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After neglecting it for months for the greener pastures of Netflix and Hulu, I've been on a Prime Video kick the last few days. Poirot, mostly. Last night was "Mystery at Marsdon Manor", which just didn't work for me. Some of my disappointment stems from the acting. The actress through which so much of the plot runs was so hammy that she should've had Honeybaked stamped into her forehead. There was times it was so embarrassing that I squirmed in my chair. How did the director let that ride? How did the other actors? I realize she was young and beautiful, but please. Surely someone could've taken her aside. She must've been riding some high-powered dick.
Acting aside, the ending fails. It would have us believe that all Mrs. Maltravers' tremulous maunderings about vengeful ghosts were a sham, and that she didn't really believe in ghosts, but when Poirot pulls his hilariously-hokey denouement in the dining room with the "ghost" of her dead husband striding across the moonlit yard with fowling piece in hand, she collapses like a bad souffle and wails that she has his blood on her hand before she confesses. Mmkay. If Mrs. Maltravers is a hardass shrewd enough to concoct such a subtle murder plot and use a local legend to set the groundwork for a supernatural motive for her husband's fatal collapse, she certainly wouldn't wilt like a hothouse flower in the face of cheap, dinner-theater theatrics.
I did feel bad for the hapless Captain Black, who, once the ugly truth is revealed, foolishly leaps to the conclusion that she has done all this for him. Poor lovelorn soul.
And poor Inspector Jappe must spend a lot of time crouching uncomfortably in hall closets to hear tearful confessions.
Acting aside, the ending fails. It would have us believe that all Mrs. Maltravers' tremulous maunderings about vengeful ghosts were a sham, and that she didn't really believe in ghosts, but when Poirot pulls his hilariously-hokey denouement in the dining room with the "ghost" of her dead husband striding across the moonlit yard with fowling piece in hand, she collapses like a bad souffle and wails that she has his blood on her hand before she confesses. Mmkay. If Mrs. Maltravers is a hardass shrewd enough to concoct such a subtle murder plot and use a local legend to set the groundwork for a supernatural motive for her husband's fatal collapse, she certainly wouldn't wilt like a hothouse flower in the face of cheap, dinner-theater theatrics.
I did feel bad for the hapless Captain Black, who, once the ugly truth is revealed, foolishly leaps to the conclusion that she has done all this for him. Poor lovelorn soul.
And poor Inspector Jappe must spend a lot of time crouching uncomfortably in hall closets to hear tearful confessions.
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