Murder on the Orient Express (2017)

What makes Kenneth Branagh’s Murder on the Orient Express special is how unapologetically it luxuriates in classic, old-world mystery: a snowbound train, a gallery of suspicious strangers, and a detective who treats logic like a moral calling. Branagh’s Hercule Poirot is both showman and razor, and the film surrounds him with a wonderfully game ensemble (Michelle Pfeiffer in particular knows exactly how to purr and parry) while the camera drinks in Art Deco glamour, candlelit corridors, and wintry vistas with storybook polish. The vibe is elegant and theatrical rather than gritty, the kind of movie that invites you to savor every alibi and sideways glance as the tension tightens. If you prefer your crime stories messy and naturalistic, this may feel too polished, but if you want a handsomely staged whodunit that plays like a lavish night at the theater, it’s a thoroughly satisfying ride.

Kenneth Branagh’s Murder on the Orient Express clearly wants to be a classy, old-school whodunit—big stars, plush production design, and a Poirot who feels larger-than-life. The problem is that the movie can come off more like a glossy postcard than a gripping mystery, with style sometimes doing the heavy lifting where tension and character depth should be. If you’re hoping for a razor-tight, emotionally satisfying payoff, the final stretch may feel oddly rushed and less impactful than it thinks it is. Still, if you mainly want a handsome period ride with familiar Christie beats and a strong cast chewing scenery, it’s perfectly watchable—just don’t expect the definitive version of the story.