Murder on the Orient Express (Dir. Kenneth Branagh, 1h. 44 m)

For all its stylish opulence, the fourth adaption of Agatha Christie's 1934 novel, and the second cinematic adaption, following through the snow in the deep footprints of the 1974 version, is a remarkably shallow thing, light on character, and bringing little new to the table than a bigger budget and even more tentpole stars than the original, a sillier moustache for Hercule Poirot, and some daring do on occasion for the Belgian detective. It's a chocolate box of a film; beautifully packaged and presented but essentially un-filling.

The moustache of Poirot, that famed, "stiff and military" "upward-curled moustache" is what defines the character physically, from David Suchet to Ian Holm. Branagh's version of the moustache, is, like most of the film, overblown. It stretches, like a slightly smug caterpillar, across Sir Ken's face, and looks, in a word, ridiculous. Almost as ridiculous is Branagh's accent, and indeed his whole portrayal of the Belgian detective strays dangerously close to farcical, giving hin both a here-and-there obsessive compulsive streak, and a strange trio of action scenes that seem to give the long wood walking stick as much of a work-out as the little grey cells. Nevertheless, Branagh manages to bring the charm of the detective to the fore occasionally, and certainly, in the scenes where he's detecting, and indeed interacting with the suspects are well executed, and very well shot-the scene in which the body of the unfortunate (or not so unfortunate) Ratchett is discovered is, for example, artfully shot from above, thus avoiding showing his body until Poirot enters his cabin.

The problems with the film increase as the film moves away from Branagh's spirited portrayal, and begin with Ratchett himself. Depp is an actor, (the entire worm-canning factory of his private life aside) who has spent the last decade of his career undoing the reputation of the previous twenty, and Orient Express is no different. Aside from his (surprisingly decent) accent, this is literally Johnny Depp sitting and eating, drinking and finally dying on a train, rather than a complex character-he's less in autopilot, more simply not bothering to even try and act. To top it off, his moustache is sillier than Branagh's.

And this is very much the course with most of the characters-most adaptions of Christie's work, after all, covers a span of episodes, rather than a single, under-two hour film, and thus, with a small number of exceptions, the film has neither the time, nor it seems, the inclination to actually care that much about great swathes of its cast. Daisy Ridley, Josh Gad and Broadway star, Leslie Odom Jr, are, at least, well-fleshed out and likable characters, but even they seem to be muted, with none of the cast of Oscar nominees and winners truly afforded the space or the time to bring life to their characters.

Equally, for a story so very focused upon the enforced intimacy of a railway carriage, the film's cinematography, whilst beautiful, whilst opulent, whilst shot on 65mm film, is often almost stereotypically travelogue - as though at a moment's notice, Monseiur Poirot will begin talking to camera about the route of the Orient Express, the quality of its seating and food - for all the luxury inside the carriage, the film seems insistent on sojourns outside, even after the murder has been committed, culminating in the film's silliest sequence in which Poirot chases one of his suspects through the structure of the bridge on which the train has stopped-it's a scene worthy of the nastiness of Hitchcock, not the gentile Christie.

Orient Express could have been uncomfortable, and close, and almost claustrophobic, taut, but Branagh's film is bloated, and yet somehow centreless, stylish, but without anything to contrast that style. Branagh's film, with its £140 million plus budget, sweeping vistas and starstudded cast thus fails to do what a mere television movie did-to stimulate the little grey cells with a truly thought provoking mystery.

Rating: Neutral.