Jonah Naplan   September 15, 2023

The adage that holds “one of them is lying” has not been portrayed nearly as scrupulously than through Kenneth Branagh’s simple but charming trilogy of Hercule Poirot mysteries. The director and star’s newest, “A Haunting in Venice,” is perhaps the best of his Agatha Christie adaptations to date, and builds upon what worked about his previous outings in “Murder on the Orient Express” and the equally enjoyable “Death on the Nile.” This time around, the esteemed detective is in, well, Venice, seemingly retired from his life of investigating. It’s all new settings, characters, and, most surprisingly, genres. In an ambitious sleight of trickery, Branagh attempts to not just balance the perverse levels of a whodunnit, but also a horror and gothic aesthetic. The resulting film is simultaneously the most human story Branagh has told, and the most fantastical—a neat trick.

Of course, the main draw of any Poirot mystery is Poirot himself, who’s always knowingly played to perfection by Kenneth Branagh. Branagh seems to be channeling a form of French-Shakespearean satire with this lovable character—part Friar Lawrence, part Orsino, all Prospero. His passive, all-business attitude is not so much Bressonian as it is a flourish of vigorous gravitas. The performance could be perceived as cartoony, but it lives more in a realm of self-seriousness that diverts the audience from lingering too long on any background subject in the fear of detracting the attention from the spotlighted thespian. Branagh plays in the sandboxes of what could be described as “old school” characterization—rambling on tangents, interrupting, cutting off his lines abruptly as if wielding a switchblade in one hand and an inhaler in the other. He is French, but not so much that Branagh can rely on stereotypes. Poirot is always the smartest person in the room; ruminating, contemplating, announcing, staying silent and listening. He asks questions of people and vice versa. He demonstrates patience, determination and thinking skills. In a group of ten, Poirot would likely be the wisest and also the most dashing, but not so much that it distracts from his business in the way that Roger Moore’s James Bond did in the manner of, say, “The Man With the Golden Gun,” “Live and Let Die,” and “Moonraker.” Suave Poirot may be, but if not in the mood, he’d also turn down a Château Mouton Rothschild.

Sporting a sick paintbrush mustache and a pair of blue eyes that gleam dangerously into your soul in his first scene, Hercule Poirot is called back to action by crime novelist Ariadne Oliver (Tina Fey), whose books have been shamelessly inspired by Poirot’s reputation as a detective, problem-solver, and avid globetrotter. Ariadne’s sales have recently declined, so she lures Poirot back into sleuthing, hoping to find content for her next book. “A Haunting in Venice” takes place in 1947, the same year, Ariadne posits, that American Halloween traditions were imported to Italy. Children dance and mingle in skeleton and nun costumes in the streets, frollicking and flirting, yippeeing and kay yaying. Poirot is coaxed to attend a seance at a creaky palazzo by Ariadne where he’s introduced to the epochal medium Joyce Reynolds (Michelle Yeoh), named after a precocious little girl from the film’s literary source material, Hallowe’en Party, one of Agatha Christie’s most rarely adapted stories.

Scoffing at the mere mention of supernatural beings, Poirot side-eyes in the corner as Reynolds attempts to communicate with the spirit of the murdered Alicia Drake (Rowan Robinson), teenage daughter of Rowena (Kelly Reilly), the palazzo’s owner. His suspects are a murderer’s row of terrific talent, each bringing something to the table when it comes to individual identity—a remedied solution pertaining to Branagh’s previous outings as Poirot and even some of the characters from Rian Johnson’s otherwise magnificent “Knives Out” franchise.

Wartime surgeon Leslie Ferrier (Jamie Dornan) suffers from severe PTSD, and struggles to form even simple thoughts; his brainiac son Leopold (Jude Hill, the brilliant lead from Branagh’s underappreciated semi-autobiographical tale, “Belfast”) lives in worlds way beyond his age; Rowena’s tragically driven housekeeper Olga Seminoff (Camille Cottin); Alicia’s former boyfriend who turns out to be a bit of a snoot, Maxime Gerard (Kyle Allen); and a pair of Mrs. Reynold’s psychedelic assistants, half-siblings Desdemona (Emma Laird) and Nicholas Holland (Ali Khan).

With this impressive ensemble, Branagh doesn’t miss when it comes to employing memorable character beats. More so than other murder mysteries, “A Haunting in Venice” feels refreshingly versatile and inclusive, reaching for the highest fruit per capita. This is, among other things, a meticulously grounded work. So complex with themes, characters, concepts, and truth is “A Haunting in Venice” that it seems logical on the fickle Hollywood Master’s part to trade in that resonance for the lack of a real plot, and less developed third act explanations than most murder mysteries I’ve seen this decade.

“A Haunting in Venice” is significantly more tightly pressed than its predecessors, running at a brisk 103 minutes, and impressively packing fodder into the bones of its subjects. But the problem is that this brief runtime—one that doesn’t overstay its welcome, and in return must prioritize what it does and doesn’t portray—is so focused on character beats, developing each suspect to thorough avail, that though the pieces of the murder(s) are, probably, anatomically credible, Poirot’s conclusion is far too rushed for us to really catch on; a considerable step down from “Death on the Nile.” This is a murder mystery less focused on the homicidal enigma, and more on the people it entails. So when Poirot finally gets to the juicy breakdown of the crime scene—always the most delicious part of any whodunnit—it doesn’t feel as earned as it should.

Yet Branagh makes up for it from a visual standpoint, always shooting the movie in a way that looks aesthetically interesting. Branagh’s camera is prone to interrogate both the characters and the location upon which they reside, capturing the claustrophobia of small spaces and the external splendor of large ones. But although the palazzo is supposedly a massive manor, we, as the audience, still feel trapped in a small space as Poirot chains the exits shut and proclaims that no one is to leave until he figures things out. Most scenes focus on faces, pained and exasperated, eyes darting desperately around; and moments of action are filmed with Dutch angles or are shot upside down or with a fisheye lens. Similar techniques were used in Branagh’s “Thor” from 2011, but the content feels more fitting here than in that bland comic book venture.

“A Haunting in Venice” very loosely pulls ideas from its source material—a plotpoint here and there, an idea, a theme, etc—handing most of the divine decisions over to Branagh and his team of creatives. The way the filmmakers delve into different genres—one foot in thriller, the other in supernatural horror—is reminiscent of the old-school Branagh that had his heart equally torn between theater and the cinema. “A Haunting in Venice” is a movie full of jumpscares, set-ups, pay-offs, and spiritual conspiracy, and most of it is done with enough marrow to satisfy. Of course, this inevitably endangers its box office success, as the target audience for other Poirot mysteries may not want to see horror in their whodunnit, and teens may not want to see whodunnit in their horror.

But anyone who identifies as “middle ground” will marvel at the ingenuity in which Branagh packs character, scares, and plot into his narrative at a ridiculous pace. It is unnerving to see his subjects interact, as they bubble and fizz against one another, yet it’s unfortunate to see that for such a great population, the palazzo never plays as big of a role as it should, an atmosphere lacking perpetual depth. Whatever space “A Haunting in Venice” occupies is filled out by the people who occupy it, and never exactly the supposed demons, apparitions, and eventually, murderer. Branagh squeezes as many scares as he can out of the supernatural aspects of the movie (and believe me, they are plentiful), sacrificing the taut atmosphere in which the movie takes place.

Still, his ambition is impressive, and the ensemble is rough around the edges, communicating their sorrow, grief, and longing for a greater purpose than just sitting around doing nothing at all. Though it wraps up too neatly, and the genres percolate in barely enough directions, the mere thought makes it seem like a fluke.

Now playing in theaters.