Kenneth Branagh’s Poirot is more than a bland egotistical detective, he is emotional, tired, caring. He is the brain that will solve the murder yet cannot cure the boredom.

A sequel to 2017’s star-studded railway murder mystery, Kenneth Branagh’s latest Agatha Christie adaptation pales in comparison to its predecessor; not that Murder on the Orient Express cast a long shadow in the first place. Once again, the famous Hercule Poirot, played by Branagh, finds himself in the middle of a classic whodunnit: a myriad of plausible motives, an expensive cast of possible suspects, and seemingly airtight alibis; Poirot is on the case. Unfortunately for the esteemed detective there may have been a murder, yet not an exciting one.

One would think that a film titled Death on the Nile would revolve around a murder, more specifically the solving and capturing of those who did it. However, the titular death happens two-thirds of the way into the needlessly lengthy two-hour runtime. What happens until then? Poirot is, unexpectedly, given a healthy handful of backstory; a black-and-white flashback that shares the tale of how the detective first grew his characteristic moustache. Cliché on all fronts but earnest in its emotion, the prelude breaths some humanity into the narcissistic detective. Maybe this won’t be the same run-off-the-mill crime solver whose only shining light is its assortment of likeable actors.

And it isn’t, but not for the right reasons. In between the original opening and the murder itself, there is a gaping chasm of tedious exposition that must be waded through. With story beats close to non-existent, Poirot accompanies a lovestruck couple on their honeymoon as he gets to know the upper-class party. Rather than engaging with his acquaintances due to the crime, Poirot is heavy-handedly forced to learn about them through the odd tense interaction at best, or a shopping-list style of motives rattled off to him by his informal sidekick Bouc (Tom Bateman) at worst.

There is no reason to care about these people, nothing to draw them to our attention, least of all the actors playing them. While Branagh’s Hercule is fascinating and flawed, the rest of those trapped on the steamboat are far from intriguing. Dawn French and Jennifer Saunders are reunited but lack a comedic spark, their few jokes overcast with awkward dialogue. Both Armie Hammer and Gal Gadot are rigid and unlifelike, their caricatures wandering aimlessly without a hint of emotion. For the most part, interactions between the eventual suspects tend to focus on leaving not-so-subtle hints for the climax, blatantly attempting to misdirect.

When the murder does happen, everything falls into place. Or at least, it should. Instead, the fleeting investigation lacks the battle of wits that the Orient Express captured with its powerful and utilised characters, any and all curiosity killed in the tiresome lead up to the exciting moment. Poirot’s intense interrogations last but a fraction and rarely add to the mystery, the entirety of his famed police work chalked up to the simplistic recalling of hints from the first half of the film, a half that would rather be forgotten.