The book is one of my favorites from Christie, but casting Hollywood royalty doesn't work at all here. It just transforms an English mystery into a rowdy and garish mess (although I did like Taylor's quips). To top that, Lansbury's makeup makes her look like a dead Jessica Fletcher. It's like Marple hasn't slept for weeks. Scary as fuck.
A gentle steamrolling of a moderate Marple mystery into an unsuitably glossy and ultimately pallid affair. The casting of stolid Hollywood lumps of wood and signposted camp spats would be developed further in Evil Under the Sun. Neither approach works nor suits the altogether quieter English locale.