In every adaptation of Agatha Christie’s Death on the Nile, the biggest riddle to solve aren’t the motives and the murders. Rather, it is something far, far sinister: the inclination to outdo the author’s original writing.

By any measure of argument, this hasn’t — and cannot — be done. Christie is an incredible writer; her story’s pitch and structuring is impossible to beat, her dialogues are crisp, and the flow is very easy, and enjoyable to read.

Of course, this doesn’t dissuade screenwriters and directors from adapting the material — and nor should it. Some 350-odd pages of the paperback novel is excessive material for any two-hour film. Events, characters and actions will get hacked, slashed and shot down. It is the perfect crime, whose only real victim are the people who adore the source material or any previous film adaptations.

Death on the Nile sees super-detective Hercule Poirot in what would have been a relaxing vacation away from murder and mystery in Egypt. On the trip is the newlywed heiress Linnet Doyle, her not-so-rich husband Simon, Jacqueline ‘Jackie’ de Bellefort, Linnet’s former friend and Simon’s recently shunned ex-fiancé, and a slew of assorted characters — a maid, an author of steamy novels and her daughter, a snotty, elderly socialite and her son, the socialite’s cousin and her aide, Linnet’s trustee, an outspoken communist, a solicitor, an Italian archeologist, and an Austrian physician.

Kenneth Branagh’s Death on the Nile, starring Gal Gadot, is one of three adaptions of Agatha Christie’s famous novel that stand out. But does it stand out well?

Linnet is hounded by Jackie who haunts the newly married couple on their honeymoon, appearing in front of them, red-eyed and intoxicated, at dinner halls, exotic excursions and even on their luxurious getaway steamer which eventually sails the Nile.

Jackie’s vengeful motive is to guilt-trip her former beau and the best-friend who stole him from her. The young woman threatens the couple with murder, and eventually there are two.

The three adaptations of Death on the Nile that should stick out are the 1978 film starring Peter Ustinov as Poirot (he had taken over from Albert Finney), a feature-length episode from the ninth season of Agatha Christie’s Poirot — a series that ran from 1989 to 2013 and covered the entire gamut of published works on the detective — and the recent, perhaps the most jarring, acclimatisation by screenwriter Michael Green and director Kenneth Branagh.

And yes, ‘acclimatisation’ may just be the right word here; the word means adapting to fit a new climate.

Irrespective of being set in the late 1930s, Branagh’s film is being made today, and the order of the day is to adapt and rework the material for present day, internet-trending, sociological mindsets, at the expense of eschewing the depiction of the era, and the mindset the way it was at the time.

Significant alterations include amalgamation of some characters and their roles in the story, and a balanced representation of race, amongst other strange creative choices.

Two central figures, the drunk author of steamy erotica named Salome Otterbourne and her daughter, are now African-American; Salome’s vocation has also been updated to that of a jazz singer, and she also shares a subtle and budding romantic subplot with Poirot (in the 1978 film, Salome was played by Angela Lansbury in full whimsical-tipsy mode).

Linnet’s godmother, Marie Van Schuyler and her nurse Mrs. Bowers are now an old lesbian couple (there was no such thing like this in the novel or any adaptation before). Linnet’s once pining ex-fiancé Charles Windelsham in the novel, and the Austrian physician Bessner, are fused into a new character named Linus Windlesham (Russell Brand).

Branagh’s play on the character is edgier and unsure, unlike the version of Poirot played by actor David Suchet from the series, who is arguably the most authentic representation of the flawed, kind and insolent detective.

Two new characters replace Tim Allerton and his stuck-up socialite mom; in their guise is Bouc (Tom Bateman), a returning character from Branagh’s last Poirot film Murder on the Orient Express, who is traveling with his mother Euphemia (Annette Benning), a renowned painter.

Although mostly true in terms of how her characteristics are presented, Linnet herself becomes somewhat of an oddity in the new film. Played by Gal Godot, the character now holds the actresses’ Israeli accent, which puts into question her country of origin (she is from England in the novels). Further complicating the case is her cousin’s surname Katchadourian, which is Armenian. Originally depicted as Andrew Pennington, Linnet’s sneaky American trustee, Andrew Katchadourian is played by Indian actor Ali Fazal.

Another major inclusion is a new twist: Poirot’s backstory. The new Death on the Nile opens during World War I, and features a digitally aged Branagh as the smart young officer whose sharp acumen helps his troop secure a bridge in a what was deemed a suicide mission.

Shot in black-and-white, the climax of the event lands him in hospital where we meet his first romantic interest (a nurse). The sequence also introduces a scar on the face that forces him to wear his ridiculously extravagant moustache (I haven’t read such an account in Christie’s stories).

Branagh’s play on the character is edgier and unsure, unlike the version of Poirot played by actor David Suchet from the series, who is arguably the most authentic representation of the flawed, kind and insolent detective.

The TV movie, which aired in 2004, makes some arguably bad revisions to the tale, but stays mostly true to the overall plot and set-ups. It starred Emily Blunt as Linnet, who played Christie’s beautiful, smart young woman who wanted things her way, as a nearly evil, self-absorbed socialite.

Lois Chiles’ portrayal as Linnet in the 1978 film was more in line with the characterisations Christie wrote, and the cast, with some minor alterations, were mostly true to the material. The all-star cast — Lansbury, David Niven, Bette Davis, Mia Farrow, George Kennedy, Maggie Smith — however, were wasted. Ustinov’s portrayal also seems excessively meek in comparison; the British actor feels more grandfatherly and mellow, and his detective skills appear incidental. The film itself has aged dramatically today.

Branagh’s version — and his film in general — is much more cinematic (credit goes to his go-to cinematographer Haris Zambarloukos), and the reworkings, despite some shortcomings — and an additional murder — equates to a better, and somewhat unexpected experience that still retains the flavour of Christie’s work.

While it is impossible to better Agatha Christie — and I personally don’t prefer the creative choices that change sexual orientation and races of characters — sometimes, one needs to shoot down the excess to make the original story stand out.

Published in Dawn, ICON, February 27th, 2022