure to trust the source material. And I’m confused by Kenneth Branagh for anchoring these adaptations with a Poirot that is so deliberately, willfully, distractingly different from any we’ve seen before.

If you think I’m referring to Kenneth Branagh a little too much, it’s because Kenneth Branagh’s adaptations are all about Kenneth Branagh, as is his Poirot. On first watch, I found his take laborious, too much of a muchness, with choices made just for the sake of being able to make them: Oh,look!Hismustacheisbig andgray!That’sdifferent!We’veneverseenthatbefore! (Actually, Peter Ustinov did gray first. But, seriously, Branagh’s mustache looks like a scrub brush. It’s ludicrous. AND HE HAS A SOUL PATCH!) Anyway, Branagh’s Poirot does the job; he unmasks deception, and he solves the case. But the accent is a little too studied, the fastidiousness almost clinical. I almost don’t believe him as Poirot. He seems fabricated, but I’ll be damned if he doesn’t begin to grow on you. In Death on the Nile, we get an invented World War I-era backstory for the man and his mustache. And suddenly, there’s a hint that maybe the man we see isn’t really the man at all, but rather a façade for him to hide behind. The next installment in Branagh’s series is AHauntinginVenice, ostensibly an adaptation of Christie’s Hallowe'enParty, but undoubtedly filled with another mix of bold changes, odd choices, and more clues to understanding a man who is fundamentally a mystery. I don’t love everything about Branagh’s Poirot, but I also can’t wait to see what he does next.

*Triggerwarning: Did I mention that HE HAS A SOUL PATCH?!

3.

Peter Ustinov

DeathontheNile, 1978

EvilUndertheSun, 1982

ThirteenatDinner, 1985 (TV)*

DeadMan’sFolly, 1986 (TV)*

Murder in Three Acts, 1986 (TV)*

AppointmentwithDeath, 1988

Watch Death on the Nile...

I’ll be upfront about this one: I love Ustinov as Poirot. He was tapped to assume the role in 1978’s Death on the Nile, after Albert Finney, who played Poirot in 1974’s critical and commercial hit MurderontheOrientExpress, declined to go through the same costume and makeup challenges in the Egyptian heat for a sequel. Ustinov stepped in and made the role his own, although he wasn’t to everyone’s taste. Christie’s daughter Rosalind Hicks supposedly saw him on set and protested, “But that’s not Poirot! He’s not like that!” To which Ustinov replied, “He is now.” How do you not love that?

Ustinov clearly has fun with the role, and he is a delight to watch. His Poirot has a musicality to his speech, a way of lilting his way through a line, only to draw out the last syllable as though he were setting a trap, which makes his interrogations and denouements particularly entertaining. Ustinov’s Poirot eats, and it’s always a comic bit. He’s also forced to deal with nature in ways that clearly make him uncomfortable, such as a tour of the pyramids in the hot Egyptian sun, or a swim in the cold Adriatic Sea. He’s comic, but never excessively so.

Ustinov’s Death on the Nile and Evil Under the Sun are arguably classics. Both are gorgeous films, filled with terrific performances from the rest of the cast. Death on the Nile gives us an imperiously bitchy Bette Davis, a waspish Maggie Smith, a positively unhinged Mia Farrow, and a gloriously, elaborately drunk Angela Lansbury. Evil Under the Sun counters with an even bitchier Diana Rigg, an even more waspish Maggie Smith, a viciously snippy Roddy McDowall, and a broadly brassy Sylvia Miles. And Ustinov’s Poirot keeps it all in balance. Everyone’s having the time of their lives, and you will, too.

Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of the TV movies. Updated to the 1980s and clearly done on the cheap, they’re a pale imitation of the big-screen films, despite star power from the likes of Faye Dunaway and Tony Curtis. As with the other anachronistic adaptations mentioned earlier, everything feels wrong in them. Ustinov made one last big-screen foray as Poirot in 1988’s AppointmentWithDeath. But it’s shot like a TV movie, and no one looks like they’re having any fun. It’s not terrible; it’s just dull. Fortunately, these weaker entries in Ustinov’s Poirot resume do nothing to dim the grandeur of Death on the Nile and Evil Under the Sun. They’re fantastic movies, and he’s a fantastic Poirot.

...and the trailer for AppointmentwithDeath

*Triggerwarning:I’llspareyouclipsfromthesubparTVmovies,butifyouseek themoutyourself,don’tsayIdidn’twarnyou.Stickwith Death on the Nile and Evil

Under the Sun.Thoseareablast.Butskiptherest.Themid-1980swereanugly,ugly time.Bingesome Murder, She Wrote,instead.

David Suchet

AgathaChristie’sPoirot, 1989-2013, 70 episodes 2.

Watch the first episode:

Here’s where I commit heresy. David Suchet is not my number-one pick. Practically every other ranking of Poirot performances enshrines Suchet at the top of the heap, the portrayal by which all others should be measured. And Suchet’s Poirot is an impressive feat, no doubt about it. In preparation for the role, Suchet read everything Christie wrote about the character; and he built his performance bit by bit from her descriptions, with a commitment that is nothing short of exacting. Visually, he captures the look of Poirot so well that it’s become definitive. In fact, many find Branagh’s subsequent take on Poirot disappointing because he doesn’t come as close as Suchet in approximating Poirot’s appearance and attitude.

But Suchet’s is an excessively mannered performance, particularly in early seasons. There’s a delicacy about it all, a sterility, a preciousness that makes Poirot feel like something of a museum piece. You feel the weight of all that research, and it takes a few seasons for it all to click, or at least it does for me. The plots in the early seasons also feel somewhat slight because they’re dominated by adaptations of the short stories rather than the novels. It’s a top-notch production, but I don’t so much love it as admire it.

What’s extraordinary about the series, and about Suchet’s performance, is the sheer breadth of it all. In twenty-four years, the series and Suchet take us through the entirety of the Poirot canon, save for a handful of short stories that Christie developed into other, more prominent works. We see Poirot (and Suchet) grow and change over time, especially in the later seasons when he can be quite fiery and passionate. And while twenty-four years is only about half of Poirot’s fifty-fiveyear literary presence, Suchet’s Poirot stands as an incredible journey for actor and audience. He’s magnificent. He’s just not my absolute favorite.

Albert Finney

MurderontheOrientExpress, 1974

Watch the trailer:

My favorite Poirot performance is the one that captivated me on that rainy afternoon so many years ago and still does today. MurderontheOrientExpress is a largely faithful adaptation of Christie’s original, painstakingly rendered. I remember being struck by the look of it, even as a kid. Directed by Sidney Lumet, with production and costume design by Tony Walton, it’s a sumptuous film; and it feels breathtakingly authentic. The attention to detail is meticulous. You can really feel those claustrophobic train compartments with their glossy lacquered woodwork; and it was easy for the 8-year-old me to imagine what it was like being stuck on that train, even if I hadn’t yet been on any train myself. Even the opening credits are lush: gold and black Art Deco letters superimposed over pink satin arranged and lit so beautifully that it looks almost like marble. And those letters spell out a true all-star cast, many of whom can be effectively identified by one name only: Bacall! Bergman! Connery! Gielgud! Redgrave! But first among equals, and the only one to appear out of alphabetical order, is the one who plays Poirot himself, the great Albert Finney.

Finney’s performance as Poirot is specific and unique. It not only suits the character; it brings him to vivid life. Finney’s Poirot holds his head precisely as Christie described, perpetually perched a little to one side, a position which makes his neck disappear almost entirely. His skin has an almost ghostly pallor, as though he has assiduously avoided the sun at all costs. His hair and mustache are a deep, inky, unnatural black, as glossy as the lacquered paneling of the train car; and both are brilliantined into ruthless submission. (Dame Agatha’s only quibble with Finney’s performance was that his mustache was insufficiently magnificent.) Finney’s Poirot is fastidious and fussy about his appearance almost to the point of absurdity. There’s even a fascinating sequence in which he goes through an elaborate bedtime ritual involving a hairnet, a mustache protector, lotions, a pair of gloves, and an imaginary violin.

Finney’s is not a comic turn, but it’s not devoid of humor. There’s a droll wit at the heart of his performance, which is consistent with the character Christie wrote. Take, for example, the moment when Poirot inspects the murder scene with Signior Bianchi (an Italianized version of the novel’s Monsieur Bouc, played by Martin Balsam) and Dr. Constantine (George Coulouris) and asks in singsong, “Bianchi, Doctor, have you noticed that there are too many clu-ues in this roo-oom?” He also has some obvious fun playing cat-and-mouse (and occasionally the straight man) with his suspects, such as in his interrogation with the Princess Dragomiroff (a fascinating Wendy Hiller), when he asks, “You never smile, Madame la Princesse?” Her reply: “My doctor has advised against it.”

With a train car of larger-than-life characters played to the hilt by largerthan-life celebrities, you could forgive Finney if he’d simply chosen to be the calm, neutral center of it all; but he does a good deal more than that. Only thirty-seven years old at the time of filming, Finney was far younger than Poirot, who had already retired from an illustrious policing career by the time of his first appearance in TheMysteriousAffairatStyles, some fourteen or fifteen years before Murder on theOrientExpress. Finney successfully inhabits the old-age makeup and bodycontouring padding, and he imbues the character with vitality and drive. His Poirot is on the hunt for a killer. He commands the screen and holds your interest, especially during the denouement in which he sums up the case in a monologue that lasts nearly 25 minutes.

Finney earned a Best Actor Academy Award nomination for his performance, and the film earned a total of six nominations, including Best Picture. Agatha Christie herself, who would die a little over a year after it was released, deemed the film one of the two best adaptations of her works (the other being Billy Wilder’s terrific Witness for the Prosecution from 1957, which has nothing to do with Poirot).

My initial idea in developing this piece was to align all these performances as a kind of Ship of Theseus, showing how the character of Poirot always endures despite the peculiarities and peccadilloes of individual performances. But what I discovered, in stringing together all these performances and the films that feature them, is that the truer example of the Ship of Theseus is not Poirot, but me. Because no matter how much I change over the years, whenever I revisit these movies and performances that I love so dearly, I am again and will forever be that eight-yearold curled up on the couch on a rainy afternoon, hoping one day he’ll solve a great mystery of his own.

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