Second in the series, "Murder in the Mews" establishes once more the fidelity with which the 1930s is reproduced. I can't get over it. What is it -- OCD? When Japp, with his face like the mask of tragedy, picks up his office telephone and puts it to his ear, you can't help noticing that the cord between the receiver and the cradle is braided and looks sheathed in wool. I don't know if English telephone actually looked that way in 1935, but I'm impressed anyway. If they didn't, they SHOULD have. The same goes for the cars, the cartoon diesel train zooming out of the credits with its load of futurism -- sometimes even the streamlined art moderne of the architecture, brick and glass and wavy lines. I mean it. I'm impressed.
It's Guy Fawkes Day, which few Americans will understand unless they compare it to The Fourth of July. The supposed symbolism is different, naturally, but that's not the important thing anyway. Both holidays are what the sociologist Van Gennep called a rite of intensification. They give the members of the community a chance to get together and put their group loyalty on display. While they're watching the celebration, Japp comes up with the remark that his wife can't stand fireworks. "Ah, yes, the delicate sensibilities of the woman," nods Poirot. "Maybe. Maybe. I think it's just that she doesn't like to see people enjoying themselves." Great little exchange there. It goes with Japp's face.
The story is clever, as most of them are, and Poirot's final explanation comes as a surprise, although not an especially believable one. There's more humor than usual. It's all very diverting.
It's Guy Fawkes Day, which few Americans will understand unless they compare it to The Fourth of July. The supposed symbolism is different, naturally, but that's not the important thing anyway. Both holidays are what the sociologist Van Gennep called a rite of intensification. They give the members of the community a chance to get together and put their group loyalty on display. While they're watching the celebration, Japp comes up with the remark that his wife can't stand fireworks. "Ah, yes, the delicate sensibilities of the woman," nods Poirot. "Maybe. Maybe. I think it's just that she doesn't like to see people enjoying themselves." Great little exchange there. It goes with Japp's face.
The story is clever, as most of them are, and Poirot's final explanation comes as a surprise, although not an especially believable one. There's more humor than usual. It's all very diverting.