This piece was written during the 2023 WGA and SAG-AFTRA strikes. Without the labor of the writers and actors currently on strike, the movie being covered here wouldn’t exist.
Poor Kenneth Branagh. Here he was, all set to maybe resurrect the whodunit genre, with a decent Murder on the Orient Express adaptation, and Death on the Nile with an intimidating cast on the way in 2019. Well, one Rian Johnson detective, one pandemic, and a completely horrible redefining of the “intimidating” cast, and Hercule Poirot has been lost in the shuffle, stuck in the “fun but forgettable” category. A Haunting in Venice continues the forgettable trend, which I thought was impossible to do with Venice and Michelle Yeoh, but here we are.
Like Kenneth Branagh after Death on the Nile, his Hercule Poirot has also self-imposed himself in exile in Venice, content to wither away in the shadows. But a detective that famous is going to have famous friends, including novelist Ariadne Oliver (Tina Fey), who’s been in a rut and requires Poirot’s assistance. Oliver has seen a famous medium, Joyce Reynolds (Michelle Yeoh), whom Ariadne’s convinced is real, and smelling some inspiration, she drags Hercule to the next seance. Not just any seance mind you: it’s on Halloween. In a really creepy house owned by recently childless Rowena Drake (Kelly Reilly). Surrounded by fidgety doctors (Jamie Dornan), weird children (Jude Hill), and disgruntled help (Camille Cottin and Vitale Portfoglio). What could go wrong with so many wildcards in the mix?
At least Branagh the director is having more fun than the previous Agatha Christie adaptations. For A Haunting in Venice, he goes for a more dour, scary route. This movie feels closer to a horror movie than a detective caper, as Branagh unleashes stuff we’d expect in supernatural thrillers, disorienting the audience. There was more than one time I was caught off guard by a creepy jump scare or a very disturbing image even for a PG-13 movie. And in general, for what it’s worth, I never figured out the ending until the big Poirot speech, so props to the director for his misdirects, parakeets, and rooftop terraces. Or are those misdirects I’m feeding you? You’ll have to see to find out.
The big let down here is how empty everything feels, because most of the cast doesn’t quite gel for a movie like this to really pop. Only Kelly Reilly and Jude Hill really do something interesting that totally fits the story Branagh wants to tell. Jamie Dornan and Tina Fey’s choices are good on paper but in practice don’t work. The rest of the supporting players support too readily, as they drift into the background and the back of the audience’s mind, but not in a good way. And poor Michelle Yeoh doesn’t get enough time to really captivate the audience with her performance. The movie in the end is about waking Poirot up from his life slumber, sidelining the rest of the actors at the movie’s expense too often.
Well, at least Branagh’s got one thing right: keep switching locations. Go to Asia next. Or maybe the US. Or South America. If we must keep seeing Hercule Poirot, at least give us a new locale so we can plan our trip while we’re waiting for something great to happen in the next Agatha Christie adaptation. I still think time traveling to meet with Benoit Blanc is your best bet, science be damned.