An American movie actress, best known for playing dumb blondes, is Scotland Yard's prime suspect when her husband, Lord Edgware, is murdered. The great detective, Hercule Poirot, digs deeper into the case.
Ten people are invited for a weekend on an island by a Mr U. N. Own, but he isn't on the island. At dinner a record is played, by that all the people are accused of murder, suddenly the first of them is dead, then the next... It seems to be that one of them is the murderer Mr. U. N. Own, but the person in suspect is always the person who is murdered next. At last only two people seem to be left. Written by
Stephan Eichenberg <firstname.lastname@example.org>
This movie, as all existent versions of "Ten Little Indians," is based not on the novel by Agatha Christie but on her very similar play. While the identity of the murderer is the same in both versions, the outcome of who survives the murderer's plot is very different. See more »
In a flashback, Mr. Owen kills the seventh victim, takes a drink from a flask, and then tosses the flask away, leaving the stopper open. However, when two characters find the flask the next day, the stopper is closed. See more »
The first line of the nursery rhyme appears onscreen - "Ten Little Indians Went Out To Dine...." - superimposed over a set of small statues of Native Americans - this is immediately followed by the film's title "And Then There Were None". See more »
No Agatha Christie story has ever been made into a better movie than this one. The movie has the altered ending from the book (which I'm told was changed by Christie for the stage version because let's face it. The book's ending would never *ever* work in a dramatized setting, film or stage) and the character of Tony Marston has become a Russian prince to accomodate the casting of Mischa Auer, but apart from that Christie's book has been flawlessly translated right down to the last detail. The look, the settings, the characters, all of it is just right. There are also some wonderfully comedic performances that veer into some delicious black comedy at times (my favorite being Louis Hayward's bemused response to Roland Young's bumbling deductions: "And then he takes the chopper and splits open his own cranium. Fact. I'd like to see you do that yourself.") About the only casting flaw is June Duprez, who is woefully bland and dull as Vera Claythorne, the lead female character.
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