Review: And Then There Were None

This review of the novel and 2015 miniseries has major SPOILERS beneath the cut.

The first time I read Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None it was a blazing hot summer day. By the final chapter I felt chilled to the bone. It was not only a great book, but a great reading experience, and I have clear memories of enthusiastically describing it to my mother at the time.

Years later, it still has the same effect.

These days Ten Little Murder Victims trope is practically its own subcategory within the murder mystery genre. Everyone immediately recognizes the setup when it occurs: a group of strangers in an isolated location get picked off one by one, often in increasingly imaginative ways. The killer is one of their number, and only death eliminates a suspect. What might not be so widely known is that Agatha Christie invented this formula, and like so many others who did something first, she did it best.

Ten strangers are invited to an island off the Devon coast, each one having received a letter from either Mr or Mrs U.N. Owen that offers them an extended stay in their mansion, whether it be for a holiday, a party, or job. The opening chapter provides us with a series of quick, brisk character studies as the guests congregate at Sticklehaven harbour for the boat ride to Sailor Island, and it's immediately clear that not only is something off about the whole situation, but that each individual carries a guilty secret with them.

On reaching the island they meet the husband and wife domestics, though there's no sign of their hosts. Entering the mansion they're served dinner and given the chance to mingle, but as they take coffee in the drawing room a disembodied voice (courtesy of a hidden gramophone) reads out a list of indictments, accusing each one of murder.

Fear and outrage ensues, but by this stage the reader will probably already be searching for clues and hints in the text. The accusations levelled against the ten guests have only one thing in common: they were committed in such a way that put them outside the power of the law. Some were indirectly caused, some were crimes of passion, some were never proved – and though some of the company freely admit their guilt, others fervently deny it. Either way, it seems justice has caught up with them.

Accusations start flying, suspicions abound, panic rises – especially when bodies start dropping and it becomes apparent they're the only ten people on the island. Which means of course, that one of them is the killer. Oh, and just to add a little added flavour to the proceedings, each death is being staged in accordance to a short nursery rhyme that's hung all about the house:

Ten little soldier boys went out to dine; one choked his little self and then there were Nine.

Nine little soldier boys sat up very late; one overslept himself and then there were Eight.

Eight little soldier boys traveling in Devon; one said he'd stay there and then there were Seven.

Seven little soldier boys chopping up sticks; one chopped himself in halves and then there were Six.

Six little soldier boys playing with a hive; a bumblebee stung one and then there were Five.

Five little soldier boys going in for law; one got into chancery and then there were Four.

Four little soldier boys going out to sea; a red herring swallowed one and then there were Three.

Three little soldier boys walking in the Zoo; a big bear hugged one and then there were Two.

Two little soldier boys sitting in the sun; one got frizzled up and then there was One.

One little soldier boy left all alone; he went and hanged himself

And then there were None.

From this synopsis, it all sounds very mechanical – and in some ways it is. By adding the conceit of the nursery rhyme as a "murder formula", Christie accidentally robs the story of some of its suspense, as there's very little doubt that all the characters will eventually perish in a specific way, as opposed to getting picked off at random. It also bestows upon the killer near god-like abilities given he is not only able to single-handedly murder nine people, but do so a) in reverse order of how guilty they are, and b) in such ways that match up to the deaths ascribed in a limerick.

The real power of the book comes from the psychological impact the premise has upon the characters. They start apprehensive but cordial, but as the ordeal drags on and the bodies pile up, they naturally lose all sense of propriety and start to turn on each other. They go from hot meals at the dinner table to eating canned goods straight out of the tins; once they lose the generator they're forced to rely on candles. One striking passage likens them to animals rather than human beings: a turtle, a wolf, a bird.

It's a steady but clear erosion of civility and sanity, and Christie is particularly good at capturing the ebb and flow of calm: as soon as the guests gain some control over the situation, they inevitably lose it again and sink even deeper into survivalist instincts.

As ever, Christie plays by the "fair play" rules of the mystery genre, giving the reader everything they need to solve the crime on their own, but couching her solution in carefully chosen words. Nothing is contradictory, but everything is deceptive – and this is quite a feat considering she often relays the internal dialogue of each character, with occasional passages coming across as stream-of-consciousness.

As such we glean more insight into the situation than any one individual character (sans the killer). We're given their perceptions of each other, their dark secrets, their inner thoughts – it's a delicate balancing act on Christie's behalf to give us all the puzzle pieces without giving too much away.

***

The 2015 miniseries of And Then There Were None is the first adaptation of the book I've ever seen, though I'm aware that other filmic versions and the stage show (written by Christie herself) change the ending in order to spare Vera and Lombard, who turn out to be innocent of the crimes they're accused of.

This BBC effort skews close to Christie's text with only a few minor tweaks here and there, with a superlative cast that's almost too good for the material. Sam Neill? Miranda Richardson? Charles Dance? Tony Stephens? Anna Maxwell Martin? They're all excellent, but their roles are so small that their talent feels wasted.

Those with the most to work with are Burn Gorman as Blore, Aiden Turner as Lombard and Maeve Dermody (the only cast member I'd never seen before) as Vera Claythorne – a little older than I've always imagined the character, but carrying the right amount of guile and steel beneath a gentle-looking exterior.

Having said that, she doesn't quite manage Vera's mental state; specifically the fact she's gradually spiralling into insanity. Her hysteria on finding Mr Rogers is transferred to Armstrong, and her murder of Cyril comes across as much more calculating instead of the crazed, spur-of-the-moment idea that she carries out without much consideration in the book (at least, that was how I always interpreted it).

Likewise she comes across as much more conniving and in-control throughout the ordeal on Soldier Island, often baiting the other guests in ways that were absent from Christie's text.

One obvious advantage that any adaptation has is the opportunity to flesh out each character's backstory, something that is dealt with in only a few brisk sentences in the novel. With the use of a few flashbacks we get a greater understanding as to why each character has been summoned to the island, though – perhaps inevitably – everyone's crimes are depicted as considerably more bloodthirsty.

Mr Rogers smothers his employer with a pillow rather than just withholding medicine, General MacArthur does not dispose of his rival with a Uriah Gambit but straight-up shoots him in the back of the head, and Blore doesn't commit perjury, resulting in a man dying of illness in prison, but viciously beats him to death in a jail cell. Lombard goes from stealing supplies from African natives (resulting in their deaths) to massacring them for diamonds. Furthermore, the results of Armstrong choosing to operate while drunk is envisaged in a dream sequence as a gurney drenched in blood.

Oh, and Emily is now a closeted lesbian who throws her pregnant maid onto the streets seemingly out of jealousy.

The only crimes that remain intact are the first and the last: Tony accidentally hits two children with his car, and Vera convinces her young charge Cyril to swim out to a rock in the ocean, knowing that he'll never make it.

Amidst all this Mrs Rogers is the only one who comes across as entirely sympathetic, being a reluctant witness to her husband's crime as well as his victim thanks to domestic abuse – heck, why was she even on the island in the first place?

So why the changes?

Well, the murders are much easier to depict on-screen when they're brutal and violent – it would have taken considerably more time and exposition to get across the nuances of what Blore and MacArthur did to their victims, though I wonder if there's also an attempt to make many of the characters less sympathetic and therefore more deserving of their fate. It's never a pleasant experience to watch The Bad Guy Win, so by exacerbating the crimes of the guests on Soldier Island, we can instead feel a sense of justice when they're picked off one by one.

That said, the script still takes the time to humanize most of the characters. Blore in particular becomes someone you hope will beat the odds and escape, fully regretting his crime, fantasizing about what he should have done, and worrying about who's going to tend to his allotment if he perishes.

There are other bits and pieces of original characterization, which for the most part work very well: Tony snorts cocaine, Mrs Rogers has a sight impediment, MacArthur attempts to act as a peacemaker, and Armstrong demonstrates a bad temper very early on. More interesting, Wargrave and Vera establish something of a father/daughter dynamic, with Vera offering to walk him up the staircase, and Wargrave later (in a scene laden with irony) talking her out of trying to make the swim back to the mainland.

And of course, with Aiden Turner playing Lombard, I doubt anyone could resist building up the Unresolved Sexual Tension between him and Vera (which gets resolved before the final credits role). I usually roll my eyes at this sort of thing, but it works well enough here. Which is another way of saying that though it doesn't add anything, it doesn't really detract anything either.

***

As it happens, most of Christie's novels are fairly lightweight affairs, but there is something to be said for her subtle critique of the class system in And Then There Were None, as well as assumptions made on the gender of the killer – all of which make the victims more vulnerable. For example, no one questions the fact that Mr Rogers will continue doing his domestic duties, even after it becomes obvious a murderer is running lose.

This leads directly to his death (he was up early to prepare the breakfast, thereby making him an easy target) and deprives the other guests of hot food and electricity later on (which takes a toll on their mental state).

Likewise, more than one male character discounts the women as potential suspects due to the perceived weakness of their sex, and it's Lombard's underestimation of Vera that ends up killing him – she being able to pick his pocket and seize possession of the gun without him realizing it.

The show builds on this gender war in an interesting way, by immediately establishing divisions between the women, almost before any other dynamic is explored. In what is practically her first scene, Emily Brent calmly but viciously insults Mrs Rogers, and just a few minutes later Mrs Rogers orders Vera out of the servants' quarters, despite Vera trying to establish a rapport by stating she's also part of the staff. Where there should have been natural gender-based allies, there's only mistrust and dislike.

***

There are lots of other additions, changes and visual cues: Wargrave's terminal illness is foreshadowed early on, whilst the U.N. Owen (or "unknown") realization is delayed. There's plenty of swearing, a better-conceived death for Emily Brent (the non-existent "bee" in the poem becomes a knitting needle inscribed with a B) and some on-point symbolism surrounding Vera. Not only does she glimpse this on the train...

... but the script cleverly ties her bathing suit (which she's forced to don when a systematic search of clothing and possessions occurs) to memories of the day Cyril died.

Not everything works. Though Emily mentions that some of her wool has disappeared, Rogers never brings up the missing shower curtain, which robs Wargrave's staged death of its significance in relation to the limerick, and Vera isn't startled by any seaweed hanging from the hook in her bedroom, which provided the distraction Wargrave needed to fake his own death (as it happens, it's pure opportunistic luck that she hallucinated at that precise moment). The hiding place of the gun and the master key is glaringly obvious (seriously, how did no one find it in the bearskin rug?) and Blore's death plays out very differently and in such a way that incontrovertibly eliminates Vera and Lombard as the killers.

Finally, it ends not with Vera simply hanging herself, but with Wargrave appearing in her bedroom just as she's in the midst of committing suicide, teetering on the edge of a fallen chair as she struggles for breath. It's the show's way of delivering the solution to the mystery, as Wargrave goes on to monologue about how and why he staged the entire affair (in another nice elaboration, he was inspired by the serial killer he sent to the gallows) and pull the chair out from under Vera's feet after she comes up with a way to get them both out alive. 

It doesn't really work, though I can understand why they felt the need to add it. A face-to-face confrontation between the killer and his last victim is certainly more dramatically effective than what the book offers: a confused police force and a letter in a bottle. Still, you can tell it's not what Christie wrote – it's a bit too lurid even for a story that's just gruesomely killed off nine people.  

Also, I'm not sure I liked the look of the soldier figurines – which clearly aren't soldiers at all.

Yet for the most part, this is a faithful adaptation that understands exactly why And Then There Were None is so frightening. The island is beautiful and peaceful; the house is clean and modern. The guests are all unsettling in their own way, and their minds gradually unwind until they've whittled themselves down to sheer survival instincts. And everything that happens is inevitable – it all goes exactly according to Wargrave's plan. They were doomed from the very first page, and even a first-time reader can feel it.

Of course, I mentioned earlier that this is something of a weakness (from a certain point-of-view) to the book since Wargrave is practically supernatural when it comes to his godlike control of the situation. When you look at how everything went precisely as Wargrave intended it; even down to variables – such as the storm – he couldn't have possibly foreseen, it all becomes a little hard to swallow.

What if Lombard had kept his gun on him at all times? What if all the guests had insisted on staying in one room until help arrived? What if someone had declined the invitation in the first place?

It's not a story that can afford being picked apart; as a reader you simply have to give yourself over to the atmosphere and the suspense – and thankfully both are powerful enough to carry you through.