![]() ![]() Those of you who side with him – who hunt out repeats of The Murder Next to the Charles Rennie Mackintosh Fireguard or The Mystery of the Missing Frank Lloyd Wright Monograph – should look away now. My husband, by way of relations-severing contrast, loves it for precisely this. The determined retention of the worst aspect of Christie – the constant feeling of cipher-characters being moved into place by an all-knowing hand, like chess pieces with Marcel waves and costume jewellery. I did understand that it was A Quality Affair but I just couldn’t bear it. Nor – for lo, these last five years since the series ended – has anyone on TV dared to try. From the moment he smoothed down his moustache and sallied primly forth as the Belgian detective in 1989 in the first of what would become 70 episodes of Agatha Christie’s Poirot, to devote himself to the solving of mysteries in Art Deco properties across the land, he simply was Hercule. ![]() And by Poirot I mean the bespoke-padded, neatly-pomaded form of David Suchet, who dominated the Christie cultural landscape for a quarter of a century. M y husband and I married across many divides – class, political, minimal personal hygiene levels – but nothing separates us so firmly as our attitudes to Poirot. ![]()
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