"It is the psychology I seek, not the fingerprint or the cigarette ash."
There was always a pretty high floor for the 1974 adaptation of Murder on the Orient Express. Take one of Agatha Christie’s great murder mysteries, hand it to a consummate professional in Sidney Lumet, surround it with a cast packed full of stars and talent, and you’d basically have to work hard to screw it up. Unsurprisingly, Lumet and co. don’t. The film was a critical and commercial hit, netting six Academy Award nominations, including acting nods for Albert Finney as Poirot and Ingrid Bergman (who won), plus nominations for Paul Dehn’s adapted screenplay, score, cinematography, and costume design. It’s as polished and well-oiled as any prestige project of its era that I’ve seen.
In a way, the film now plays as a retroactive counterpoint to Kenneth Branagh’s 2017 adaptation, which I love. Where Branagh zagged toward dynamic energy and psychological investigation, Lumet steers straight down the middle lane. Just the facts. His Orient Express is sterling and orderly: an extremely handsome film assembled with pristine craft. The shots are beautiful, but mostly static. The performances are engaging, but restrained. This classic mystery unfolds with clear beats and stately rhythms, but no surprises. It’s a lovely piece of movie-making that is almost proudly conventional.
If there’s a fly in the ointment, it’s the moustache in the center of it all: Albert Finney’s Hercule Poirot. Finney goes big with the Belgian detective, playing him a bit like a mustachioed Muppet with whimsical energy and aloof overconfidence. It’s entertaining and easy to watch, sure, but Finney’s Poirot doesn’t seem to have much internal life. He’s all mannerisms and stage presence, no crackling darkness underneath that over-fuzzed upper lip. (Speaking of which, Christie herself reportedly grumbled that Finney’s moustache wasn’t nearly fabulous enough, a complaint Branagh overcompensated for in 2017.) It’s not the first time I’ve found Finney at odds with the surrounding material, and his performance puts a limit on my enthusiasm for the film.
The rest of the ensemble is rock solid, though. Lumet pulled in some all-timers: Lauren Bacall, Ingrid Bergman, Sean Connery, Vanessa Redgrave, John Gielgud, Anthony Perkins, and many others fill out the lineup of suspects. But with a cast that big, nobody leaves all that much of an impression. (We must consider Bergman’s win one of those unofficial lifetime achievement Oscars for just-fine work by aging legends.) Everyone gets a scene or two to inhabit a character, then politely retreats to let the next heavy-hitter take the screen. Nobody really disappoints, but the story simply doesn’t allow much room for anyone to pop. My favorite performance comes from Anthony Perkins, who finds a twitchiness and humanity in his role as murder victim Ratchett’s (Richard Widmark) secretary McQueen. (Or maybe I’m just Psycho-brained.)
Even more than my hesitations on Finney, what ultimately holds Lumet’s Orient Express back from greatness is its contentedness with the story as a mere puzzle box. And it is that, of course. But Christie’s novel, under its cozy veneer, also has some dark, philosophical grit. You might even call it an anti-mystery: It deconstructs the very idea of the justice and detective fiction itself. Every character has blood on their hands. Every alibi conceals a moral compromise. This puzzle isn’t just about finding the killer; it’s about confronting why humans even have laws and the ways we fracture as humans when those laws fail. Lumet’s film, while competently constructed, has little patience for picking at that scab.
Still, it’s a very handsome and polite whodunit. You find stories like this far more often on TV than in film, but they’re never this well-produced when they’re made for the small screen. The production design is first rate both in and out of the train, the costumes are attractive period outfits, and the snowy mountain train exteriors — filmed in real but unplanned snowfall — scratch one of my favorite cinematic itches: I love me a train on film. A train movie is always at least a little bit good by default. Lumet, too, nails the pacing. This is a two-hour movie that flies by, even more than Branagh’s shorter film (which feels longer thanks to its prologue).
Lumet’s Murder on the Orient Express is never less than satisfying in the moment: a polished, old-school entertainment that does exactly what it sets out to do. But it’s also a little safe, and therefore it slides off the brain. Sometimes that’s all you need a mystery story to do, but with Orient Express as with any of Christie’s cream of the crop, we know that more is possible.
Is It Good?
Good (5/8)
Dan is the founder and head critic of The Goods. Follow Dan on Letterboxd. Join the Discord for updates and discussion.