Review: Murder on the Orient Express at Newcastle Theatre Royal
A production as classy as the fabled Orient Express has rolled into Newcastle for the telling of a famous tale of murder and detection.
The latter task falls to Hercule Poirot, Agatha Christie’s fastidious Belgian detective. As for the former… well, that would be telling.
Is Agatha Christie popular? Is the Pope Catholic?
Millions have read a story first published in 1934 and many more will have seen the films and other stage productions – but still they come. You’ll be lucky to find a seat this week. You might have to use subterfuge, masquerade as an usher or something.
But those lucky enough to have secured their place are unlikely to be disappointed for this is an impressive homage, adapted with flashes of humour by American playwright Ken Ludwig (don’t call Poirot French if you don’t want to upset him), directed by Lucy Bailey and boasting a magnificent set by Mike Britton making excellent use of back projection and a revolving stage.
The train, which of course is key, is brilliantly realised, a railway nut’s dream viewable from all angles, internal and external, and breakable into its component parts.
Boarding in Constantinople will be the motley collection of characters destined – well, the vast majority of them – to become murder suspects, falling under the beady eye of the great detective who is supposed to be on holiday.
The plot (sacrilege, I know) is barely as plausible as anything panto stars Danny and Clive will have been serving up on this stage over the festive season.
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The characters, too, are really inflated caricatures… the glamorous countess, the querulous missionary, the heavily accented Russian princess, the furtive lovers, to name but a few.
But all are made to strut their stuff with great brio by a cast who seem to be enjoying themselves as much as the audience (a pin could have dropped and you would have heard).
Take a bow Christine Kavanagh as much-married American Helen Hubbard, noisily letting her hair down to the annoyance of the bloke in the adjoining berth. What a fab way to earn a living!
And at the centre of it all is Poirot, universally acknowledged as the famous detective and miraculously never far from the scene of a crime.
Michael Moloney is superb, quietly commanding the stage, his every utterance (lightly accented) falling on keenly receptive ears.
His Poirot is not unrufflable, irked by minor slights and more so by patent liars, and his anguish in the final scene, ultimately moved to act contrary to his instincts, highlights the essential loneliness of his position.
For him the law is sacrosanct; for all those around him, there are shades of grey. So as the applause dies down and we venture cheerfully out into the night, you can picture him, still brooding somewhere, agonising.
Agatha Christie has been well served here. It’s all nonsense, of course, but brilliantly done and thoroughly enjoyable.
Murder on the Orient Express runs until Saturday, January 18. Tickets from the Theatre Royal box office.