Flying back from London, I had an empty seat next to me but the other two seats in the row were taken up by a young, blond, British couple who had that flat monotone London accent that's kind of nasal and drives me nuts. So instead of reading, I decided to watch some movies, with earbuds to drown them out. Don't cost anything but time on a plane, right?
First up -- Kenneth Branagh's Murder on the Orient Express. I'd avoided it because of that amazingly dumb mustache Branagh has Hercule Poirot sporting. He's also 20 years too young for the role. but I figured, "How bad could it be?"
VERY.
The story is exquisite Agatha Christie. An American businessman is stabbed to death in a locked sleeping berth on a luxury train. Turns out he was an infamous criminal and, bit by bit, it's revealed everyone on the train had a connection to a hideous crime he committed. It's up to Hercule Poirot to solve the case.
Nice and straightforward...and done beautifully, before...so how the hell could the script be damn near incoherent? I've read the book and seen the Sydney Lumet version, and I had trouble following it. Then there's Branagh's direction -- rather than helping to reveal the story and characters, he goes out of his way to obscure them and even adds flourishes to remind you that he's directing this film. Like the overhead shot as they discover the body...that never shows the body. This was surprising, because he's done some elegant work in the past.
Next is the casting...and changing of the original characters (not to mention attitudes of the times) to suit that casting. Like having a black actor play the doctor and be having an affair with a white woman. But worst of all was the ridiculous denouement. Poirot gets SHOT...to no real physical effect! He still jumps around like an acrobat, and has the suspects lined up at a table in a tunnel in wintry mountains in order to almost dance about and tell them he knows what's going on and who the killer is.
If I'd paid a buck for this, I'd have asked for my money back.
Next up -- Love, Simon. A nice gay coming out story...which was really an outing story, because the main character doesn't come out, it's revealed that he's gay in a vicious posting on the school chat forum and is forced to tell his family...all with no honest repercussions. His father even apologizes for not already knowing. Jesus. Then the whole school cheers when he finds love...with one of his good friends...about whom we are supposed to believe he didn't know a very important detail. A lot of gay people are wild about this film, and I don't get it. Beautiful Thing and Weekend are a hundred times better and far more honest.
Last was Three Billboards outside Ebbing, Missouri. A woman whose daughter was raped and murdered demands to know why there's been no arrest and sets in motion events that turn brutal and tragic. This one, I liked because it took events to their logical conclusion, most of the time...including the inconclusive ending, which apparently has been a point of contention to many. The acting was uniformly top notch, with Frances McDormand and Sam Rockwell earning their Oscars.
There were a few points that irritated...like a black cop showing up and refusing to hand over paperwork to the white cops to prove he's been assigned to the town's police force; black people get shot for that kind of shit. And I've been to St. Louis and Kansas City, both pretty damn flat areas, as is most of Missouri; I don't recall any high-hills in that state. Turns out it was shot in North Carolina...and looks it...so why not just set it there? But those didn't really detract from the total package.
This evening, I watched a year-old Episode of Midsomer Murders -- Death by Persuasion -- that was nice enough. But the reason I watched is, I've developed something of a crush on Nick Hendrix, who plays the lead detective's sidekick...which is shocking, to me. He looks like a typical English lad and doesn't have 1/10 the charisma of Russell Tovey, on camera, but I'd be happy to chase him. Man, you never know what's going to hit you from where, when it comes to attraction.
So now I'm almost back to normal, whatever that is, and about to make my own kind of magic.
First up -- Kenneth Branagh's Murder on the Orient Express. I'd avoided it because of that amazingly dumb mustache Branagh has Hercule Poirot sporting. He's also 20 years too young for the role. but I figured, "How bad could it be?"
VERY.
The story is exquisite Agatha Christie. An American businessman is stabbed to death in a locked sleeping berth on a luxury train. Turns out he was an infamous criminal and, bit by bit, it's revealed everyone on the train had a connection to a hideous crime he committed. It's up to Hercule Poirot to solve the case.
Nice and straightforward...and done beautifully, before...so how the hell could the script be damn near incoherent? I've read the book and seen the Sydney Lumet version, and I had trouble following it. Then there's Branagh's direction -- rather than helping to reveal the story and characters, he goes out of his way to obscure them and even adds flourishes to remind you that he's directing this film. Like the overhead shot as they discover the body...that never shows the body. This was surprising, because he's done some elegant work in the past.
Next is the casting...and changing of the original characters (not to mention attitudes of the times) to suit that casting. Like having a black actor play the doctor and be having an affair with a white woman. But worst of all was the ridiculous denouement. Poirot gets SHOT...to no real physical effect! He still jumps around like an acrobat, and has the suspects lined up at a table in a tunnel in wintry mountains in order to almost dance about and tell them he knows what's going on and who the killer is.
If I'd paid a buck for this, I'd have asked for my money back.
Next up -- Love, Simon. A nice gay coming out story...which was really an outing story, because the main character doesn't come out, it's revealed that he's gay in a vicious posting on the school chat forum and is forced to tell his family...all with no honest repercussions. His father even apologizes for not already knowing. Jesus. Then the whole school cheers when he finds love...with one of his good friends...about whom we are supposed to believe he didn't know a very important detail. A lot of gay people are wild about this film, and I don't get it. Beautiful Thing and Weekend are a hundred times better and far more honest.
Last was Three Billboards outside Ebbing, Missouri. A woman whose daughter was raped and murdered demands to know why there's been no arrest and sets in motion events that turn brutal and tragic. This one, I liked because it took events to their logical conclusion, most of the time...including the inconclusive ending, which apparently has been a point of contention to many. The acting was uniformly top notch, with Frances McDormand and Sam Rockwell earning their Oscars.
There were a few points that irritated...like a black cop showing up and refusing to hand over paperwork to the white cops to prove he's been assigned to the town's police force; black people get shot for that kind of shit. And I've been to St. Louis and Kansas City, both pretty damn flat areas, as is most of Missouri; I don't recall any high-hills in that state. Turns out it was shot in North Carolina...and looks it...so why not just set it there? But those didn't really detract from the total package.
This evening, I watched a year-old Episode of Midsomer Murders -- Death by Persuasion -- that was nice enough. But the reason I watched is, I've developed something of a crush on Nick Hendrix, who plays the lead detective's sidekick...which is shocking, to me. He looks like a typical English lad and doesn't have 1/10 the charisma of Russell Tovey, on camera, but I'd be happy to chase him. Man, you never know what's going to hit you from where, when it comes to attraction.
So now I'm almost back to normal, whatever that is, and about to make my own kind of magic.
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