by Eric Blume

The good news is the bad news:  director Kenneth Branagh’s new adaptation of Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express is exactly what you think it will be.  It’s a stylish, corny, enjoyable two hours filled with movie stars and that absurd moustache.  It delivers on romantic glamor and old-school moviemaking, but there’s not a surprise to be had.

Out of the gate, Branagh plunges us into a prologue that’s both boring and obvious.  He means to establish Hercule Poirot’s philosophy and fastidious nature, which sadly serves only as clunky groundwork which you know will circle back by the finale (which it does).  He also tries to bring some levity to the piece with a few lame jokes.  At first Branagh seems to be overplaying his hand...