A Haunting in Venice

A Haunting We Will Go/A Haunting We Will Go/Hi-Ho-Confuse Poirot/A-Haunting We Will Go

or

"Lighten Up, Pal! You Might Have Fun!"
 

It is 1947. "World's greatest detective" Hercule Poirot (Kenneth Branagh), he of fusty ways (oh god, they haul out the "egg joke" again!) and the elaborate mustache—that looks like superimposed Aston Martin/Bentley logos—is in retirement. In Venice. "A gorgeous relic sinking into the sea" compares mystery novelist Ariadne Oliver (Tina Fey), who has skipped the long line of desperate potential clients waiting outside his door to tempt Poirot with a case which just might revivify her career after three critically-panned books. 

 

Poirot will have none of it. A veteran of the first World War (as was shown in the previous film, Death on the Nile), he has lived long enough to see that its reputation as "the war to end all wars" has proved false and, having seen too much of death, has foregone his profession to ease the strain on his little grey cells. But, Oliver is persistent, and so he joins her on Hallowe'en night to the palazzo of opera star Rowena Drake (Kelly Reilly) to witness a festive party for local Venician children, and, for an adult after-party, a seance performed by the medium Joyce Reynolds (Michelle Yeoh) to try to quell the spirits haunting the Drake place, one of whom might be Rowena's daughter Alicia, who died "under mysterious circumstances" years before.

"Under mysterious circumstances" may be overstating, as the girl drowned in a city that is nothing but waterfront property—sort of like being surprised when there's an explosion at a munitions factory ("Non-smoking? Who knew?"). I'm just saying that the Venice polizia usually don't ask "cause of death?" as they fish another tourist out of the canal. That aside, there is some question as to whether Alicia's death was a suicide or an accident or...was it murder?

Poirot, he does not care. He's there to expose the medium using his powers of observation and his absolute disbelief in the supernatural ("scary stories make life less scary"), suspecting that some grift will ensue from the proceedings. His convictions are only solidified when Alicia's former fiancee Maxime Gerard (
Kyle Allen) arrives after a mysterious invitation is sent his way so many months after the tragedy. Also in attendance is the family's doctor Leslie Ferrier and his son Leopold (Jamie Dornan and Jude Hilll, who played father and son in Branagh's Belfast) and the housekeeper Olga Seminoff (Camille Cottin), all of whom figured in the care-taking of the daughter before her death. It all seems very neat and tidy.

The seance is anything but. It's a convincing show, with Reynolds going into a trance, speaking in the dead girl's voice, spinning in place and with messages appearing on a typewriter ("I think of myself more of a secretary than anything" says Reynolds), seemingly written by "the lost girl from beyond." Nature conspires with the supernatural as a violent thunderstorm permeates the whole procedure. But, the mysteries linger on with Poirot nearly killed bobbing for apples (true!), strange voices permeating the house, flashes of the dead girl from beyond, and...a couple of grisly murders most foul.

A Haunting in Venice is based on Dame Agatha Christie's 1969 novel "Hallowe'en Party" and in much the same way that later James Bond movies are based on Ian Fleming novels—that is, not very. Scenarist Michael Green (he's done the scripts for all of Branagh's Poirot films as well as Logan and Blade Runner 2049) has retained some of the names, but murdered Christie's plot and hatched one of his own (mind you, all with the tacit approval of the Christie Estate). Although it ties up all physical loose ends, it ends up with an implicit endorsement of the supernatural (if only in sub-text, but is rather jarring when its chief detective is committed to exposing the charlatan exploiters of the belief, and a couple of glaring motivations amidst a couple of suspects.

Perhaps because he knew the weakness of the script, Branagh the director works overtime establishing an atmosphere that disorients and distracts. His compositions are full of dutch angles and high and low shots, fish-eye lenses, and full of conversations with askance sight-lines. That's not "normal" film-making (and by that I mean "professional" film-making that obeys "all the rules" and creates a comfortable-to-the-eye-and-mind viewing experience). Branagh's choices are Wellesian in their disregard for viewer comfort; discomfiture is actually key to making the film work. By setting audiences "on edge" and making things look "off" you can get away with a lot of chicanery in a burst of style over substance.

That may sound dismissive, but Branagh has typically been a director of verisimilitude—making things look real. Here, he deliberately makes things surreal, claustrophobic and, often, acrophobic (which is a lot of work!), but it breaks a cardinal rule—never call attention to your directing (a rule too often ignored by beginning film-makers.) The result is so showy and over-the-top that one just might forget the story-line for all the sights to see.

In this case, it's a good strategy. The script is a let-down, full of incident and the occasional zinger of a line, but too convenient and incredulous simultaneously to make a well-conceived plot both among the movie's conspirators and behind-the-scenes in the writer's room. Branagh's work and collaboration with cinematographer Haris Zambarloukos (he's done Branagh's last few films...AND Meg 2: The Trench), however, overcompensates to a degree that one feels that one has seen a real show, full of acrobatics and elephants in the room (and one abrasive cockatoo!) to marvel at, even if the little grey cells are not entirely engaged and unconvinced.

It sure looks good, even if it's as insubstantial as a ghost. 

Belfast

In Memory Yet Green (with Flecks of Orange)

or

"I'm Going Nowhere You Can't Find Me" ("All We Need to Survive is a Phone, a Pint, and the Sheet-Music to 'Danny Boy'")

 

Stevedores glow orange in an overcast dawn, looming over the port that shows no signs of life. They hover and oversee everything, reflected in warehouse windows and altering the horizon. They watch over the streets and houses—obvious signs of life as God never plans in straight lines. Then, we start to see walls with scrawls, graffiti decorating the barriers, making them their own or just making them a little less obtrusive, obstructive. 

 

Then the camera settles on a barricade with a collection of faces—dirty, bandaged, hatted—men-folk gathered, but whether they're coming home exhausted, or gathering with malice is a little hard to say. We move up the faces and over the wall, and it's like it's been protecting something. We see an alleyway filled with kids playing, kicking balls, playing knights, but they're in black-and-white. It's like the wall we flew over has scraped away the color, leaving the scene beyond in the bleached shades of a dream...or a memory.

Movies can have thesis statements embedded in them. The first image can be a summing up in some abstract way of what will come after. But, that opening sequence of Kenneth Branagh's Belfast (and, really, that's how it should be called) is as good a thesis as any I've seen. The city may be titular, but it's just bricks and mortar, water and fire, dirt and smoke, the frame. It's the people who make the memory—the city will always appear smaller than it did. But, the people will forever loom large.

August, 1969. Man has landed on the Moon. But, Earth is "the same old place." Buddy (Jude Hill) is a happy nine year old doing battle with a stick-sword and a garbage-lid shield, fighting dragons when he's called in for tea by his mother (Caitriona Balfe). He's having a good time, the street's busy with residents with their "halloo's" and banter so it's only natural that Buddy has a longer travel-time than what a bee-line home would normally take a human being. Just enough delay to get him in a fix. A gang of Protestants enter at the end of the mixed Protestant-Catholic street and start yelling for the Catholics to get out. First, they throw threats, then rocks, then molotov cocktails, then they roll a car with a burning rag in the gas intake.

And Buddy's in the midst of it. And like any nine year old not in charge he freezes, gaping at something new. What are they yelling at HIM for? He's Protestant! But, Ma sees him and, like a banshee, she grabs him, and the garbage can lid becomes a shield for reals as the rocks come flying and she takes her burden and herself back to the door they live behind and slam it and lock it and dive for the floor to avoid any flying glass. Play-time is over. A battle has come to Belfast and it's not an easy game of heroes and bad guys. It's too complicated for a child to understand. To say nothing of the adults.

Where's Da (Jamie Dornan)? He works in England during the week and comes home most often on weekends. So, the day-to-day is left to Ma—the bill-paying, the wondering where the money comes from, the avoiding the rent-man, the raising of Buddy and his older brother Will (Lewis McAskie)—and the making the peace when they've been "up to something" in the neighborhood, and when Da comes home there is the "adult talk" about things the kids don't understand or don't care about because they're so wrapped up in the "now."

Things like the newly-installed barbed wire (which becomes a foreground object through which Branagh shows life), the night patrols, the buzzing of helicopters, the increasing frailties of his parents (Ciaràn Hinds and Judi Dench, both photographed so you see ever seam earned in their faces) and that Da might have possibilities for a better paying, more steady job in England—but it would keep him away longer and he wants his family with him, if only the wife and kids didn't want to stay right where they are.

In the "now." Family is around them, there's a community—sure it's a "mixed" community, but the only ones making anything of it are the thugs and enforcers—there's school—with the cute girl in the class—and TV and movies...and home. The only home the kids have known and they're too young to know that "home" is as transmutable as the future. Or that "home" is changing right before their eyes. It's hard to see when one hasn't had much of a past.

Branagh's film is obviously made of love, living between nostalgia and fear, adult and child, and never completely resigning them into a fixed whole. One can forgive him for keening over into the precious—the "too-perfect" occasional shot, breaking the the use of color at movie images and stage productions (Branagh's dream-homes), and a confrontation scene that could have gone without its musical accompaniment (but we are talking about a child's eye view of it, so....myth?). But, forgive it, because despite its crisp photography, this is a film of filters and scrims of the mind, ultimately, not the HD precision of documentary. It's built of memory and bricks and stones and heart. And it relates to anybody oppressed, anybody in fear, and anybody who's been a child...or a parent. It's certainly the best film Branagh has made in years, and it's certainly among his personal best.

 

Fair play to him.