Ignore objections to Malkovich's accent, his morose Poirot, the swearing, grim settings, liberties taken with plot and Christie's usual style. Rather than trying to outdo the impeccable Suchet, here we have a dark, visually striking antidote to what Poirot himself calls "vapid nostalgia for the gentle past"; a timely reminder of the 30s rise of fascism, an assertion of humane values in a murky, dangerous world.
Bad casting. Malkovich can't really do accents. Grint starts off bad but gets better. As is the case with most of the Poirot books, I went in knowing who the killer was, so the enjoyment would be at how they spun it. They decided to have a subtext of humiliation. Not a great choice, nor were the flashbacks that gave tiny pieces of his history away. I hate this device if it isn't done well.