Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express is one of the most popular stories in the murder mystery genre, foundational even. As such, it benefits from instant title recognition for motivated consumers, with the side effect that time and familiarity untangle its twists irreparably. Like A Christmas Carol, Wizard of Oz, and other classic tales of similar stature, the endgames are telegraphed, the resolutions anticipated. What we’re left with is the opportunity to watch it all unfold in comfort and a gleeful nudge and whisper of “this is the best part” to whomever you’re watching it with. Don’t let the clichés get in the way of a good time.
Since this is a mystery, and there are plenty of young people who have yet to reach back into antiquity to satiate their love for sleuthing with the protagonist, I’ll do my best not to spoil the best parts. Overall, this play is about justice. How the state can fail to give it, and who gets to step up in lieu of satisfaction. It is a story as old as time. It’s oddly prescient given the bs we endure daily in 2025’s Amerikkka, but that’s a different article.
Rick Hammerly directed this version for Virginia Repertory Theatre. As per usual, VA Rep spares no imagination in staging the production. The sets are lush and give nod after nod to the cinematic history of the story. The use of filmic backdrops, golden age Hollywood cheats like rear projections showcasing implied movement (I mean, the story is on a (mostly) moving train) and that distinctive 1930’s line delivery – fast, snarky, clipped and stiff upper lipped. It feels like a product of its time lovingly recreated in the rearview of the present. That in itself is charming. The sets, while gorgeous, seemed a bit unwieldy. Obvious choices to patch over that fact caused some pacing issues (that I’m sure I’m not going to hear the end of for pointing out.) Practice and repetition always iron out the kinks in the end though. As per usual in the theatre world, a Director will carve, whittle, and stump a work to fit budgetary or time restraints. Hammerly gives a fine shave to the story without sacrificing a single beat of its’ Tell Tale Heart – and deserves credit for it.
The cast is presented with an obstacle worth noting. The conceit of the ensemble is that they’re all from various walks of life, from every corner of the European diaspora. Accents seem to stand in for acting from time to time, and even that is a bit unfair of me to point out considering the accents ARE the acting. You’ll understand, I promise. Ugh, it’s so hard not to spoil this show. Damn you, plot twists! That said, there is something about the era in which the play was written. There was a fascination for funny little speech quirks, something that seems impolite to point out in modern times. In hindsight, it formed an unfortunate backbone of comedy in the 1930s. It is a product of its time, for sure.
Beyond that, Lawrence Redmond’s Poirot honors the mannerly, human, character Agatha Christie wrote nearly a century ago. Poirot’s character has been stretched like taffy to clownish proportions for the sake of comedy or to convey elitism in so many previous depictions. Redmond does a fine job bringing some flair to Hercule without leaning on the impishness that so often erodes him into caricature. By the time this beset-upon detective genius delivers his “solutions” and denouement, we understand the gravity of his position in the dispensation of justice. We can see him as ‘actual size’, not a likely Bugs Bunny costume or Groucho Marx impression. I appreciated that.
Monsieur Bouc, as portrayed by Frank Britton, was perfect. Warm, accommodating, flirtatious, kind, and completely up to the task of making everyone else better. Britton hosted the characters onstage and the audience in the dark in equal measure. Along with Mr. Redmond’s Poirot, he anchored the show. Susan Sanford’s Helen Hubbard gets the majority of the laugh lines, and even through some tech difficulties, manages to bring it home in that American Continental we expect from our Catherine Hepburns and Mae Wests.
I am not singling out performances for the rest of the cast here for the sake of not repeating critiques that apply across the board. Not a dig, but I felt they all ebbed and flowed to the tide of the play’s occasions equally. Knowing you are “The Governess” or “The Princess” or “The Scottish Military Dude” in an ensemble murder mystery cast is like knowing you are “Mr Mustard in the Library with the candlestick”. You are a device, a prop to the backdrop, a type. To all of their credits, the archetypes called for were exactly those delivered. This gives ample room for the Poirots, Bouc’s and Hubbards a chance to shine and dance their jig. I assume without reservation that these actors would have blistered our attentions with meatier fare.
This isn’t about that, though. It’s Murder on the Orient Express. This is the play that makes young adults obsess over the mystery genre. This is the gateway to the detective serial – to Sherlock Holmes, to Ms. Marple, Philip Marlowe, and Sam Spade. This is popcorn and blankets on Thanksgiving with the cousins and grandma. This is Agatha Christie at her most accessible and theatre at its most enjoyable. Once again, a big thumbs up for the cast, crew, and technical engineers behind the magic. Bring someone who’s never seen it. It’ll keep them off their phones.
Photos by Aaron Sutten
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