![]() While Artefact Studio’s The ABC Murders sought to put you in the shoes of the northern European hound, First Cases puts you in the shoes of, well, you, reading a novel by Poirot. The Belgian detective’s latest arrival on Switch is again courtesy of French publisher Microids, but the developer this time is Blazing Griffin, who has engaged with the Ardennian gumshoe in a very different way. Mystery fans will have been on the lookout for Hercule Poirot: The First Cases After The Gruesome Crime Scene That Was The ABC Murders. Merci and au revoir.Captured on Nintendo Switch (Portable / Undocked) This time, given that this was Agatha Christie's way of killing off her creation too, and that David Suchet has said in the Radio Times that this is the end, there is no coming back. We saw Poirot's funeral in the previous episode, but he was bluffing that time, just another cunning disguise (as a dead person). Shuffle off your mortal coil … no, that's not Othello is it? That's why Poirot had to shoot him – symmetrically – in the forehead, thereby breaking the Geneva convention for sleuths. And it meant that Norton would never have been caught. But dunnit by applying extreme psychological pressure to other people so that they committed his murders for him. And at enormous length, even by Poirot's standards well, it is the last one, he can go out with a bit of a flourish non? And this case does require an awful lot of explaining. It's conducted by letter, from beyond the grave. What about the denouement though, who's going to do that? Pas de probleme. ![]() I think we witness the genuine pain of an actor letting go of the body he's occupied for 24 years. Gasping, struggling to open his phial of amyl nitrate ( mes poppeurs?). I'm totally in the dark, in every way, but having fun.Īnd then another death: OMD (Oh mon dieu), Poirot himself. It's exactly as Agatha Christie – and Poirot – should be. Out of the window a thunderstorm rages, and shooting stars rain down. Tables are turned, literally, meaning the wrong people are poisoned. And dressing up, and wearing false moustaches, and running off to bloody Africa. And having affairs, with him, and her, and who knows who else? And mistaking each other for other people, or rabbits, or spotted woodpeckers. Then Barbara Franklin drops dead, poisoned apparently, by her husband, or by herself, or by blundering Hastings? Next it's Norton the timid birdwatcher's turn, with aforementioned central bullet to the forehead.Įveryone is poisoning and shooting each other, or popping sleeping pills into each other's hot chocolate. Hastings plans a murder himself, but falls asleep before he can go through with it, and then thinks better of it in the morning. She doesn't look much like a rabbit to me – I'm not convinced it was an accident. Next, Mrs Luttrell the landlady is mistaken for a rabbit while walking on the lawn and gunned down from a window by her husband. And the pigeons from the sky, gunned down by hearty English chaps with shotguns. Even the flies themselves, in the cobwebs in this spooky old house. Soon they're dropping like flies, everyone and everything. "I say Poirot," he says, "I know I'm not much of a fellow, but no reason to rub it in." You and me both mate, I have no idea what the hell is going on. And it'll be tied in with several old cases too, including the case for which the innocent lady was sadly hanged at the beginning. Yes, Poirot kills a man, but that's jumping the gun, almost literally.įor now, he knows there's going to be a murder, but not who's going to do it, or who's going to get done. Symmetry: Poirot likes his symmetry, as we find out later, when he shoots Stephen Norton plumb in the middle of his forehead. He's with his old wingman Captain Hastings, at a country guest house, the scene of their first crime together. Well, the beginning of the end, David Suchet's final outing as the second most famous Belgian ever (after Tintin, ahead of Marouane Fellaini). ![]() Not that he ever wasn't pale, or was especially strong or young. OMG, he is Agatha Christie's Poirot (ITV), n'est-ce pas? (Because when you're dealing with Poirot it is necessary to throw in the odd French phrase, mon cher). ![]() She has an audience, a little old man, like a crumpled bird, in a wheelchair. He sentences another woman, the (innocent) sister of the pianist, it turns out later, to be hanged. Somewhere – and sometime – else, a judge puts on his black cap. A lady's fingers play the piano, mournfully.
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