"Agatha Christie: Poirot" The Mystery of the Spanish Chest (1991)

User Rating:

7.6/10   

Director:

Andrew Grieve

Writer:

Anthony Horowitz (dramatisation)

TV Series:

"Agatha Christie: Poirot" (1989)

Original Air Date:

17 February 1991 (Season 3, Episode 8)

Genre:

Drama | Mystery | Crime | Thriller

Plot:

Lady Chatterton asks for Poirot's assistance when she comes to fear for the safety of her friend, Marguerite Clayton...

Plot Keywords:

Detective | Belgian | Hercule Poirot | Sleuth | Private Detective

Cast

David Suchet	...	Hercule Poirot
Hugh Fraser	...	Captain Hastings
Philip Jackson	...	Chief Inspector Japp
John McEnery	...	Colonel Curtiss
Caroline Langrishe	...	Marguerite Clayton
Pip Torrens	...	Major Rich
Malcolm Sinclair	...	Edward Clayton
Antonia Pemberton	...	Lady Chatterton
Peter Copley	...	Burgoyne
Sam Smart	...	Smithy
Edward Clayton	...	Rouse
Metin Yenal	...	Umpire
Richard Cawte	...	Young Officer
Victoria Scarborough	...	Party Dancer
Christopher Lamb	...	Party Dancer

Language:

German

Certification:

Australia:M

Company:

ITV Productions

Quotes:

Hercule Poirot: Firstly, I am not a 'bloody little Frog!' I am a bloody little Belgian!

Agatha spoons another horror from the stock of nightmares.

As I recall this episode it pulls shivers up my spine. The episodes in the television adaptation of Poirot were a bit hit-and-miss, but the particularly brutal murder method in this episode found solid anchor in my brain and still lies tethered thirteen years later. It's so memorable that the mere mention of the series or a even just a glance at another episode brings back this horrid mish mash of Nyctophobia, Claustrophobia and ghoulish ocular trauma.

Imagine yourself trapped inside a trunk -- though matchbox coffin might be more apt. You know the lid isn't locked in place. You could leave if you really wanted, but to escape would reveal yourself to a room that would find you so socially abhorrent that you can just about ignore the nagging compulsion. Light intrudes through a keyhole and those cramps in your constricted limbs, begging for the closest release, persuade you to peer into the glaring stream. As your eye adjusts at a distance that allows unobstructed survey of the room, a long thin object blocks your vision; it punctures your cornea, pushes swiftly through your retina and follows the optic nerve deep into your brain. Here you will remain, undiscovered until the morning, in what you correctly identified as your coffin.