Rupert Grint as up-and-coming Scotland Yard detective Crome is a bit out of his depth as a foil for Malkovich, but he was admirably disambiguated from Ron Weasley, and that ain’t nothin’. Luckily for Phelps and director Alex Gabassi, they had an abundance of talent to work with, and John Malkovich’s weary, washed-up, world-on-shoulders Poirot is extremely well-crafted, consistent and enjoyable to watch. It relies on chain-yanking and button-pushing and it lacks thrust. I’m not clutching my pearls over sex, guns, swears, drugs, or everyone being required to have an Axis I psych disorder. It’s OK to do that, even if people tend to harbor funny little conservative impulses where cherished characters are concerned. This ABC Murders invents a backstory for Hercule Poirot that pretty much comes from outer space and then seizes control of the forward story. Provided you’re messing with it mindfully. Honestly, when you have a work of literature that gets adapted for film and TV every twenty minutes, adulterating is probably the best thing you can do. (And, unlike Phelps, I’m not making bank for adapting it, so… there’s that, too.) I am not saddled with fandom-baggage about Hercule Poirot, and have no impulse to be miffed that a character I spent hundreds of pages with is being adulterated. I am no more a diehard Agatha Christie purist than Sarah Phelps is.
It’s getting kind of hard to avoid the word “contemptuous.” The ABC Murders, which is coming to Amazon Prime from BBC, might be the laziest in a string of bewilderingly lazy Agatha Christie adaptations.
So it is with regret that I bring you this Emperor’s New Clothes Alert: I don’t get it. That they are a brilliant send-up, or takedown, of a great sacred cow, or a deeply needed rethink of a beloved oeuvre, or-something. I’d prefer to be able to say in good conscience that the spate of updated Agatha Christie properties (see also: And Then There Were None, Ordeal by Innocence) emanating from the brain of Sarah Phelps is… clever. Mes enfants: You know what I kinda hate? That thing where you’re forced to defend a stance you’d rather not be associated with.
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