There's at least one moment in "Death on the Nile," Kenneth Branagh's latest Agatha Christie adaptation, when what's on-screen brushes up uncomfortably against what's off-screen. Linnet Doyle, an enviably rich socialite taking a honeymoon cruise down the Nile River, has just been found shot to death in her stateroom; her husband, Simon, is an inconsolable wreck, sobbing noisily over her body. Watching this oddly strained, curiously revealing scene, I had to wonder why Simon's grief rings so hollow. Could it be because the character is presented, in both the movie and Christie's 1937 novel, as a dumb, opportunistic cad? Or could it have something to do with the fact that he's played here by Armie Hammer, the former Hollywood golden boy who stands accused by multiple women of sexual assault and abuse?
Some would doubtless prefer I glossed over that scandal, as if it were incidental or irrelevant to the movie's quality. Separate the art from the artist, or the product from the pretty face, or whatever. This is often easier said than done, depending on your ability to dissociate fiction from reality, even if that reality is disputed. (Hammer has denied the allegations.) I'm not too bad at it myself; compartmentalizing, much like suspending disbelief, is part of a critic's job and a moviegoer's prerogative. Still, it seems odd to sidestep the issue of Hammer's alleged misconduct when the film's own distributor clearly regards it as more than a minor inconvenience.
When the allegations against Hammer emerged last year, Disney reportedly considered reshooting his scenes with another actor, in much the same way that Christopher Plummer replaced the disgraced Kevin Spacey in "All the Money in the World." (That call was made by director Ridley Scott, a producer on "Death on the Nile.") In the end, the role of Simon Doyle was too prominent, and Hammer's interactions with the rest of the ensemble too extensive, to make such damage control feasible. And so, after multiple release-date delays — mostly chalked up to the pandemic, though you needn't be Hercule Poirot to suspect other motives — the film finally steams into theaters this week, reeking of damaged goods and seeking an audience that won't mind. It may well find that audience, especially among those who ate up its predecessor, "Murder on the Orient Express."
