Wrapped in the shiny yet disposable wrapper of Kenneth Branagh's remaining talent, we come to the strangely dry and weird-tasting layer of the 'names' pretending to be the chocolate that should be the best bit. FINALLY, we arrive at the cheap and disappointing core. Oh look! It's Kenneth Branagh's ego.
We soon got bored with that didn't we children?
Review of Murder on the Orient Express
