Director Peter Collinson was on the receiving end of frequent critical maulings for his films. Many of these maulings were quite undeserved, but his version of the famous Agatha Christie story And Then There Were None is an absolute stinker, and totally warrants the scathing reviews that have been written about it. It is the third cinematic stab at the story and easily the weakest of the lot, a flatly directed mess in which fine actors give uncharacteristically poor performances. On those rare occasions that a moment of tension does threaten to burst through, it is ruined either by Collinson's heavy-handed touches of gimmickry or the woefully unsuitable music (scored by Bruno Nicolai).
Ten complete strangers are summoned to an isolated hotel in the middle of the Persian desert. They do not know each other at all, and they do not know their host. It gradually becomes apparent that each person has been lured to the hotel because they have a dark secret in their past. Someone has threatened to expose their dirty laundry unless they put in an appearance at the hotel. The number includes Hugh Lombard (Oliver Reed), Judge Cannon (Richard Attenborough), Wilhelm Blore (Gert Frobe), Vera Clyde (Elke Sommer) and Dr Armstrong (Herbert Lom), among others. Upon their arrival, an eerie tape recorded voice (supplied by Orson Welles) greets them to what is, in effect, a remote prison. Too late they realise they have been assembled as part of a cunning revenge plot as, one by one, the guests are murdered by an unknown killer. Trapped hundreds of miles from civilisation at the mercy of an unseen assailant, the survivors must figure out why they are being slain, how to escape, and which member of their number is responsible .
The 1945 version of the story, directed by Rene Clair, is by far the best, with its creepy atmosphere and effective island locale. The 1966 remake from George Pollock relocates events to the Austrian Alps and, while competently made, is little more than passable. This 1974 addition again switches the locale (the decision to use a grand hotel in the middle of the Persian desert is pointless) but it is considerably poorer than the earlier versions in every department. On paper, the cast looks like the strongest ever assembled for this particular story but they fail unanimously to enliven their underwritten roles. The pacing is leaden; the supposedly tense predicament of the characters never engrosses; the general air throughout is one of indifference. There is a strong case to argue that this might be the worst ever adaptation of any Agatha Christie novel.
On a note of trivia, a fourth version emerged in 1989, with a jungle setting it is a pretty bad film, but not as bad as this one.
Ten complete strangers are summoned to an isolated hotel in the middle of the Persian desert. They do not know each other at all, and they do not know their host. It gradually becomes apparent that each person has been lured to the hotel because they have a dark secret in their past. Someone has threatened to expose their dirty laundry unless they put in an appearance at the hotel. The number includes Hugh Lombard (Oliver Reed), Judge Cannon (Richard Attenborough), Wilhelm Blore (Gert Frobe), Vera Clyde (Elke Sommer) and Dr Armstrong (Herbert Lom), among others. Upon their arrival, an eerie tape recorded voice (supplied by Orson Welles) greets them to what is, in effect, a remote prison. Too late they realise they have been assembled as part of a cunning revenge plot as, one by one, the guests are murdered by an unknown killer. Trapped hundreds of miles from civilisation at the mercy of an unseen assailant, the survivors must figure out why they are being slain, how to escape, and which member of their number is responsible .
The 1945 version of the story, directed by Rene Clair, is by far the best, with its creepy atmosphere and effective island locale. The 1966 remake from George Pollock relocates events to the Austrian Alps and, while competently made, is little more than passable. This 1974 addition again switches the locale (the decision to use a grand hotel in the middle of the Persian desert is pointless) but it is considerably poorer than the earlier versions in every department. On paper, the cast looks like the strongest ever assembled for this particular story but they fail unanimously to enliven their underwritten roles. The pacing is leaden; the supposedly tense predicament of the characters never engrosses; the general air throughout is one of indifference. There is a strong case to argue that this might be the worst ever adaptation of any Agatha Christie novel.
On a note of trivia, a fourth version emerged in 1989, with a jungle setting it is a pretty bad film, but not as bad as this one.