Kenneth Branagh and Tina Fey in A Haunting in Venice, directed by Branagh. Photo / Supplied
Kenneth Branagh and Tina Fey in A Haunting in Venice, directed by Branagh. Photo / Supplied
A Haunting in Venice follows Kenneth Branagh’s previous takes on Agatha Christie’s novels Death on the Nile and Murder on the Orient Express. Both were high-energy, big ensemble, lushly photographed takes on the Dame’s previously filmed murder mysteries, putting the vain, moustachioed brainbox, Hercule Poirot (Branagh), front and centre. Hislatest Christie revival may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but by putting a dark new twist on a blandly old-fashioned tale, Branagh has crafted something more sinister and intoxicating than expected.
Here, he has transplanted the lesser-known 1969 novel Hallowe’en Party from an English country town to post-World War II Venice, gathering a sterling cast at the canal-side home of grieving mother Rowena Drake (Kelly Reilly). Her daughter having died by apparent suicide, Rowena invites celebrated psychic Joyce Reynolds (Michelle Yeoh) to perform a seance and uncover the truth. Poirot finds himself dragged along to “spot the con” by the doubting American crime-writer Ariadne Oliver (a pitch-perfect Tina Fey).
The attending sceptics and believers include the daughter’s ex-fiancé, distraught housekeeper Olga (Call My Agent’s Camille Cottin) and a tormented English doctor who blames himself for the death. In a cute nod to their casting in his autobiographical Belfast, Branagh reunites Jamie Dornan and 13-year-old Jude Hill as father and son, and both are wonderful.
But it’s a stark change in tone from Branagh’s previous adaptations. Venice, practically a character in its own right, is dark, rainy and eerily empty, a place that portends death rather than romance.
It’s more Don’t Look Now than sunshine and tourist-strewn piazzas. Poirot himself is uncharacteristically subdued and sombre, a man musing on his lack of religious faith and friends and contemplating retirement from crime-solving.
The film’s bravura camerawork may irritate or enchant viewers – I found it deliciously immersive. With the continual use of high- and low-angle shots, fish-eye lenses distorting the picture to almost dreamlike effect, and giddy handheld shots, the discombobulation of the terrified palazzo guests seeps through to the cinema audience.
True, the story itself isn’t one of Christie’s most interesting. But Branagh’s eerie take – with a sparse score, the occasional jump scare, and the most unsettling children’s party ever – serves up a whodunnit that is surprisingly spooky, sad and exquisite.
