The book group that I’m in at work picks books that either have already been made into a movie or soon will be made into a movie. It’s made for an interesting mix. And like most book clubs, it also means there are titles you’d never pick up on your own.
Murder on the Orient Express is one of these. Mysteries and thrillers are not my genre. I’m not interested in looking for clues or remembering what someone said that one time that contradicts what they said now. Or, even worse, not having the prior knowledge to know that a thing isn’t true because someone in Job X would not know about Thing Y. As a kid, I’d skip through Encyclopedia Brown to find the answer and was always irritated at how random it was. How the hell does anyone pick up on these things? I can’t solve The Mystery of Where the Fuck Are My Keys and I’m supposed to believe that some kid saw a thermos and knew there was a cold ping pong ball? Perhaps I’m overreacting in an effort to hide the fact that MY KEYS WERE JUST THERE WHAT THE HELL?
Sherlock is the exception to the rule, because… well…
The ridiculousness is built in to the character and I’m willing to give in to the magic of it all. Plus they’re pretty.
I had very little prior knowledge of Hercule Poirot. I knew there was a show on PBS or the BBC and he was a detective, so he wasn’t for me. I hadn’t read anything by Agatha Christie, although I did see the play for And then There Were None. (Had no clue who did it.) I had a vague understanding that she either invented the crime novel or at least made huge contributions and set the standard for everything that came after. Still… not my thing.
Let’s get to the murder…