The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie

No actual spoilers to follow, fear ye not.

 I read a rather large number of Agatha Christie novels in my pre-teens and teens, but stopped well before I came of age. My memory of my teenage self's impressions is a feeling of being very impressed with the ingenuity of the plotting, but much less so with the prose and character- and of a certain irritation with what seemed to me to be a rather arrogant sense of class in a world of servants and cap doffing.

So, after reading this, not only Christie's first by my first read as an adult, have my impressions changed? Well... yes. Rather a lot, actually.

The plot is impressive. Not, perhaps, one of Christie's best, but early days. I don't usually correctly predict the villain in a whodunit but I did so here, basically by thinking metatextually. Still, the plot architecture was clever. 

More surprising was that I was rather impressed, if anything, by the prose and character. Christie is no Jane Austen, but she is superb at subtle insinuations and characterisation via lean and economical prose. She's great using the first person perspective of Hastings, both narratively and in those nicely humorous moments between him and Poirot which make it clear that the esteemed sleuth is patronising his somewhat thick colleague.

Finally... this is the young Christie, a young lady in her twenties, so she may have changed with age but I detected no class-based arrogance here- or at least not in terms of the authorial voice. Characters, of course, would naturally exhibit attitudes common to people like them in 1916, but we can't blame Christie for that. Indeed, I was rather impressed by the restraint of her authorial voice, allowing characters to define themselves. It's a subtlety of style that my teenage self perhaps failed to appreciate.

Plus, of course, the period of the novel has now receded thirty years further into the past, which may perhaps influence me to be less quick to judge the attitudes of the time but simply accept that this is an increasingly distant past.

Overall, then, a highly impressive novel. I'm left wanting more... 

 

Death on the Nile (1978)

 "Mon dieu, how she makes enemies of them all!"

I've read the novel, but it would have been around 1990-ish, so I wasn't expecting to remember much of the plot, and surely enough I didn't. So I was genuinely unspoiled for the big reveal. Nevertheless, I'll try and review this as a film rather than as Agatha Christie's original plot.

It's a very cinematic adaptation, shot on location at all the sights in Egypt as well as in rural England. The whole thing is exquisitely shot- particularly impressive is the first tracking shot of the dramatis personae all at dinner for the first time.

This isn't quite an all-star cast, but the star wattage is nevertheless relatively high, with no less a personage as Bette Davis in a middling sized role. David Niven is solid as the Watson figure, with Colonel Race giving some hilariously off colour views on those characters who deign to speak in a language other than English. Maggie Smith excels as a bitter woman in reduced circumstances, while Angela Lansbury is every bit as good as an amusingly sozzled romance novelist.

However... I'm not sure about Peter Ustinov as Poirot. It's not that there's anything wrong with his performance, he just feels miscast. He doesn't visually convince as Poirot, however well he may play the part. However, the overall performances are strong, and the film works superbly, helped by its awesome locations, in letting events play out dramatically, even if we do spend far too long on Poirot's explanation of how pretty much every character could have seen Jacqui shoot Simon through the window.

There are some fascinating moments here- a brief mention is made to a previous case involving a "decapitated clergyman". There's an unfortunate Indian stereotype. But overall this is a fine adaptation which plays the source material with a straight bat.

Black Coffee by Agatha Christie at the Little Theatre in Leicester

 I saw this excellent play last night, admittedly because a friend of mine is in it, but it was a thoroughly enjoyable experience. 

Agatha Christie, as I have said many time, cannot be matched in terms of whodunit plotting, yet her prose and characterisation are lacking to the point that it is not Christie but Margery Allingham who is the Queen of Golden Age Crime Fiction.

Yet Christie’s work can nevertheless shine where actors can provide characterisation that the words on the page do not. And that is the case here. The cast is uniformly excellent, filling their performances with subtle mannerisms and line deliveries that add so much.

The set is particularly excellent, too, in a play based around a single room. And the MacGuffin- a formula for a new type of devastating atomic explosive- is quite an arresting idea for 1930.

If there are any tickets left, I would heartily recommend scrapping them up.

Why Didn't They Ask Evans?- Episode Two

 "We have to have blood. Blood is of the essence."

I havew no idea wha's going on, butb I'm loving this. This is Agatha Christie done right- Bob fumbling after the truth, Frankie being rather more successful but in sexy outfits to boot- with a compelling mystery that seem to become less and less clear even as Hugh Laurie reveals himself as the dreaded and much heralded shrink whom everyone fears. This is all very between-the-wars and Freudian with its body horror fears of electric shock treatment. This is not what one expects of Christie.

This is superbly shot, acted, written, The confusions is palpable. It's a bug, not a feature. There seems to be authorial criticism of shock treatment, which is a very good thing. The plot is fast-paced, intriguing, and mostly driven by the charismatic performance of Lucy Boynton as Frankie. The characters are fascinating, the mystery multi-faceted, the cliffhanger exciting.

I tentatively think the vicar might have done it…?

Why Didn't They Ask Evans?- Episode One

 "Do you have any balls?"

This is an interesting concept for what is the first original BritBox series I've blogged or, indeed, watched. Directed by Hugh Laurie, it looks amazing, with some very gorgeous direction of the Denbighshire coast. I like also how it immediately diagnoses and addresses the main problem wth Agatha Christie (look, no Poirot!) in her snobbery. This is addressed directly in making it clear that Frankie (Lady Frances) clearly cares not a lot about the relative inferiority of the clever but struggling vicar's son (Bob) she fancies. Yes, Bob himself is no horny handed son of toil, but the wider question is nicely addressed by the character of Dr Jones, a Welshman of very ordinary origins who os neveryheless treated as intelligent, wise, and very much to be respected.

This is an intriguing mystery, based on the intriguing mystery of a man falling from a Denbighshire cliff with the intriguing words "Why didn't they  ask Evans? with some intriguing items in his office. It's also an exploration of the seemingly wonderful Frankie- beautiful, incredibly witty, which we men find VERY sexy, and determinedly unsnobbish.

The mystery is intriguing. But so is the nuanced father/son relationship between Bob and his well-meaning vicar father Richard. So is the delightful romance between the lovely Frankie, more innocent than her wit implies, than him. I'm very intrigued, and this is tantalising stuff.

Poirot: The Adventure of the Clapham Cook

 "Ah, the stewed peaches! Quite!"

I've done the Granada Sherlock Holmes; why not make a leisurely start to Thames' Poirots? Incidentally, the Thames indent at the start gave me a nice nostalgic rush. ITV was a proper channel before the franchises were ruined in '91...

I've gone on record as saying I'm not an enormous fan of Agatha Christie. Her plots are as clever as their reputation, but she's a snob, and her prose and characterisation are not great. She is, in short, no Margery Allingham. However, I confess that my reasing of her novels, while extensive, was (ahem) a quarter of a century ago. I ought to revist one at some point.

However, I have to say that this episode bears out my prejudices somewhat. It's a well-made bit of telly, but the story upon which it is based is full of one-dimensional domestic servants and generally superficial characters. I suspect part of the reason this annoys me more than the Sherlock Holmes stuff is simply that, unlike the late Victorian setting of the other programme, this is set quite clearly in the 1930s, and the cars, clothing and general "look" are far less alien and more modern-looking, at least if one happens (just about) to remember a pre-digital world. There are no Hansom Cabs here. Also, the murder mystery is fine, but nothing special.

However, David Suchet is very good, and the woodenness of Hugh Fraser as Hastings probably owes as much to the character as the actor. I'll persevere, at least for a season.

Murder on the Orient Express (1974)

 “Trial by twelve good men and true... is a sound system

I have read, probably, more of Agatha Christie's ouevre than not, although all of it- and it startles me still that I should happen to be of an age to say this- not much less than thirty years ago. Her plots are of course unparallelled: writing in an age where the tropes of the whodunit were well-estabished, she subverted and played with them, and did so with unmatched cleverness. In that respect, she was a genius.

Alas... he characterisation and prose were bloody awful, and she kept her snobbishness  close to the surface of her writing. I, in turn, have become rather more of a prose snob over the last few decades. Functional prose I can cope with. Bad prose I cannot. I prefer Margery Allingham.

However, there are always screen adaptation, which provide the wonder of Christie's plotting without the pain of her prose. This is a particularly sublime example, with a cast to die for, partly- Lauren Bacall, Ingrd Bergman- from Hollywood's golden age. Yet Albert Finney is incrddible. At first, having known only David Suchet as a screen Poirot, I didn't want to like him. Hercule Poirot, unlike Sherlock Holmes, is not a part known for many actors. Yet Finney's subtle and mannered performance makes the film. So does Sidney Lumet's visually creative directing style which nevertheless serves the plot well, masterfully combining subtly sublime camerawork- the backstory of the baby at the strt is particularly well done- with clear storytelling.

Sadly, I remembered over the decades who killed the late Mr Ratchett, so I was unsueprised, and noticed a few of the clues. But this is a hugely successful and enjoyable adaptation.

Witness for the Prosecution (1957)

 "I am constantly sutprised that women's hats do not provoke more murders..."

This, like Agatha Christie's other play Mousetrap, is known for its twist ending: indeed, there is a voiceover at the end of the film begging us not to spoil it. I'm not necessarily always so fastidious, but on this occasion Christie's secret it safe with me, seven decades later.

I haven't seen the play, but I read a number of Agatha Christie novels in my youth. I recall her ingenious plots, but also her poor characterisation and unfortunate snobbery- good, but no Margery Allingham. That is not in evidence here, and the dialogue (deliciously delivered by the magnificent Charles Laughton and the sublime Marlene Dietrich) is rather witty. Am I misremembering Christie, or has the script had a bit of a polish?

Nevertheless, this is a triumphant film, and certainly the finest courtroom drama I have ever seen: I can see why Christie herself was so happy with Billy Winder's film. The cast (Tyrone Power is a bit of a weak link, but the two stars are magnificent, and there's a fine comic turn from Elsa Lanchester. It's also fascinating to see the workings of a Crown Court in the 1950s, at least via the medium of Hollywood.

The twists and turns are, of course, sublime, and to say that the ending packs a huge punch is a real understatement. This is quite up there with the great twist endings. Yet beyond this we have a triumph of writing, direction and performance. Sublime.