Denial File: Spy Me a River

If you've been reading this blog for awhile, then you know that I'm a big fan of Agatha Christie.  Yet despite having read all her books, I hadn't seen a single movie adaptation.  So when Kenneth Branagh's version of Death on the Nile popped up on HBO, I knew I had my night's viewing sorted.

It's an old story (as old as 1937, in fact).  Wealthy, beautiful, and young honeymooners Linnet (Gal Gadot) and Simon (the disgraced and disgraceful Armie Hammer) set off on a luxury cruise down the Nile.  Although they're surrounded by supposed well-wishers (Annette Bening and Russell Brand among them), one of their party is a killer, and it's up to Hercule Poirot (Kenneth Branagh) to catch him.  Or her, crime being an equal opportunity employer.

Like all Christie classics, Death on the Nile highlights the ever-intriguing theme of British propriety and elegance pitted against the sordid business of murder.  It fascinates me that ladies and gentlemen who wouldn't be caught, ahem, dead without a hair or cuff link out of place think nothing of sullying themselves to take a life.  It's disturbing to consider that we may all be an inheritance away from doing the same, dismantling the delicate smokescreen of this construct called society.  That said, there are elements in the movie that seem out of place in a tale otherwise imbued with Christie's reserve.  For one thing, I figured out the murderer right away, and when I'm reading, I never figure it out at all.  Yes, I had read this book, albeit twenty years ago.  But even if I hadn't, I think I still would've known.  Because it's a movie.  And everything is laid out and exaggerated, from Simon's suggestive dance moves to Poirot's outing of characters' various side hustles (blackmail, embezzlement, jewel theft, etc.).  By contrast, Christie's books, both in general and this one in particular, are nuanced, everything hinging on the minutest of details, making you work to put it all together but still come up short because you weren't privy to the fact that Lord Chesterfield had a secret second cousin or whatever.

Then there's Poirot himself.  In the books, he's always a bystander.  Impeccably dressed and brilliant, but a bystander nonetheless.  We don't know about his personal life, nor do we care.  He's there to see that justice is served, and that's it.  Yet his character in this movie is different.  Not only does he get a dramatic backstory that reveals the origin of his famous mustache, but one of the suspects becomes his love interest.  Sacré bleu indeed!  Despite his taking note of the odd pretty girl in the books, it never goes any further than that and, as a result, I've always thought of him as firmly asexual.  

So.  Once the credits rolled, I knew there was nothing for it except to return to the scene of the crime.  That's right.  I cracked open my old copy of Death on the Nile.  Literally.  Ancient Egypt's got nothing on this paperback; the cover snapped off when I opened it.

Now, over the years, I've reread many beloved books, but never a mystery.  And I don't recommend it.  Although it was satisfying to confirm that I wasn't wrong, that the book did have a subtlety that made it more surprising and satisfying than the movie, the fact remained that I now knew how it would end.  And that took all the magic out of it.  Also, subtle or not, it seemed kind of shameful that I hadn't been able to figure it out the first time.  

If I'm hard on Branagh as a filmmaker, then I'm even harder on myself as a reader.

Anyway, despite being a Poirot purist and listing these seeming cinematic criticisms, I enjoyed Death on the Nile, the movie.  It was lovely to look at and offered a new perspective on the story, one untainted by my own biases.  Also, I got a kick out of seeing Russell Brand in a role so serious that I had to IMDb him to check.  The movie was different from the book but not bad, and that, perhaps, was as it should be.

In other words, you can reread a book, but you can't go home again.  

But you can always go to the movies.