Touring nationwide, until 23rd May 2026
‘Plays are much easier to write than books,’ said Britain’s queen of crime Agatha Christie. ‘You are not hampered by all that description which clogs you up – and stops you from getting on with what’s happening.’
That’s why her whodunits are perfect for the theatre. Her prose is clunky but her plotting is sublime, and in Hercule Poirot she created a sleuth to rival Sherlock Holmes. No wonder her light, compulsive novels have spawned so many dramatisations. Unlike highbrow novelists, she gives dramatists room to breathe.
This creative freedom has resulted in a huge array of adaptations, of hugely variable quality. I adored the 1978 film of Death on the Nile, starring Peter Ustinov as Poirot. I couldn’t stand Kenneth Branagh’s 2022 remake. So where does this theatrical adaptation rank? I’d say somewhere in between.
This touring production is a second outing for writer Ken Ludwig, director Lucy Bailey and designer Mike Britton, who staged a successful adaptation of Murder on the Orient Express last year.
The main challenge of dramatising Agatha Christie is that she asks us to believe the unbelievable.
Why on earth would any murder suspect, be they innocent or guilty, agree to be interrogated by a fussy little Belgian with no official authority whatsoever, and then sit down with all the other suspects to hear how he cracked the case?
Of course, the entire premise is utterly absurd – and though Christie gets away with it in print, stage and screen are less forgiving. Any adaptation must tackle this fundamental problem. It must play the whole thing either tongue-in-cheek or completely poker-faced. This lively yet uneven production never quite makes up its mind.
Death on the Nile falls between the two stools of straight suspense and wry self-mockery. Consequently, you’re never quite sure how to react – whether to gasp with horror at the bloody slaughter of a beautiful young woman, or to snigger knowingly at Poirot’s humorous asides.
This discord is reflected in the diverse playing styles of this seasoned cast.
Individually, they’re fine, but collectively they feel awkward because the tone of the play keeps shifting. Esme Hough is deliciously creepy as jilted fiancée Jacqueline de Bellefort (the part immortalised by Mia Farrow), but her nervy rendition is undermined by the comic tenor of the other roles.
Mark Hadfield’s amiable Poirot embodies this uneasy compromise, alternating unpredictably between levity and gravitas. I found him far more persuasive in his graver, darker moments. I’d say the same for this play as a whole.
I was intrigued to hear James Prichard, Christie’s great-grandson (and chairman/CEO of Agatha Christie Ltd) describe the interaction between writer Ken Ludwig and director Lucy Bailey: ‘She probably angles towards the more serious side. He likes the humour.’
Prichard seemed to suggest this was a winning combination. I’m inclined to disagree. For me, the scary stuff worked much better than the self-deprecating jokes.
And yet, when I saw this show, at a midweek matinée, the theatre was packed with oldies, obviously loving every minute. Why were they so keen to see it, when they must know perfectly well who did it (surely they’d all read the book, or seen it in the cinema or on TV).
Maybe it’s because, in these troubled times, we yearn for something familiar and reassuring. And what could possibly be more reassuring than an Agatha Christie mystery?
In Christieland, the good end happily and the bad unhappily. The villains get their comeuppance, and the old order is restored. Though the setting of this tale is foreign, like all her tales it’s about a vanished England, and that’s why it endures.
Like Shakespeare’s Arden, Christieland is an imaginary English idyll – a place we’d love to escape to, if only we knew how.
Happily, the appeal of Christieland isn’t confined to nostalgic senior citizens like me. I took my 21-year-old daughter along, and she really enjoyed it (she particularly liked Mike Britton’s spooky cruise-ship set). She said the afternoon flew by.
Afterwards, we decided an Agatha Christie play is pantomime for grown-ups. Sure, it’s terribly cheesy, but even a flawed production, like this one, is a lot of fun.
