Living quietly in the small village of King's Abbot, sleuth Hercule Poirot becomes involved in the murder of successful industrialist Roger Ackroyd. The number of potential killers is almost as great as the population of the village itself. As Poirot investigates he sees that there might be a connection to the suicide of a local woman, and the death the previous year of her husband. Written by
Ron Kerrigan <email@example.com>
In the scene where Ackroyd's butler, Parker, is drunk and staggering down the road, the car behind him stops. Visible for a brief instant is the car's license plate, COU 313. In the very next scene as the car begins its run, the license plate has changed to JHX 473. See more »
[reading from the murderer's journal]
"Our only captain of industry is the vulgarian Mr. Roger Ackroyd. The factory from which Ackroyd's ill-gotten wealth emanates, encapsulates the life we lead here: ferment and turmoil... It is here that he lines his pockets by combining unlikely chemicals to make unnecessary products while befouling the very air we breathe. He likes to think of himself as a scientist."
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Being a an equal member of the reading and watching public, and having more than the average understanding about what goes into bringing any previous work to film, I always approach filmed versions with a grain of salt.
I do not think I have ever been pleased with a depiction of any Agatha Christie novel. For some reason, the endings of these seem to be less than sacrosanct to writers and producers. Do not ask me why.
Also, it is usually very hard for every nuance a writer brings to her work to translate well onto the screen.
Yet, Suchet's charm has always seemed infectious to me. His Belgian eccentricities always make Poirot come alive to me. I may be overstating this for most tastes, yet, I can opine that Suchet has a way of transcending any plot mischiefs or storyline inaccuracies and makes every experience with Poirot a delight.
Such was the case with The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. It was finely wrought and delicately portrayed in a way that pleased what little I know of what life was like then. If there was much lacking from the book, all I can say is that I certainly expected it and I adapted to it unbegrudgingly. If I want true and complete Christie every time: I will read her books. They are the true source of this brand of pleasure aren't they?
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