In this iteration[1] of Agatha Christie’s The ABC Murders (2018), we meet and follow a new version of Christie’s famous Hercule Poirot: he’s old, he’s despised by his adopted country’s police force, he’s uncertain, and he’s haunted by memories of people now gone – and a former occupation. Into this mix comes a series of murders which seem to revolve around incidents from his own past, around letters of the alphabet, around what almost seems to be madness. He treasures his quiet, and all the more when the police begin to wonder if Poirot, himself, might be the murderer.
In this maelstrom he finds he must battle his own weaknesses, following clues while sadly observing the flailings of those few who still remember him. This is not the Hercule from the popular TV series, so cocky and certain of himself. Now his deductions must take into consideration his own past, the fallibility of those memories, and whether or not he was a star detective, addicted to the celebrity – or a careful craftsman for whom this grim business is why he exists.
And we see the other end: the murderer, going about his grim business, yet all unconscious of it. Is the murderer suffering from Multiple Personality Disorder? Epilepsy? Madness? It’s a tricky business, trying to connect the murders to the pattern. Nor are his victims blameless themselves, and at one point I thought … but nevermind. I was wrong, but I invite you to be wrong on your own terms.
This is no light-hearted adventure, no light-hearted Murder on the Orient Express. This is grim all the way around. And not badly done.
1 Technically, this is a BBC TV series, but it comes in three hour long episodes following a single set of connected incidents, so to my mind it’s a movie. A single story, so to speak, of a non-episodic nature.
