Hercule Poirot (Kenneth Branagh) is enjoying his retirement in Venice when he is visited by old friend and mystery novelist, Ariadne Oliver (Tina Fey).  Against his better judgment, he accompanies her to a children’s Halloween party that evening hosted by Rowena Drake (Kelly Reilly).  The real excitement of the evening, however, will happen after the children depart as Rowena has arranged for famed medium Joyce Reynolds (Michelle Yeoh) to hold a séance in an effort to contact the spirit of her deceased daughter, Alicia (Rowan Robinson), who was driven mad by the spirits that supposedly haunt the home and eventually lead her to jump from the balcony, taking her own life.  

Branagh returns for his third outing as Poirot in Twentieth Century Studios’ A Haunting in Venice, his adaptation of Agatha Christie’s 1969 novel, Hallowe’en Party.  Running a leaner 103 minutes, the shortest so far in Branagh’s Poirot cycle, what should be a nice, snappy mystery feels like it is treading water during the investigation as clues are few and far between and the cast of characters all keep at an arms distance from each other.  Dimly lit, per the convenience of a spooky night-time plot, the film seeks to shed some of the candy coating that marked Murder on the Orient Express (2017) and Death on the Nile (2022), instead opting to assimilate within the trappings of a larger genre – this time, horror – rather than adhering to its own previously established style. 

A Haunting in Venice is actually much stronger as a horror movie than a murder mystery plot, though the ending betrays that statement as if fulfills its obligated parlor-room reveal where all questions are answered.  Lucy Donaldson assembles Haris Zambarloukos’ footage, put to Tomas Blazukas’ slicing sound, in such a way that audiences are constantly being jolted around as things go bump in the night.  It is not as assaultive as it sounds, these two or three-second montages create a flurry of input for us sleuths in the seats to draw our attention to many of the smaller details of the room and the environment which may have gone unnoticed in the wider shots.  Coupled with the speed, sound, and delivery, they also give us a chance to jump without Branagh having to cheapen the experience with a parade of jump scares; though viewer, beware, A Hunting in Venice is not completely clean of a few well-placed scares. This is, of course, to say nothing of Hildur Guðnadóttir’s evocative score that drapes over the eerie atmosphere like a poignant and haunting veil, conjuring up feelings of a lost love whose pain is still very present. 

To his credit, in front of the camera, Branagh brings a bit more nuance to the character this go-around, namely in that he is not always in control of the situation as he had been previously.  The old house creaks and groans under the weight of a frantic cast, and there are long stretches of the narrative where Poirot does not know who or what he is faced up against.  In the previous films, it was always known that a person or persons committed the titular crime, but with A Haunting in Venice, it unfolds like Scooby-Doo on Zombie Island (1998) where the template may have gotten thrown out the window in favor of a truly supernatural conclusion.  Alas, Poirot determines the source of all the haunts of the house to be totally human in origin, which is good that it does not betray the audience in that way, but it does feel as if it is cheating just a little in what it decides shows us in the leadup to the finale. 

The first mystery he debunks is Reynolds’ séance, uncovering that the spirits she claims to be in the room are little more than the imaginative work of her two hidden assistants, Nicholas (Ali Khan) and Desdemona Holland (Emma Laird).  Their reveal rounds out the cast which also includes Dr. Leslie Ferrier (Jamie Dornan) and his creepy kid Leopold (Jude Hill), Alicia’s fiancé Maxime Gerard (Kyle Allen), Olga Seminoff (Camille Cottin) the religious caretaker of the home, and lastly, Poirot’s intimidating bodyguard Vitale Portfoglio (Riccardo Scamarcio).  Another noticeable difference between A Hunting in Venice and the other entries in this newer run of Poirot mysteries is that the cast, while recognizable, is not as A-List star-studded as they once were.  There are many recognizable faces, but not all the names come quickly to mind, and it is honestly a refreshing benefit that plays into the film’s favor.  Sure, it is fun to see our favorite movie stars dressed up in period costumes for, essentially, an evening of interactive dinner theatre, but without the added luster, the film and its audience can both focus more on the story as it unfolds. 

As for the story, A Haunting in Venice also takes a different approach than its predecessors. It starts with Poirot there to help dispel Reynold’s craft so that Ariadne can use her as a subject for her next book. A haunting, while exciting in its own right, does not carry the same weight as a murder or a death, but as the night wanes on, Poirot will find himself ensnared in an investigation of not just one, but two untimely demises. In this way, A Hunting in Venice sounds like a story that would pack a larger punch than it actually does, but its clues – both pertinent and distractions – do not inspire the same feeling of wonder because it is so propped up on this idea of the supernatural. When it does come time to sit everyone down and explain the events that transpired, audiences may feel a little cheated and frustrated as the clues that do matter are so minuscule and unfocused that it goes beyond being well hidden, but almost actively ignored by the narrative. More than before we feel as if we are coming up short on information and that the film is holding on to some pivotal clues. 

A Haunting in Venice is a strong effort that seems to be learning from the reactions of Death on the Nile, opting for more physical sets, but some of the other creative choices remain confounding. The entire film is peculiarly framed with characters pushed to the extreme edge of the frame and a reliance on severe Dutch angles that becomes almost comical. It feels very much like a middle effort that is still trying to find what it wants to be, and with 33 Poirot novels in the cannon and a reverence to the character which Branaugh clearly has, this is a cycle that has plenty of room for growth and discovery. Given the episodic nature of the stories, they can freely adopt plenty of different identities, fascinations, and nuances along the way. A Haunting in Venice does not quite reach the heights of Murder on the Orient Express, but the events that unfold in the palazzo seem to have reignited Poirot’s inquisitive flame, and retirement may not yet be in the cards for the famed detective.