Thanks to David Suchet, people have a specific ideal for Hercule Poirot. He must be arrogant and suave. He must be calm and unruffled, like a deaf partridge. And he must be above all of the petty little squabbles around him. Because he is Poirot.
To be fair, this is also the Hercule Poirot that Agatha Christie designed.
But this is not the Hercule Poirot that Sarah Phelps wrote. If she had gotten the character of Poirot right, I could have overlooked the unfortunate hyper-sexuality, but she didn't, she got him wrong. There has never been a more depressed, morose, or tragic incarnation of Poirot than the one in this miniseries. Now, I could blame John Malkovich, but he did not write the screenplay. Therefore, not his fault. It's not his fault that Sarah Phelps decided to rewrite Poirot's history and turn him into a decades old liar. That offended me the most. The very idea of Poirot lying about his history is even more preposterous than the fabricated background she created for him.
So no. Alas, no. If she'd gotten Poirot right, like I said, the other millstones could have been overlooked and I might have rated a 7 or 8. But when the screenplay writer shows no respect for the origins of a literary character and its creator, that's when I get off the boat.
