Poirot is stricken with a cold but Hastings manages to drag him out to a mystery play at which Poirot guesses the murderer incorrectly. Now he owes Hastings money because they'd bet on Poirot's solving the mystery. The detective is willing to pay but indignant over the fact that the play's author -- "an imbecile" -- has withheld an important fact until the very end.
In this story, Christie commits the same crime. A secret marriage emerges from nowhere at the last moment and explains everything.
It's well acted, as usual. By this time the performers had a firm grip on their roles. The period decor is stunningly accurate. Well, not entirely. Nobody is ever dirty. The characters are impeccably dressed, mostly in evening clothes. Every nook is clean and tidy except for an occasional dead body with two bullet holes through her chest. Even the basement, with its coal-fired furnace, is cleaner than my place right now. A villain can ride up and down in the dumb waiter while holding on to the cables and his hands and clothing are greaseless.
In this and other respects the Poirot stories differ considerably from the norms established by Jeremy Brett's Sherlock Holmes series, which took us into the ruck. Not to mention the BBC's adaptations of Dickens and his Mudlarks.
It's a divertimento and it's entertaining, as they all more or less are.
In this story, Christie commits the same crime. A secret marriage emerges from nowhere at the last moment and explains everything.
It's well acted, as usual. By this time the performers had a firm grip on their roles. The period decor is stunningly accurate. Well, not entirely. Nobody is ever dirty. The characters are impeccably dressed, mostly in evening clothes. Every nook is clean and tidy except for an occasional dead body with two bullet holes through her chest. Even the basement, with its coal-fired furnace, is cleaner than my place right now. A villain can ride up and down in the dumb waiter while holding on to the cables and his hands and clothing are greaseless.
In this and other respects the Poirot stories differ considerably from the norms established by Jeremy Brett's Sherlock Holmes series, which took us into the ruck. Not to mention the BBC's adaptations of Dickens and his Mudlarks.
It's a divertimento and it's entertaining, as they all more or less are.