Sybil Bruncheon's “A Few of My Favorite Things”… Agatha Christie's "Hercule Poirot"...

These are some of the most famous portrayals of Agatha Christie's iconic character, Hercule Poirot... and each may have its strong points, entertaining nuances, or annoying weaknesses.

In my opinion, and again, it's only my opinion, (like my feelings about performances of Jane Marple) some are loaded with brilliance, and others are... um... well, nearly unforgivable. In fact, I will not even name them all because of that; sulky, arbitrary, unintelligible, pedestrian, self-indulgent, high-schoolish, frivolously clownish... I'm amazed Christie hasn't clawed her way up through the rocky clay to seize some of them by their throats and drag them to Hell!

On the other hand, for me, there are two ideal Poirots; for the "small screen", it's of course, David Suchet. Interestingly, if you've seen him in other projects, he personally bears no resemblance to the little Belgian detective, short of being... well, short. (He's only 5' 7") He created the small egg-shaped appearance of Poirot by padding himself, changing his center of gravity, slowing his stride to mincing little steps, confining all his gestures to close-to-the-torso hand-fluttering, and reducing his naturally deep manly voice to higher-pitched whispering. His Poirot could almost be accused of being a fey "camp" impersonation of a 1930's "faggot". His fussing and compulsive housekeeping would be off-putting in a lesser actor, but Suchet carries it all off, and charmingly so. Coincidentally, Peter Ustinov, who played Poirot to Suchet's Inspector Japp many years earlier, told Suchet that he could play Poirot himself and gave him some of the Christie books to read... and the rest is history, literally! Suchet holds the record for playing the little detective in more projects, in more venues, and for more years than any other actor... in history!! His mustache alone underwent an extraordinary evolution as can be seen in the reruns!...

... and a Poirot for the "silver screen"? For me, it can only be Albert Finney. When he first appeared in 1974, audiences were startled by Finney's mannerisms, his stylized vocalization and gestures, and the fact that he'd evolved from being a "leading man" (of sorts) into a such an extreme almost freakish character. But director Sidney Lumet loaded the film with such an extraordinary supporting cast, such style and elegance, such beautiful cinematography, editing, and a lush film score to boot, and all confined in the tight compartments of the Orient Express that Finney's Poirot felt perfectly natural. His meticulous fastidiousness even while dying his hair and mustache is perfect. In fact, he was nominated for an Oscar as Best Actor, and the film received another five nominations in other categories.

When the story was remade yet again later in 2017, the budget was 50 times greater; there were spectacular but unnecessary CGI exteriors and vistas, a surprising dearth of style and elegance, and superfluous embellishments... like that absurd mile-wide mustache, and reconfigured into a Van Dyke of all things!!... you notice I haven't mentioned the actor/producer by name... oh well.

I guess it just goes to show that some characters in the history of fiction, no matter how iconic and brilliant, are not "actor proof"... Fortunately, Christie was dead before most of these stumbling attempts were made. A blessing of sorts. Right before she died, she stated that MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS (1974) was one of her two most favorite films of her work. The other was WITNESS FOR THE PROSECUTION (1957)... with no Hercule Poirot!

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Sybil Bruncheon's "What's The Real Story?"...

…you pick your favorite to go with the picture:

1) Sister Mary Meow-ergretta looked out on the dazzling world whirling around outside the Konvent of Kontented Kitties and wondered, “What if?... What if I had remained on the street all those years ago, and risked one or two of my nine lives for a weekend of glamour, velvet pillows, heavy petting… and sardines? And perhaps, yes, even a sparkly collar with a tag… or a bell!”…

2) Madame Mousette watched from her perch on the Rue du Maquereau where the guillotine had been set up in the small park across the way. She knew, as did her fellow Revolutionaries, that heads would roll and with their help. They continued to claw the names of the guilty into coffee tables, sofa arms, and in unwinding rolls of toilet paper which they scattered on their atelier floors… for the authorities to find… and act on.

3) Pinky was very aware that his humans had taken away the strange holiday tree with the blinky-lights and wiggly-toys that hung all over it for him to bat at and pull down. He missed being able to jump off the sofa up into the branches looking for a squirrel, a bird, or maybe a piece of cheese or hotdog that might have learned how to fly… whatever. Sometimes, he secretly invited some of his neighborhood kitty-pals in through the little flip-door to jump into the tree, maybe to tip it over and break a vase… or wake up grandpa in his chair and make him screech. Pinky heard that the sparkly-star on top of the tree might even poke out a person’s eye, and that made his pals laugh and laugh. They all thought that would be funny to see. And the little house the humans put under the tree? With the tiny-people and animals?... he and his pals loved knocking them over... or worse… Pinky himself had chewed up a couple of cows, a sheep, a wise-man or two, and then thrown the baby out of the stick-bed and climbed in himself to take a nap. He was only sorry about one thing; the tiny-lady kneeling by the stick-bed… first of all, maybe he shouldn’t have chewed her head off, and then hidden her in the cat litter… and secondly, maybe he shouldn’t be pretending to be her in the front window… even if it DID make his pals out in the front yard laugh and laugh… whatever.

4) (to be continued)

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A New George Sweet Doorway Mystery… “A Door… ajar…" (Part One)

1990: To live large or to live simply. Do I start at the beginning, or at the end? I had finally moved out of my parents' basement in Ohio, and I suppose you could say I was whisked away to Never-Never Land when I stumbled upon what was reported to be one of Napoleon's many “stays” in Paris. With broad winks and sweaty giggles, Mme. Painne-d'épice, the plump landlady, pressed her great squishy bulk against me as she confided that one or two of the little corporal’s several mistresses might have lived in this very building… perhaps even in the attic which had been converted into the garret I was to rent. And while her cheerful chattering and chuckling faded into a soft jumble, I imagined that during his rise to power, Napoleon, “Le Petit Caporal” himself might have beheld much the same view of the enchanting, mesmerizing, fantasy world of Montmartre. … “You zee dat leetle house over dare?”, Mme. Painne-d'épice whispered as she nudged me... and she began the tale, the first of several about that little rooftop maisonette with the garden that I beheld just outside and below my window… the one with the door… slightly ajar.

1891: “The Cottage on Top” as it was then called appeared to be a peaceful haven in the city but actually was haunted by the soul of a wronged lover who committed suicide 100 years earlier… His name was Signor Claronce Bemmaliono, and he was a clown of great repute in the Garibaldi & Fritzheimer Circus Of Astral Wonders & Earthly Delights that toured most of Europe in the 1880s. His professional stage name was Bomba-Lino, and children adored him in over 14 languages. It was said that he was better known to the populaces of some countries than their own prime ministers were… and it was true. People passing by him in cities and villages alike would recognize him, even without his clown make-up, and rush up to shake his hand or even hug him, showering him with chocolates, cheeses, loaves of fresh bread, flowers, and love… oh, so much love.

And yet here he was, on that December evening in 1891 in his own little maisonette that once held such joy for him, reading her note for the umpteenth time. He still didn’t know why she left. He had given her everything! EVERYTHING!... and that everything was not paltry. As a star of the touring circus, he made a considerable salary. Certainly much more than a shoemaker, a blacksmith, a tailor, or a tavern owner would be able to give her. Many people actually thought that silly, jolly, roly-poly Bomba-Lino might be making as much as a lawyer or even a doctor… and his wife’s jewelry and clothes certainly looked like it.

He crumpled her note and let it drop, and looked down at his hands, his open palms seeming to plead for understanding, for solace, and then he stared at the floor beyond them… his focus going far away... and deep inside at the same time. There was no solace. No one came to comfort him. There was no loving whisper from inside… or from above. Nothing. And so he made his plan. He wanted Melba to be publicly embarrassed by the terrible torment she inflicted on him. For years afterwards, the neighbors would point down to the very spot on the terrace from where they said he had jumped to his fate… well, "jumped" might not be quite the right word. Not with all the damage to everyone’s windows and masonry.

You see he had shot himself out of a cannon in his dining room. The only witness was a neighbor who happened to be looking down from the garret just above. He told the gendarmes who rushed to investigate immediately after that he heard a tremendous explosion and saw the roof of the maisonette burst open with a flash of flames and projectiles! Then the golden glow dimmed, morphed into a blood smokiness, and vanished in a final platinum flash… The deafening roar echoed once, twice, three times off the surrounding blocks and alleyways, then vanished as well in the distance. A moment of stunned silence, and then the barking, yelling, screaming of all of those below and beyond… who only moments before neither cared nor even knew of the anguish that one solitary soul had decided he needed to escape from. And leave it to Bomba-Lino to have made his exit like a showman! A comedic showman worthy of the great Vaudeville houses or the Moulin Rouge itself; with an implausible flourish of theatrical flash and absurdity. No one had realized that the huge crate the workers had lifted to the rooftop maisonette was not a new piano for Madame Melba… NO! It was Bomba-Lino’s own circus cannon, painted with bright decorations of garlanded Greek gods and goddesses, stars and planets, and a full smiling moon peeking through clouds… presumably to indicate where the occupant would soon be visiting. Yes, Bomba-Lino. The Great & Belovéd Bomba-Lino had shot himself out of his own circus cannon! And the landlord decided that was a perfect time to install the skylight.

(End of Part One. Stay tuned for Part Two of A New George Sweet Doorway Mystery… “A Door… ajar…")

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A New George Sweet Doorway Mystery… “A Door… ajar…” (Part Two)

1990: And that was how it all began in the early Spring.

By October, I considered myself a Parisian. Foolish, I know, but that was my youthful and naïve American exuberance. I had become oh-so aware of the eccentricities of my neighbors and their lives around me, or what I imagined their lives to be. My amiable chats-in-passing with local shopkeepers that I liked to think were so very “très intime” were really just them being terribly patient with “le petit chou américain”; the little American cabbage. That’s how they referred to me… all of them. Even the elderly street sweeper, a cab driver, the florists, bakers, everyone. “Oh, he’s the one staying in that attic that overlooks la petite maisonette de jardin dans les étoiles” which my squishy landlady translated as “the little garden house… in the stars”.

And so, I fell into a routine, not boring certainly, but regular, of being that little art student, the cabbage, in Mme. Painne-d'épice’s attic; amusing, slightly silly, and indulged, when they had the time, by the locals. I picked out my baguettes, the charming but affordable burgundies or bordeauxs, some cheeses recommended oh-so highly by Monsieur Pneuàplat, the small bunches of fragrant purple gillies, and day-after-day trudged up the leaning flights of creaking stairs to my home… truly my home.

It was a blue 'blu' night in Monmartre… And at dusk, as the apartment lights started shining, the city magic would begin... I searched relentlessly for my binoculars, but they were not where I had left them from the night before… during my nightly “visits” into other people’s lives. My cleaning lady, Zavøn, must have “put them away” again! She didn’t approve at all of my “spee-ing on zee nice nahbors” as she put it half seriously, half teasingly. Truth be told, she was often just as curious as I, and I had caught her one afternoon when I came home earlier than expected, gazing hungrily through them at the windows and skylight of the “maisonette de jardin dans les étoiles” on the next building. Startled, she whirled around in a mixture of embarrassment and pique… and was that a little fear too? But she covered it with a charming laugh at her own expense which I couldn’t resist, and I mock-wrestled with her and the binoculars, scolding her and thrilling to the camaraderie we shared as naughty “spee-ers”.

I looked under the sofa, behind the linen chest, and finally found my binoculars in the old, squeaking icebox that Zavøn had defrosted earlier in the week. I dried them off and scanned the usual windows, soaring here and there for updates on their little dramas. Tonight, I marveled that a story glowed behind each window. A story for each and every person in each and every window, and I wondered if there was enough time to read them all as I flew by.

There was Jacques, the do-it-yourselfer, a fairly adept carpenter, and nudist. No matter how many windows Jacques added to his roof top abode, it being Paris, his nude antics went unnoticed… or perhaps only uncomplained about, even when he accidentally-on-purpose strolled around fully aroused, carrying a croissant and coffee first thing in the morning. Tonight, however, he was fully dressed, well-dressed, and seemed to be yelling into the phone which he dragged as far as the wall cord would allow him as he waved his free arm about and strode from one end of the room to the other, and finally out of sight, perhaps to the kitchen… I could still his voice though, very faint though unintelligible through the open window carried as it was on the still Fall air. My French wasn’t nearly as perfect as it should have been considering the private lessons I splurged on, but I did understand a little… something about “They may know about it”… and “You have no solutions ever!”… and “That’s why we’re here!”, that last part screamed in fury. I wondered if any other neighbors were hearing snatches of his rage, but no one was standing at their windows looking down or over, so it seemed I was alone as an audience member to this little urban melodrama…

I flew into the air and must have shouted or even given a small scream when a heavy hand grabbed my shoulder! I whirled about and would have dropped my binoculars if the thick leather strap hadn’t been around my neck. There she was, grinning broadly and smelling strongly of blue cheese and baloney, “Madame P.” as I now called my landlady. “What are you doing, you naughty boy? Air you speeing on dee nahbors? Zavøn haz told me abut yure mis-cheefs, and I hahv caught her myself doing zee same!”. I must have blushed, not only at being caught at “my mis-cheefs” but also at screaming like a three year old girl when she startled me. Whatever I was doing, Mme. P could barely contain her hearty laughter, bubbling and climbing, receding and then starting anew. But how could I resent her? Her heart was always open and basically very kind… and generous! She held up, almost as a peace offering, a bottle of Veuve Clicqout rosé and two surprisingly fine crystal flutes… monogrammed with ornate flourishes and a central “B”, so elaborately embellished as to be almost illegible. “Forr mon petit chou chou!... air you ready forr anozer story? Seens you look so close over dare? Air you?”. And as she poured, she gestured down to the glowing little garden house… in the stars.

(End of Part Two. Stay tuned for Part Three of A New George Sweet Doorway Mystery… “A Door… ajar…”)

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A New George Sweet Doorway Mystery… “A Door… ajar…” (Part Three)

1990: Mme. P and I clinked our glasses, and sipped the icy champagne… well, I sipped. She swigged half the flute and quickly topped hers off again, and laughed heartily. “You drink zee champahnia liken Americain! You moost grahb zee joy ov zee champahnia! Note teep toe op to eet like an old ladeee!”.  She clinked my glass again, almost too hard, and saluted me, expecting me to do the same… and I did. But I glanced at the rim as I raised it to make sure I wouldn’t be swallowing a chip of the delicate crystal. I wouldn’t, thank God.

She finished her glass, refilled again, and filled mine till it just began to overflow and then murmured close to my ear in another cloud of baloney and blue cheese, “Eez eet time for anozer story ov de maisonette? You know my price…”, and now a lusty chuckle from deep inside that ample bosom. I blushed and looked at my shoes, but laughed along with her at my expense. My sad command of French amused everyone up and down the block, and had made me a bit of a celebrity, especially when I made errors of vocabulary, grammar, and pronunciation, which ended in suggestive or outright pornographic faux pas. Gales of laughter till tears ran down reddening cheeks; that was my experience at least every other week, but I wanted everyone to be delighted especially when I was picking out the best baguette, the freshest filet, the brightest Bordeaux. And so, I smiled into her leek-green eyes and struggled, “la mayzonay day jar-dinn don lay-twalls”. I tried my sweetest grin on her, and she melted. “Verry goot! You air eemprooving all zee time! Zee lassons air goot! Ahnd now, dee store ahnd dee champania!... ahnd mebee latair som Chanterelles et Escargots en Croute a l’Alsace. Tu es d'accord?”… and I did. She settled in on the seen-better-days chintz sofa with the wonky back leg, she stared straight ahead, and slowly started. I looked down at the amber glow of the windows and their reflection on the misted pavement…

1978:  It was a cool, almost frosty night as the sun set on another winter day in Paris. The door to her maisonette was slightly ajar, and golden light poured out like warm caramel onto the drizzle-dampened chill of the concrete deck. Shivering in her retreat on the very top floor of her house in the Rue Chelque Chose, Veronique waited for her lover, her intended. In the 1920s, it had been a gardener's greenhouse on the roof. In the 1930's, after the crash, her parents closed the rest of the house and moved into it, lovingly naming it la Petite Maisonette de Jardin dans les Étoiles. That was her mother’s sense of humor… and her father’s ebullience. No amount of heartbreak or loss ever sank their quiet joy, or their deep love.… for each other and for her, their only child, born late in their lives. Though small, it was the most charming home for blocks, and for her, as well as the potted plants before her, it was a magical place in which to grow and thrive. How unfair that she didn’t ever experience that same joy as she reached adulthood, especially after her wonderful parents passed away within just a few months of each other. Now, she stood, pierced through with aching cold and humiliation, waiting for Stephan to come home. Stephan, with his stale jokes and corny and constant puns... and his repeated mocking of anything French. She shuddered as the image of him in a stained T-shirt filled her mind… swigging his beer, belching. He’d pretend he was a struggling author and suddenly spout in an exaggerated Maurice Chevalier accent, “Eet was one of doze nights een Paree that Le Stéphan loved where everyzing was painted ‘le bleu’ as ‘le light’ glowed from ‘les windows’, and he laid on the ‘la chaise’ eating Lay's Potahto Cheeps from ‘le bag’ while Sondheim’s ‘A Leetle Night Music’ wahfted through ‘la nuit’.”

Alas! Their passion had cooled into nothing more than congealed gravy on a greasy plate... She chuckled darkly in her fury at the comical/horrible images that swirled in her imagination. Even angry, she still weighed everything through the eyes of a comedienne. A comedienne whose performances had gotten edgier month by month until her audience’s laughter was overshadowed by their discomfort.

Where was he? Perhaps painting the town red, with that Ondine. You know... Her. Poor Veronique had only one solution. Become a Sapphist! A... Lesbian! She laughed out loud! Enough of those HORRIFIC Male Creatures with those dangly things! Cut it off! Her sparkling, green eyes alighted on her father’s garden shears; the ones that still razored the sturdiest rose branches as if slicing through butter. …But no… He’ll be home any minute with his idiot chatter, his puns, and someone else’s perfume sticking to his sweaty shirt.  Patience. Wait. Watch for the figure to move against the soft glow of light. Reach out with your arms! Your arms that once held him with so much passion. So much love… and then… she heard the front door creak open inside and then close. She stepped back into the shadows. The little lock turned. The mail was dropped on the table. A chair was dragged so he could put his jacket over the back. His shadow crossed the billowing curtains and then out through the opened door. He wondered why had she left it ajar on a February night? He stepped out onto the pavement… and then over to the railing… to look for her below in the street? Could he really be that stupid? Could she be that lucky? Relax, breathe out, take aim... She moved like a deadly machine; swiftly, silently. Directly at him, arms outstretched. A vehicle of revenge. And like some pathetic, clumsy pedestrian stumbling into the path of rushing steel and death, he turned at the last moment to see the horrible blank stare. The arms, like battering rams. The hands open-palmed and resolved. Those blank, cold, eyes. No. Oh God. No.

As she turned to leave the balcony, she stopped to listen in the still night air. How long would it take before her fiancé’s body hit the pavement below?---there!… a distant mash, a bit sharper than she had expected. And then the deafening silence before the first horrified scream… of many!... far away. ln her heart, she knew she was free now and had taken the right decision. The night mist was just settling in when she closed the door behind her. She was about to light a fire when there was a firm knock on the front door. The arresting officers hustled her out so fast she never had time to turn out the lights. As she trudged down the leaning flights of creaking stairs, she began to hum Edith Piaf’s “No Regrets”, lighting on a few words here and there, in English, then French, then back again. She chuckled at the irony and at her own folly. The two gendarmes gasped, stopped and looked into her smiling face. That wry and so-wise smile of someone young but who has lived a hundred lifetimes. They could not resist. Their hands softened on her arms, more supporting her now than escorting her down the steps, and as she went, she whispered “Goodbye my little home. Good bye.”

(End of Part Three. Stay tuned for Part Four of A New George Sweet Doorway Mystery… “A Door… ajar…”)

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