A lavish, visually brilliant production of an Agatha Christie tale, A Haunting In Venice (2023), should have been an elegant thrill, in the gilded tradition of old Hollywood Agatha adaptations— with an all-star cast, and directed by Kenneth Branagh (who also plays the lead, the celebrated fictional detective Hercule Poirot). But, loosely based on Christie’s Hallowe’en Party, and stunningly cinematically accomplished that it is, this whirlwind spectacle comes out short in the one thing that matters most in a mystery – the story itself.
The swooping, incredibly bold cinematography of Haris Zambarloukos in the eternally photogenic La Serenissima, with its striking beauty, innumerable secrets, and decaying grandeur, performs a kind of spell on the audience, a state in which anything that exists in the mise-en-scène seems to be walking on air — this eerie space between the murky waters of the canals and the golden skies covering the sinking city below. And, in truth, the phantasmagorical scenery eats up any other mystery, as the psychological elements of the story seem to be suffocated by their own locality, unable to gain any independence from the complexities of Venice, neither through the stellar actors chosen for the production, nor the high-concept storyline — a series of murders in a haunted house, and a séance on Hallowe’en (the staple of many a horror flick).
To be fair, the likes of Branagh, or Michelle Yeoh, or Kelly Reilly are not even capable of being anything but magnificent in their thespian prowess. But given such an underdeveloped script, they are pretty much on their own in creating their characters, who fail to gel, due to the lack of cohesion in the story. The screenplay was written by Michael Green, who previously collaborated with Branagh in two other Christie adaptations, much closer to the author’s vision (the first great, the second, not so much) — and, who, I am sure, did his utmost to transfer the intricacies of this original story into something more resembling a straight-forward horror tale.
And therein lies the rub.
I am pretty convinced that the actual choice of turning Hallowe’en Party into a simple, impossibly glamorous horror tale might have been the true culprit on why A Haunting In Venice feels like a hollowed-out pumpkin, minus the candlelight.
The thing with Christie is that it never really is about the frights, the scenery, or even the style, it’s about the words, uttered and not uttered — the way this mistress of suspense managed to convey human nature through them, in any given setting, as the greatest mystery of all.
One can veer far from an original in an adaptation, but one must never forget what a piece of writing originally wanted to say.
★★☆☆☆
Author: ©Milana Vujkov
Lola On Film 