Trying to find how a millionaire wound up with a phony diamond brings Hercule Poirot to an exclusive island resort frequented by the rich and famous. When a murder is committed, everyone has an alibi.
Evil Under The Sun basks in the murderous sunshine with a tepid cocktail at hand. Ahh yes! The moustachio Belgian detective Hercule Poirot, performing magical illusions with "œufs" to young girls and peering over doorways whenever he hears gossip of the juiciest nature. Such a delightful fellow, don't you think? Initially inquisitive, only to then deal out the ultimate "I know who did it" descriptions known to man. Not even the blazing soothing sun of the Adriatic can prevent Poirot from encountering serendipitous murders. Unlike the Orient Express and Nile, he seemed to be enjoying his stay at the summer palace a tad bit too much, consequently diminishing an engaging mystery to a pedestrian stroll. Poirot is sent to an exclusive island resort to confront a leading actress regarding a priceless diamond, only to meet her unfortunate demise by the hands of one of the guests. In true Poirot style, he must interrogate each guest and find a chink in the seemingly impenetrable alibis.
Hamilton, having learnt his errors in judgement when directing Marple's lacklustre 'The Mirror Crack'd', sees himself rapidly fleeing the blustery Yorkshire moors and heading to the temperate Mediterranean for a mystery of two halves. The first hour slowly divulging into each guest, or should I say, murder suspect. Poirot chipping away backstory, motives and reasonings in his usual nonchalant mannerisms. A necessary and substantial amount of character discovery, unveiling plenty of "oh, it's definitely them!" moments, yet at the expense of the second half.
Just over the halfway mark, the grossly superficial leading lady is strangled to death, leaving Poirot limited time to uncover the murderer. The unfortunate moment when Hamilton and the screenplay writers lost the momentum of Christie's novel. Y'see, for an Agatha Christie mystery to work, time is essential. Time to build up the supporting characters, which were well executed in this adaptation. And time to allow Poirot to realistically find the solution. After questioning each suspect for a grand total of four minutes each, he sleeps on the information and wakes up with the most meticulously constructed explanation possible.
Problem is, we as the audience require more time to process the barrage of information and to make the mystery engaging. It's all well and good if the legendary Poirot can solve it in thirty minutes, including various plot holes. However the interpretation of the murder forces us to think "ahhh so that's how they did it..." instead of "I knew it! It was them all along!". Although just putting it out there, I did guess the suspect as soon as they mentioned a particular piece of swimming attire. You can call me Hercule. Regardless though, Christie mysteries require time to simmer, to pull you into the crime at hand. Hamilton failed to do so, which is a shame.
Alas, it's a buoyant holiday regardless. Ustinov made for a pleasant Poirot with an equal balance of cynicism and narcissism. Dame Maggie Smith, in all her glorious costumes, was a delight. Clay wearing speedos should be illegal. And Rigg was infectiously spiteful. The casting was solid, the locational filming adding a warm authentic allure to the murder. Oh, and Porter's score was infectiously flamboyant, accompanying the cinematography and editing in being reminiscent of a television styled TV drama.
The actual film itself is enjoyable. As an adaptation of Christie's novel though, it's missing that vital element of direct involvement. We as the audience constantly feel distanced, whereas we should be in the hotel with them. Drinking a cocktail and eating sausages on a stick...
