Agatha Christie Seven Dials review – Do you think Downton Abbey is real? This terrible adaptation of yours television

‘TIt’s the season for your annual Agatha Christie novel. In recent years, adaptations have been imbued with the sadness and instability of the post-war backdrop against which they all exist, and Sarah Phelps has given them rich, dark, adult allusions to the BBC.

However, with the latest one for Netflix by Chris Chibnall, we’re back in the world of old fashion, clipped vowels and dialogue filled with nothing but plot, designed to put puzzle pieces in the right position for the next part and then the next part and then the solution – this time at the end of three one-hour episodes.

We start with Ian Glen being gored to death by a bull in Rhondda, 1920. He is handed a note with a clock printed on it just before he is disemboweled – because these are Agatha Christie’s seven discs and the clocks have blood everywhere.

We then go to a party at a large house held by northern industrialists, the Coates, who have rented the house from Lady Caterham (Helena Bonham Carter) because she has class but no money, and they have money but no class. You get the idea. If you don’t, there’s a scene where Mrs. Coote cheats on the bridge, so we all know where we stand. But I have to say this: If you have posh people who goof off on others, you have to make sure they don’t make grammatical errors everywhere, unless it’s intentional and ridiculously intentional. If not, you should know that this is “the difference between you and me” and not “the difference between you and me” and various other points. Is this the smallest hill I’ll die on? Yes.

The daughter of the house, Mrs. Eileen “Bundle” Brent (Mia McKenna Bruce) is having a good time at the party. Jerry Wade (Corey Melchrest), her late brother’s best friend, who was killed in the war (“Life’s too short. We all learned that the hard way”), asks her to dinner and explains that he plans to propose to her. Unfortunately, he was found dead in his bed the next morning, apparently after a sleep overdose. But he was a notorious sleeper, and never needed a sleeping potion! This fact was so well known that his deceitful companions hid eight alarm clocks (or… By request) around the room to wake him up that morning. But why are they all on the mantle now? Why is one of them missing? (Made seven)? And why was the missing person later found broken in the grass?

After a working-class policeman breaks everything he touches at a potential crime scene, Bandel decides to investigate the matter herself. The Cootes depart hurriedly, pausing only to make one of the servants cry and for Sir Oswald to point to the pile of Caterhams and declare “I can get into this world whenever I garnish my check-book. They say you can’t buy a class but it’s the cheapest and most convenient purchase in all England!” I know it’s very early but if I hear any more monkey-written speeches this year I will be surprised and horrified.

At this point in the proceedings, I realize that this is Agatha Christie by way of Enid Blyton, made for an international market that believes Downton Abbey is real and Paddington Bear holds the Queen’s hand in heaven. Other than that, he’s tasked with teaching the complainers a lesson about reproduction. “Well – you’ll learn the hard way why some of Agatha’s back catalog remains undeveloped, and next time we give you another Poirot, you’ll take your Belgian chops and like them.”

As we move forward, through the motions, we somehow watch an older production of Joan Hickson Marple, as Bundle looks at visible stains on the furniture and interviews the crying maids, anonymous notes arrive, letters are discovered mentioning the “seven discs” but not what they mean, trips are made to London, Iain Glen’s identity is revealed and the con man who helps her (a completely wasted Nabhan Ridwan) is shot (“You’ve been shot!” shouts Bundle) and she She cradles the dying man who is supposed to be aware of this fact and is unlikely to want to be reminded). Martin Freeman finally arrives as the real detective Supt Battle. While Patel brings order to the investigation, Freeman adds some credibility to the television proceedings, holding things together and elevating them with his presence and instinctive sense of how sincerely and firmly these things need to be played. It’s comforting, but whether that’s enough to get through the uninspired three hours of the supposed spy thriller is up to you. Retro without taste and full of modern concerns about everyone’s emotional well-being is a combination that doesn’t work for me.