Agatha Christie was one of the Big Four of British mystery writers of the first half of the 20th century.
Interestingly enough, they were all women. Christie was by far the most successful in terms of sales. But far superior as writers were Ngaio March (who was actually from New Zealand) and my own favourites, Margery Allingham and Dorothy Sayers.
Compared to those two, especially to the blissfully brilliant Margery Allingham, Christie was amazingly prosaic. Her plots were contrived (although she could turn round and turn out an absolute stunner such as the still-amazing The Mystery of Roger Ackroyd) and her prose was leaden.
But somehow, Agatha Christie's characters grabbed the public's attention and interest by the throat. And Christie never slackened that grip.
Those characters included a very annoying bright young pair, Tommy and Tuppence Beresford, an equally annoying old busybody spinster Miss Marple (a role played by Joan Hickson, Angela Lansbury and, most memorably, by Margaret Rutherford), and our dapper, anally neat Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot.
Peter Ustinov was the most famous early Poirot on screen, in both feature-film and television adaptations of Christie's novels, most memorably in Death on the Nile. His was a most unconvincing performance, just a Ustinovian circus-act with a bit of plot thrown in as well.
But since 1989, when David Suchet first appeared as Poirot, there has been no other Poirot worth even thinking about. Suchet has subsumed himself in this role. There is not a trace of Suchet the actor left - all that remains is Poirot, to the slick black hair and 'I'm so clever' twinkle in his eye.
This creature is half-man, half-penguin and all Christie. And there's none of the 'Look at me; I'm such a great actor' style of the likes of Dustin Hoffman. David Suchet simply gives the unmatchable, totally definitive performance of Agatha Christie's irritating little Belgian detective. This is superlative acting.
Five Little Pigs is one of the strongest entrants in the four DVDs which have been released here through the ABC. Poirot is summonsed by Lucy Crale, who had been sent to Canada 14 years earlier, aged just seven. She has now returned to England. And she wants to know the truth: did her mother Caroline really murder her father, the famous bohemian painter Amyas? Was her execution justified?
Poirot agrees to exhume the case. And there are surprises at every turn. It seems that almost everyone in the country home on that murder-weekend had a case for killing Amyas... but who did the deadly deed?
The plot isn't the strongest, but the elegiac camerawork of wonderful summery English country gardens and houses really does excuse just about anything. And the acting is overall pretty good, though Suchet's priggish little detective is, of course the master stroke. We have Rachel Stirling as the convicted killer Caroline (she is, incidentally, the daughter of Diana Rigg), Aimee Mullins as Lucy, and Julie Cox as Elsa Greer, the young wealthy socialite model who is Amyas's latest squeeze.
And as Amyas's best friend Philip Blake, we have Toby Stephens (son of Stephens and Maggie Smith), along with Sophie Winkleman as Caroline's half-sister Angela. Throw in Marc Warren as Meredith Blake, a mad chemist who can knock up a poison for every occasion and Gemma Jones as the Governess, Miss Williams, and we have a full brace of suspects for Poirot to sink his dainty little teeth in.
The solution is, of course, the least important part of the proceedings. The luscious scenery, the great acting, the overall nostalgic style of the whole affair are what matters, and we have it all in bucket-loads here.
