A dramatic shift, from glossy whodunnit to gothic horror, goes only so far in remedying the frustrating dreariness of Kenneth Branagh’s vision for big screen adventures with Hercule Poirot. A Haunting in Venice is a more interesting film than Branagh’s previous two, certainly, but still feels leaden. It’s another severe and somber affair, with little of the campy thrill at the heart of Agatha Christie’s best mysteries. A less starry ensemble ought allow for stronger character performances but does not. Haunting’s a fine looking film but never comes to life, even as the death count ramps up.
The film adapts not a ready-written favourite but bits and pieces from a less well known text, penned in Christie’s later years. In truth, there’s precious little of Hallowe’en Party in Michael Green’s shooting script. The names are the same and there’s a brief dalliance with apple bobbing but the canals of Venice feels a far cry from the thatch roofs of merry old England. There were a great deal fewer waterlogged dead girls wandering around in Christie’s original too. In this regard, Haunting lives up to its title. What with ghouls and jump scares left, right and centre, this is, far and away, Branagh’s most unsettling work since Frankenstein scalped Helena Bonham Carter.
If Venice wasn’t Christie’s destination of choice, the move certainly makes sense for Branagh’s vision. Gothic tonal inclinations and a clammy claustrophobia prove well matched for the city’s unique architectural structures. It’s also a boon for Branagh’s particular brand of cinematic trickery. If Murder saw the thesp turn the Orient Express into an elongated Cluedo board, Haunting renders Venice a rampant Hot Wheels arena. Every other shot veers wildly to the ceiling or floor and there’s a full three-sixty loop midway through. A sequence later in the film will see Branagh effectively manhandle his own camera front on. In truth, it’s all rather too meticulously done to thrill but it’s hard not to admire the technical skill.
As things begin, we find Poirot (Branagh) retired. Would-be clients hover hopefully at his door but win not a second glance. More successful is Ariadne Oliver (Tina Fey, talents wasted), the celebrated author who often featured in the books and subbed for Christie herself. Oliver fancies herself to have finally found the case even Poirot can’t crack. Michelle Yeoh sparkles as spooky psychic Joyce Reynolds who believes herself to have made contact with the recently deceased daughter of one time opera singer Rowena Drake (Kelly Reilly). There’s obviously more to young Alicia Drake’s suicide than meets the coroner’s report but when a chair-spinning seance leaves one dinner guest skewered atop a nearby statue, even Poirot begins to question the existence of planes beyond the tangible reality of our own world.
All told, the horror here no more convincing than the murder mystery is compelling. There’s nothing that will chill past the credits. Hints at otherworldly happenings do only to muddy the narrative and relegate the usual mix of motives and red herrings. Working out whodunnit has rarely been so easy and there’s little satisfaction in the eventual reveal. No sense of ta-dah!
Though less iconic than was David Suchet in the role, Branagh clearly enjoys donning the ‘tache. His final scene all but begs for a fourth round. Whether audiences will show up for it remains to be seen. There’s just no game to any of this.