Consider Branagh’s wonderful take on Hamlet. Branagh steers away from Olivier’s canonical, Best Picture-winning interpretation at every turn, both in visual construction and storytelling. To my eyes and ears, he pays more respect to the totality and multitudinousness of Hamlet (the character and the play) than Olivier. But it puts Branagh’s adaptation in an uncomfortable, challenging position: It simultaneously rewards (even presumes) a familiarity with the source and its well-regarded renditions, while bristling against precedent in a way sure to perturb those who love those previous adaptations. That’s why, I think, most of his literary adaptations inspire mixed review and scathing Letterboxd screeds from English majors. It takes a certain open-mindedness to reconcile Branagh’s devotion to the source with the way his interpretation thumbs its nose at the assumptions of its audience.

We see this cycle repeat itself in his adaptation of Agatha Christie’s second-most-famous mystery story (behind And Then There Were None, as we like to call it these days). Murder on the Orient Express is not a violation of Christie’s novel, but it does intentionally push against many of the expectations that viewers familiar with the novel and past adaptations would likely bring. And that, I think, is the root of the very mixed reception and legacy of this rather striking and bold mystery film.

Start with the tone: Christie’s prose style is dry, bordering on snarky and aloof. Thus, Hercule Poirot (Branagh) is easy to read as the same. But Branagh plays him as introspective and quirky and intense, revealing more homage to Sherlock Holmes than you might expect from the novel or from Sidney Lumet’s 1974 adaptation starring Albert Finney. Branagh the actor is a particular contrast to Finney, who played Poirot as a harried cartoon, whereas Branagh renders Poirot as a man whose compulsion to solve mysteries is a wearying burden, a mirror of all men trying to find order in this chaotic world.

Branagh sets you up to know he’s doing things his own way in the first few minutes with a literal horse shit joke that serves a few purposes: First, it’s a slight bit of audience alienation — all you Poirot lovers will find my spin irreverent and almost impish, Branagh declares. But it has symbolic purpose, too: life is messy and stinky. This gag also reveals Branagh’s take on Poirot’s OCD-like obsession with order even when it’s self-defeating — a second step in poop makes a bigger, unnecessary mess, but it keeps the balance.

I’m not the first to observe that this Murder on the Orient Express actually plays as the ultimate Hercule Poirot film. I mean “ultimate” in the sense of “final” (an elegiac, end-of-an-era, cusp-of-war tone pervades the film) and in the sense of “heightened,” particularly in its themes. Christie’s entire oeuvre comprises cozy, puzzle box mysteries. Yet this Murder on the Orient Express is all about how violent crime is not a simple puzzle to be solved by a logician, but a fracturing of the human soul that ripples outward. The very nature of Poirot’s purpose as detective is investigated. Justice becomes impossible once ruptured by cruelty. An eye for an eye; two boots in shit; a bleaker world.

The result is by far the most fascinating and rich Poirot story I’ve ever encountered in text or on screen. Branagh’s absolutely outstanding performance as Poirot aids significantly in this. I haven’t seen enough of Branagh’s acting to definitively declare this a career acting highlight, but it definitely has my consideration as such at the moment, even over Hamlet. He captures a spiritual exhaustion in Poirot without sacrificing the tics that made him such a memorable and fun detective to follow. (Although… I can’t believe I’m saying this, but the makeup designers got maybe 10% carried away on the mustache. Who knew too much mustache on a Poirot was even possible.)

I’m a little more mixed on Branagh’s direction than his acting, though I still like it quite a bit. He simply refuses to let the film devolve into medium eye-level shots of people talking on a train. I’d even say he over-directs the film: Just let us hang with the cast for a few minutes, my man! But the result is much more dynamic and unpredictable as a visual object than you’d expect of a cozy mystery. It’s kinetic, even. The story boils down to a couple dozen conversations, and yet the camera is flying high and low, close and far. The blocking is unconventional and engaging. We get extended tracking shots of characters peering through the grid of train windows, subtly reminding us that each time we meet a character, we’re getting just a small glimpse into their lives. Branagh even throws two or three little action scenes in there to shake the film out of its rhythm. This is unconventional for Christie adaptations, but small and well executed enough not to be a distraction.

The production is excellent, too. The early 20th century costume work is delightful. The snowy exteriors have a little bit of CGI gloss to them, but provide good contrast to the shadowy interiors. The color grading is intense, full of mahogany colors and glowing skin tones. Like the direction itself, the production is a little bit much, but very good.

Of course, half the fun of any mystery story, and particularly Murder on the Orient Express, is the cast of suspects. This adaptation delivers a lot of star power, with everyone delivering solid performances. Familiar faces include, in no particular order, Daisy Ridley, Michelle Pfeiffer, Johnny Depp, Olivia Colman, Judi Dench, and plenty more. My favorite minor turn is Dafoe as a doctor with a shady past, though it’s never a surprise when he elevates the surrounding material. Pfeiffer delivers on a really meaty role. Penelope Cruz really charmed me with a performance that makes great use of her wonderfully expressive eyes.

Murder on the Orient Express is handsome, satisfying, and occasionally perplexing. I’m not even sure how I’d react to it in a vacuum, without knowing Branagh is its architect. But Branagh once again challenges the audience to expand their understanding of an iconic piece of literature, and once again delivers greatness that increases my appreciation of both the source and the director.

And I can safely say a lot more clicked into place watching this version than Olivier’s handsome 1948 film. How much of that is due to watching a filmed version of the play for the second time in less than a week, and how much of that is simply testament to Branagh’s excellent production and staging, is tough to say. But I must have uttered “OHHhhh” a dozen times. Ironies and mirrored character arcs really stood out this second time through. For example: no fewer than three wayward sons are seeking vengeance for sins against their father in very different ways. Me: “OHHhhh.”

It is frankly an overwhelming adaptation, but in a good way. Hamlet’s story is a tapestry of men and women and institutions reckoning with death. The characters are in an ongoing struggle between performance and inner truth. And it’s all set here in an opulent and disorienting palace: Patterns of black and white like the columns of Siena Cathedral have a dizzying effect, just as Hamlet is existentially disoriented. The film’s real tour de force is the set design of the palace hall: a mirror-bound space in which half the mirrors are secret compartments; schemes and revelations and turmoil take place in the main hall and just as consequentially in these side corridors, as if the setting is a metaphor for Hamlet’s brain and its digressions and multitudes.

Branagh’s direction is arch and dramatic, occasionally dipping into flamboyance. But it is overall quite appealing and well-earned: Hamlet is certainly not a subdued narrative, so Branagh’s over-the-top canted angles and close-ups and general visual aggressiveness is quite apt. That said, there is the occasional off-putting showiness or ugliness, none sticking out worse than the obvious green screen just before the intermission.

In more ways than one, Branagh makes the opposite adaptational decisions that Olivier made in 1948. Where Olivier’s film’s spaces are abstract and illusive, Branagh’s world is unceasingly physical and clearly lit, the busy production design serving as a textural opposite to Olivier’s spare shadows. Branagh makes no doubt of the three-dimensionality of his Elsinore, whereas Olivier’s is always subservient to the flat proscenium.

Branagh’s interpretation of the text is a divergence from Olivier’s as well: Branagh strongly downplays the Oedipal undercurrents of the story. His protagonist is unhinged and falling apart at the seams, Hamlet’s “insanity” much more abrasive than Olivier’s cocksure steadiness. His romance with Ophelia is explicitly spicy, and his “to be or not to be” more introspective.

The cast is almost without blemish. Certainly no one is actively dragging down the material, and several actors are elevating it: Kate Winslet’s Ophelia is incendiary (and if I must continue comparing back to Olivier’s film, such a better rendition of the character it’s almost funny); Derek Jacobi carries Claudius with complexity (though I admit I wish he brought more menace); and about a thousand small performances nail their role with gusto (I’ll never say no to Timothy Spall). Plenty of the castings border on gimmicky, but rarely do they take you out of the moment (though I admit Robin Williams did, despite playing Osric the poorly-dressed guard straight).

Branagh himself is a curious case; while he brings more thought and vulnerability to the title character than Olivier, he’s still 35 years old, looking not a year younger. More than ever, I believe a casting requirement should be that the actor would get carded at a bar. He also brings all his Branagh intensity to the performance: nothing is half-assed, which means we get a LOT of raving and shouting across four hours. His version of Hamlet’s possibly-put-on insanity is a bipolar mania, which honestly aligns quite well with the text even if it requires some endurance to watch. It is, without question, a good and rich performance by someone who deeply understands and loves the material; I feel elucidated, also tired.

More important than Branagh the title actor or even Branagh the director is Branagh the steward of Shakespeare to a modern audience: This is clearly a labor of love, Branagh’s brainchild and passion, and by bringing every line of Hamlet to life, he reveals the play to be such an overwhelming feast: of ideas deeply considered; of language richly formed; of inner lives developed and challenged; and of the human soul laid bare.