If you ever wanted to see an origin story about a moustache, well, you're in luck. In Kenneth Branagh's new Agatha Christie thriller Death on the Nile, the actor-director's super sleuth Hercule Poirot gets a portentous prologue to explain those fantastic follicles, because nothing – not even facial hair – escapes the modern screenwriting curse of the elaborate backstory. So much for mystery!
In truth, you can almost forgive the film for its hirsute obsession. Branagh's bombastic bristles – a multi-storied imperial 'stache that looks like a giant tarantula escaping his nostrils – were the most memorable part of 2017's largely flavourless Murder on the Orient Express, and they once again prove to have more screen charisma than most of the actors in this dreary, DOA sequel.
Originally slated for release back in 2019, Death on the Nile's endless, COVID-related delays meant Branagh had time to go off and make the Oscar-nominated Belfast, and he'll be relieved that it's the latter that's taking up the column inches. After spending five minutes in his vacuum-sealed Egypt, audiences may well yearn for the relative comforts of strife-torn Northern Ireland.
The film's bad luck was exacerbated, of course, by the gruesome allegations levelled against its star Armie Hammer, whose presence was largely obscured in the film's trailers. But unlike Murder on the Orient Express's then-scandalised headliner Johnny Depp, who was polite enough to expire in the first reel, Hammer is very much front and centre in the sequel.
As dashing chancer Simon Doyle, Hammer makes a swarthy, sexually charged entrance, slow-grinding co-star Gal Gadot's wealthy heiress Linnet Ridgeway in a swinging London nightclub in 1937 – much to the chagrin of his soon-to-be-ex, and Linnet's friend, the sultry socialite Jacqueline de Bellefort (Emma Mackey).
In no time the swooning new couple are holding a lavish wedding at a hotel on the Nile, a ceremony attended by the usual gallery of Christie eccentrics and aristocrats – including a seemingly vacationing Poirot, his confidant Bouc (a returning Tom Bateman), and the latter's wealthy, coddling mother Euphemia (a shamefully underused Annette Bening).
Like its predecessor, Death on the Nile is shot by Belfast cinematographer Haris Zambarloukos on 65mm large-format film, yet aside from the occasionally sparkling panorama the scenery may as well be Apple TV screensavers; the Egyptian locales look so patently fake that you'd swear the visual effects team were playing a practical joke on the production.
Throw in Gadot's already notorious, deliciously camp line reading – "Enough champagne… to fill the Nile!" – and the film has all the presence and appeal of a luxury cruise commercial.
Working from a script by Murder on the Orient Express and Jungle Cruise writer Michael Green, Branagh spends an interminable hour getting to know the wedding guests and their supposed intrigues, as the party sets off on a sightseeing cruise aboard a luxury steamboat wending its way down the Nile.
Despite the collective talents of the cast, each of the guests are typically reduced to two dimensions: among them the bride's rich, wannabe-communist godmother (Jennifer Saunders) and her live-in companion (Dawn French, reuniting with her old comedy pal); the bride's ex (Russell Brand); her cousin (Indian star Ali Fazal); and a travelling blues singer (Sophie Okonedo) and her niece (Black Panther's Letitia Wright), both of whom seem to exist primarily as romantic interests for Poirot and Bouc.
As the party-crashing jilted ex Jacqueline, Mackey gets to savour a few tasty morsels; but the film's most lively performance comes from a computer-generated crocodile snapping away at the edges of the frame.
Death on the Nile does gather some steam once one of the guests finally meets their end, and Poirot's hunt for the murderer steers the film into its classic whodunnit template.
Might the killer be a spurned lover of the deceased? Someone with a vested financial interest? One of the crocodiles, bored with gobbling up riverside pelicans for sport? (One can dream.)
Even if you're not familiar with Christie's mega-seller, which was famously adapted as an all-star 1978 film, it's a struggle to invest in a mystery where the characters are so flat, and so many of its actors appear to be going through the motions.
Death on the Nile won't be done any favours by the inevitable comparisons to Rian Johnson's hit Knives Out, a film that reinvigorated old detective mystery tropes via some knowing twists and loopy performances. Next to Daniel Craig's eccentric, Christie-inspired Benoit Blanc, Branagh's Belgian and his fruity affectations look pretty tame.
The star's lightness of touch was a welcome ripple in Murder on the Orient Express, but that twinkle has given way to a ponderous, unnecessary emotional backstory in the sequel. Where Murder at least had some fun gesturing at Poirot's penchant for precision in an imperfect universe, his character here is undermined by a contrived romance that – like so much else in this creaky, plasticky film – never quite comes to life.
Still, you have to admit that moustache is spectacular.
Death on the Nile is in cinemas now.
