Branagh executes his double duties with a gratifyingly light touch, tweaking the story's more mothballed elements without burying it all in winky wham-bam modernity. His Poirot isn't just highbrow camp, he's a melancholy soul with a strict moral code
a juicy fruitcake of a film (or, perhaps more accurately, a Belgian iced bun: a nostalgic pleasure, goes down easy, irresistible on a Sunday afternoon)
a handsomely furnished holiday movie that should have devoted more attention to its many ornaments and less to the tinsel at the top, this "Murder on the Orient Express" loses steam as soon as it leaves the station