Murder on the Orient Express

Poor Kenneth Branagh. First, Taika Waititi comes along and makes his direction of the first Thor film look misguided and amateurish, then his passion project — and putative Poirot franchise starter, Murder on the Orient Express — takes a dismal third at the box office and meets with critical ambivalence (this critic included).

While I’m a fan of the Agatha Christie source material and carry a healthy respect for both Sidney Lumet’s 1976 production and the 2010 David Suchet-starring version, Branagh’s latest interpretation bears a distinct touch of the superfluous. That being said, the most recent Poirot to grace cinema screens does warrant a tempered recommendation on the basis of a particularly bombastic performance from Branagh, a dynamite (though underutilized) supporting cast and a visually striking period setting. Still, it never quite elevates itself beyond the cinematic limitations of its source material and inevitably falls prey to the self-aggrandizing narcissism of its director/star.

This is predominantly a film about people sitting in a train car talking — with the train being immobilized for a decent chunk of the second act — so it was obviously never going to be a dynamic piece of cinéma pur. But somehow Branagh’s direction manages to be simultaneously staid and uncomfortably heavy-handed, with his camera setups ranging from the merely mundane to the excessively extravagant. But how do you take material better suited to a novel or play and make it visually interesting beyond adding elaborate set dressing? The logical answer would be that you can’t, but the perennial Hollywood answer is that you simply stack the deck with an ensemble cast.

Branagh does so, but to a point that surpasses the demarcation of diminishing returns; his cast is so good that he stifles their capacities by trying to find room for each to shine while still devoting absurd amounts of attention to his own OCD interpretation of Poirot, faulty Belgian accent and all. The result is a film in which the actors feel shortchanged at every turn, even as they’re given ample screen time (if not scenery) to chew. Daisy Ridley is a solid and engaging presence, Dame Judi Dench does imperious like nobody’s business, and Michelle Pfeiffer steals every scene she’s in. But Penelope Cruz gets the short end of the script stick, Willem Dafoe seems to be having fun with his brief scenes even if no one else is, and Johnny Depp is barely in this film at all — and that’s not even counting the distractingly bad performances (looking at you, Josh Gad).

I can’t speak highly enough of (most of) the cast, but I do feel that the limitations artificially placed on them by Branagh’s insistence on near-constant monologuing left me wishing he had brought in an outside director to help rein in his performance. His Poirot necessarily takes center stage, but it feels as if every other actor is competing for space along the fringes, fighting over the remaining crumbs of screen time. It might be easy on the eyes, but I’ll be damned if I can come up with any further justification for this film’s existence. That having been said, if you’re specifically in the market for an ensemble murder mystery this week, well, this is the only one. Rated PG-13 for violence and thematic elements .

Now Playing at AMC River Hills Classic 10, Carolina Cinemark, Grail Moviehouse, Regal Biltmore Grande, Epic of Hendersonville.