My sister and I have been watching old Hercule Poirot movies lately, as Tom–only completely wrong in his movie opinions about 80% of the time–informed me of their existence. Most recently, we watched Death on the Nile with Peter Ustinov, and while I don’t have too much to say, I thought I’d at least write up a few, quick impressions, if only because I’d like to post something this week, and I’m not done with my next gender-swapped movie essay yet. (Spoilers: it’s about a highly regarded horror film with some seriously problematic elements.)
On to the Baby Review!
Lately, Mek and I have been on something of an Agatha Christie kick, so recently we checked out an adaptation of one of her novels–a novel, coincidentally, that neither of us have read: Crooked House.
There’s potential here. But there are some fucking weird directorial choices, too.
I read my first Agatha Christie novel when I was eleven. By now I’ve read dozens, and while I always enjoy them, most have long since blended in my head, like half-forgotten Friends episodes or various bad Christmases. Murder on the Orient Express, however, is one of those mysteries that you never forget the solution to.
That being said, my interest in Kenneth Branagh’s take on the classic novel was mild. Perhaps Imagine Dragons wasn’t quite filling me with confidence, I don’t know. Still, Mekaela and I are suckers for murder mysteries (she’s an even bigger Christie fan than I am), so it’s probably no surprise that we decided to check out the adaptation last week, despite some reservations.
And it’s . . . okay? It’s serviceable. But it could totally be better.