A HAUNTING IN VENICE

A dull reboot of an old Agatha Christie mystery by Kenneth Branagh is a thriller that’s desperately seeking spooky goosebumps.

BY REX REED ILLUSTRATION BY TOM BACHTELL

RUNNING TIME: 1 HOUR, 43 MINUTES

RATING: 2 stars

Kenneth Branagh has this obsession about rebooting the old Agatha Christie films, to nobody’s advantage. So far all of the originals are far superior.

The 1974 version of Murder on the Orient Express, directed by Sidney Lumet with a cast that included Lauren Bacall, Ingrid Bergman, Vanessa Redgrave, Sean Connery, and Anthony Perkins (to name a few of the starry participants), was several eons above and beyond Mr. Branagh’s dull remake. The same is true of John Guillermin’s Guillermin’s 1978 Death on the Nile, with Bette Davis, Angela Lansbury, Maggie Smith, and David Niven. But Mr. Branagh won’t learn his lesson or leave well enough alone. I guess he will keep going, one by one, until he ruins them all.

Now we get something called A Haunting in Venice, with the misguided Shakespearean not only directing but once again starring as the famous Belgian detective Hercule Poirot. Mr. Branagh is no Peter Ustinov, who originated the role, or Albert Finney, who played him later. He has no humor and no heart, and his films have no thrills and no suspense.

This time he comes huffing and puffing his way out of retirement in Venice to investigate a possible haunting in the mansion of Rowena Drake (Kelly Reilly), a wealthy woman who wants to communicate with her dead daughter Alicia (Rowan Robinson).

The annoying lack of intrigue in the dull and talky screenplay by Michael Green never bothers with such a thing as character development. That would have made it a better movie.

Based on Agatha Christie’s obscure minor novel Halloween Party, it focuses on Poirot and a mystery novelist (a miscast Tina Fey), neither of whom believe in the existence of the supernatural, but things get complicated when the psychic conducting the séance (a wasted Michelle Yeoh) becomes possessed by the ghost of Alicia, even talking in the girl’s voice. Then someone gets murdered and Poirot has to return to his role as super-sleuth to find the killer.

Unfortunately, Mr. Branagh continues to make a poor, witless Poirot and his weak direction loses steam quickly.

The murder mystery part is neither fun, gripping, or scary enough to sustain interest as it leads up to a convoluted third act. It’s a thriller sorely lacking in spooky goosebumps. The only strengths here are the film’s luxurious design, camera work, and lighting. If it tried harder to bring the people to life instead of the period furniture, and concentrated less on the weird camera angles, it might be more tolerant. (There’s even a long, pointless and baffling shot of Poirot walking from room to room upside down—for no reason.) It’s atmospheric and anemic at the same time.

Of course, when all else fails, there is always Venice.

Cinematographer Haris Zambarloukos provides sinister, shadowy distractions from the tedium wafting in Venice’s rain-shrouded canals, but that grows repetitive and sluggish, too. Rigor mortis sets in and takes over early.