Hercule Poirot 100 Years (1916 - 2016)

by Mark Place

  The A.B.C. Murders The A.B.C. Murders (1992), by contrast, is based on one of Christie's best books. The first rate film version preserves Christie's wonderful plot, which it unfolds with step by step logic and absolutely gripping clarity. The tone of this film is a bit grimmer and more suspenseful than others in the Poirot series. It is a serial killer story, and the filmmakers have clearly been watching Silence of the Lambs. Fortunately, they never become too grim. A racetrack scene in the second hour shows some of this series' trademark visual style. I also thought it was interesting to see what an A.B.C. railway guide actually looked like, all these years after reading the book. The novel was a childhood favorite of mine, and I was surprised to see I could still remember all these details of the plot after first reading it circa age 12. It made a tremendous impression on me. Our next door neighbors took me to the public library one evening, and I can still remember getting the book off the library shelves. What a great thing libraries are

  The Lost Mine "The Lost Mine" is only 7 pages long. A mere anecdote, it is perhaps Christie's shortest story. The story is also one of Christie's weakest, with little plot logic. "The Lost Mine", as a film, is a clunky mess. This sort of Chinatown melodrama is not even good camp. Poirot and Hastings playing board games are funny, but nothing else rings true. The writers have perforce added many elements not in the original tale, but both the police surveillance techniques, with Japp running a spy-like shadowing operation, and the business enterprises are lost opportunities for good filmmaking, hopelessly botched here. This series never does a good job with business: "The Dream" was one of the other weakest adaptations, despite being one of Christie's finest short stories. There is a Camp mentality running through this episode, which is generally not present in the rest of the series. Poor Japp has to be in charge of an overdone police surveillance that is especially over the top.

  The Tragedy at Marsden Manor "The Tragedy at Marsden Manor" (1923), is a brief, logical, and fairly minor Christie tale. It has been thoroughly gummed up in its movie adaptation. A great deal of mystical folderol has been added to Christie's plot, and the comedy relief involving Poirot and Hastings drags them seriously out of character. Most of the extra material added to the Poirot stories in this series has been excellent; this is one of the few complete misfires.

  The Veiled Lady In "The Veiled Lady", the writer has added much good comedy. The outcome of the housebreaking is new here, (although Hastings' behavior is definitely out of character), and so is much of the suspense at the end. I liked the way in which Hastings was allowed to discover the bad guys in the end - something he rarely gets to do in the stories.

  The Under Dog "The Under Dog" has beautiful Art Deco locations and furnishings. In addition to a wonderful Deco house, production designer Rob Harris has actually managed to locate an Art Deco factory. It is incredibly beautiful and striking. I wonder if the interior and exterior of the factory are in fact the same building. I loved the great hangar-like effect in the interior, and also the dramatic factory staircase. All of the Poirot films have a Deco style - it is even more of a leitmotiv in this series than in Miami Vice. The elaborate Deco furnishings and props are also impressive. I gasped when the maid actually dropped the tea service while discovering the body - aren't these all valuable antiques? Deco objects are relentlessly geometrical. This is true whether they are as large as a house or as small as a tea pot. The house is a complex (and delightful) fusion of cylinders and rectangular boxes. The geometric components of a Deco object exist in complex rhythms, often repeated and grouped into intricate patterns.

  Christie published this 1926 novella the year after Roger Ackroyd. It is one of those tales in which all of the suspects have taken turns tramping around the crime scene, shortly before and after the killing. I always thought such tales were really implausible. Christie's main excuse here is that she seems to have come up with this plot considerably before most other people had worked it to death. All the same, the film version is most delightful. Pauline Moran makes full use of her dramatic opportunities as a hypnotist. The hypnotist in the story is a professional; here his plot functions have been transferred to Moran's Miss Lemon. The character of Miss Lemon scarcely exists in the stories; in the films she comes across as a person of unexpected depths of emotion and sensitivity. Here she hypnotizes; in "The Egyptian Tomb" she mourned the death of her cat. The supporting characters of the TV series each represent a different stratum of English society: Captain Hastings is upper middle class, Miss Lemon is modestly middle class, and the Cockney Chief Inspector Japp seems to have risen from a working class background. As a foreigner, Poirot himself is outside of the British class system.

  The writer has added a great deal of political (the Hitler era) and scientific (the chemical formula) material not in the original story. Most of it works very well, and adds a great deal of substance and topicality to the plot. Christie's story centered on mining swindles in the British Empire; it is similar in this regard to "The Lost Mine". Most of the characters' personalities have also been changed, largely for the better, in the film adaptation. The film has "lost" the characterization of Lady Leverson, however, which was the best thing in the original story: both comic and intellectually acute. The movie has preserved the outlines of the murder plot, the idea of background investigation into a swindle, and the hypnotism from Christie's original story; but otherwise it is one of the freer and more transforming episodes of the series. Most of these changes are all to the good: it has taken one of Christie's most minor and uninspired works, and developed it into an excellent film.

  The Adventure of the Egyptian Tomb "The Adventure of the Egyptian Tomb" is a definitive mysteries of King Tut film. It has excellent atmosphere. It also has some of the best men's costumes in the series, being a great procession of tailored suits and evening clothes. The Egyptian scenes were actually shot in Spain, unlike "The Chocolate Box" where the producers actually went on location in Belgium to shoot that story's scenes - and what a feast of Belgian architecture they turned up!

  Double Sin "Double Sin" has some of the most creative additions of any of the Poirot TV series. Inspector Japp's speech is terrific, as is Poirot's reaction to it. The dream sequence with Poirot and Hastings exchanging voices is also well done. One also like the locations. The building playing the "role" of the Midland Hotel in the film is one of the best Art Deco buildings in the series. Director Richard Spence is excellent at composition. His use of overhead shots that geometrize the environment is well done. So is all of his graceful outdoor shooting, which emphasizes fluid motion. This sort of "moving composition" was used by Orson Welles in Touch of Evil. It must be very hard to dream up, imagine, and diagram for future shooting.

  The Adventure of the Cheap Flat Spence shows similar visual creativity with "The Adventure of the Cheap Flat". The flashback sequence to a non naturalistic New York set is especially unusual, paralleling the dream sequence of "Double Sin". The camera work is especially creative during this scene. It is more or less set in the same time and place as Sternberg’s classic silent film, The Docks of New York (1928). Both Spence episodes feature boisterous American men, and both emphasize the anomalous nature of Hercule Poirot among private investigators. In both, Japp has to vouch for his friend. Christie's story here is in the tradition of Doyle's "The Red Headed League", with innocent people who fit certain characteristics unknowingly recruited to take part in odd but ultimately sinister schemes. Here the name Robinson is used for its pseudonymous effect, a comic touch Christie will repeat in Partners in Crime (1924) by having Tuppence adopt the nom de guerre of Miss Robinson.

  I also like Miss Lemon going undercover as a reporter in "The Adventure of the Cheap Flat". The eerie delicacy of her character is always emphasized in her solo turns. But enough of this. Let’s go back to the books so we can enjoy a bit of escapism.

  The Market Basing Mystery

  BY

  AGATHA CHRISTIE

  The Market Basing Mystery

  “After all, there'
s nothing like the country, is there?” said Inspector Japp, breathing in heavily through his nose and out through his mouth in the most approved fashion. Poirot and I applauded the sentiment heartily. It had been the Scotland Yard inspector's idea that we should all go for the weekend to the little country town of Market Basing. When off duty, Japp was an ardent botanist, and discoursed upon minute flowers possessed of unbelievably lengthy Latin names (somewhat strangely pronounced) with an enthusiasm even greater than that he gave to his cases.

  “Nobody knows us, and we know nobody” explained Japp.

  “That's the idea.”

  This was not to prove quite the case, however, for the local constable happened to have been transferred from a village fifteen miles away where a case of arsenical poisoning had brought him into contact with the Scotland Yard man. However, his delighted recognition of the great man only enhanced Japp's sense of well-being, and as we sat down to breakfast on Sunday morning in the parlour of the village inn, with the sun shining, and tendrils of honeysuckle thrusting themselves in at the window, we were all in the best of spirits. The bacon and eggs were excellent, the coffee not so good, but passable and boiling hot.

  “This is the life” said Japp. “When I retire, I shall have a little place in the country. Far from crime, like this!”

  “Le crime, il est partout” remarked Poirot, helping himself to a neat square of bread, and frowning at a sparrow which had balanced itself impertinently on the windowsill. I quoted lightly: “That rabbit has a pleasant face, His private life is a disgrace I really could not tell to you the awful things that rabbits do.”

  “Lord” said Japp, stretching himself backward “I believe I could manage another egg, and perhaps a rasher or two of bacon. What do you say, Captain?”

  “I'm with you” I returned heartily. “What about you, Poirot?” Porot shook his head. “One must not so replenish the stomach that the brain refuses to function” he remarked.

  “I'll risk replenishing the stomach a bit more” laughed Jap.

  “I take a large size in stomachs; and by the way, you're getting stout yourself, M. Poirot. Here, miss, eggs and bacon twice.” At that moment, however, an imposing form blocked the doorway. It was Constable Pollard. “I hope you'll excuse me troubling the inspector, gentlemen, but I'd be glad of his advice.”

  “I'm on my holiday” said Japp hastily.

  “No work for me. What is the case?”

  “Gentleman up at Leigh Hall - shot himself - through the head.”

  “Well, they will do it” said Japp prosaically. “Debt, or a woman, I suppose. Sorry I can't help you, Pollard.”

  “The point is” said the constable, “that he can't have shot himself. Leastways, that's what Dr Giles says.”

  Japp put down his cup. “Can't have shot himself? What do you mean?”

  “That's what Dr Giles says” repeated Pollard. “He says it's plumb impossible. He's puzzled to death, the door being locked on the inside and the window bolted; but he sticks to it that the man couldn't have committed suicide.”

  That settled it. The further supply of bacon and eggs were waved aside, and a few minutes later we were all walking as fast as we could in the direction of Leigh House, Japp eagerly questioning the constable. The name of the deceased was Walter Protheroe; he was a man of middle age and something of a recluse. He had come to Market Basing eight years ago and rented Leigh House, a rambling, dilapidated old mansion fast falling into ruin. He lived in a corner of it, his wants attended to by a housekeeper whom he had brought with him. Miss Clegg was her name, and she was a very superior woman and highly thought of in the village. Just lately Mr Protheroe had had visitors staying with him, a Mr and Mrs Parker from London. This morning, unable to get a reply when she went to call her master, and finding the door locked, Miss Clegg became alarmed, and telephoned for the police and the doctor. Constable Pollard and Dr Giles had arrived at the same moment. Their united efforts had succeeded in breaking down the oak door of his bedroom. Mr Protheroe was lying on the floor, shot through the head, and the pistol was clasped in his right hand. It looked a clear case of suicide.

  After examining the body, however, Dr Giles became clearly perplexed, and finally he drew the constable aside, and communicated his perplexities to him; whereupon Pollard had at once thought of Japp. Leaving the doctor in charge, he had hurried down to the inn. By the time the constable's recital was over, we had arrived at Leigh House, a big, desolate house surrounded by an unkempt, weed-ridden garden. The front door was open, and we passed at once into the hall and from there into a small morning-room whence proceeded the sound of voices. Four people were in the room: a somewhat flashily dressed man with a shifty, unpleasant face to whom I took an immediate dislike; a woman of much the same type, though handsome in a coarse fashion; another woman dressed in neat black who stood apart from the rest, and whom I took to be the housekeeper; and a tall man dressed in sporting tweeds, with a clever, capable face, and who was clearly in command of the situation.

  “Dr Giles” said the constable, “this is Detective-Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard, and his two friends.”

  The doctor greeted us and made us known to Mr and Mrs Parker. Then we accompanied him upstairs. Pollard, in obedience to a sign from Japp, remained below, as it were on guard over the household. The doctor led us upstairs and along a passage. A door was open at the end; splinters hung from the hinges, and the door itself had crashed to the floor inside the room. We went in. The body was still lying on the floor. Mr Protheroe had been a man of middle age, bearded, with hair grey at the temples. Japp went and knelt by the body.

  “Why couldn't you leave it as you found it?” he grumbled.

  The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “We thought it a clear case of suicide.”

  “H'mm” said Japp. “Bullet entered the head behind the left ear.”

  “Exactly” said the doctor. “Clearly impossible for him to have fired it himself. He'd have had to twist his hand right round his head. It couldn't have been done.”

  “Yet you found the pistol clasped in his hand? Where is it, by the way?” The doctor nodded to the table. “But it wasn't clasped in his hand” he said. “It was inside the hand, but the fingers weren't closed over it.”

  “Put there afterwards”' said Japp; “that's clear enough.” He was examining the weapon. “One cartridge fired. We'll test it for fingerprints, but I doubt if we'll find any but yours, Dr Giles. How long has he been dead?”

  “Some time last night. I can't give the time to an hour or so, as though wonderful doctors in detective stories do. Roughly, he's been dead about twelve hours.”

  So far, Poirot had not made a move of any kind. He had remained by my side, watching Japp at work and listening to his questions. Only, from time to time he had sniffed the air very delicately, and as if puzzled. I too bad sniffed, but could detect nothing to arouse interest. The air seemed perfectly fresh and devoid of odour. And yet, from time to time, Poirot continued to sniff it dubiously, as though his keener nose detected something I had missed. Now, as Japp moved away from the body, Poirot knelt down by it. He took no interest in the wound. I thought at first that he was examining the fingers of the hand that had held the pistol, but in a minute I saw that it was a handkerchief carried in the coat-sleeve that interested him. Mr Protheroe was dressed in a dark grey lounge-suit. Finally Poirot got up from his knees, but his eyes still strayed back to the handkerchief as though puzzled. Japp called to him to come and help to lift the door. Seizing my opportunity, I too knelt down, and taking the handkerchief from the sleeve, scrutinized it minutely. It was a perfectly plain handkerchief of white cambric; there was no mark or stain on it of any kind. I replaced it, shaking my head, and confessing myself baffled. The others had raised the door. I realized that they were hunting for the key. They looked in vain.

  “That settles it” said Japp. “The window's shut and bolted. The murderer left by the door, locking it and taking the key with him. He thought it would be accepted
that Protherhoe had locked himself in and shot himself, and that the absence of the key would not be noticed. You agree, M. Poirot?”

  “I agree, yes; but it would have been simpler and better to slip the key back inside the room under the door. Then it would look as though it had fallen from the lock.”

  “Ah, well, you can't expect everybody to have the bright ideas that you have. You'd have been a holy terror if you'd taken to crime. Any remarks to make, M. Poirot?”

  Poirot, it seemed to me, was somewhat at a loss. He looked round the room and remarked mildly and almost apologetically: “He smoked a lot, this monsieur.”

  True enough, the grate was filled with cigarette-stubs, as was an ashtray that stood on a small table near the big armchair.

  “He must have got through about twenty cigarettes last night” remarked Japp. Stooping down, he examined the contents of the grate carefully, then transferred his attention to the ashtray.

  “They're all the same kind” he announced, “and smoked by the same man. There's nothing there, M. Poirot.”

  “I did not suggest that there was” murmured my friend.

  “Ha” cried Japp, “what's this?” He pounced on something bright and glittering that lay on the floor near the dead man.

  “A broken cuff-link. I wonder who this belongs to. Dr Giles, I'd be obliged if you'd go down and send up the housekeeper.”'

  “What about the Parkers? He's very anxious to leave the house - says he's got urgent business in London.”