Queen of Da Nile

So yesterday was my penultimate 2008-09 season ticket night (and yes, I do look for opportunities to use the word “penultimate” in everyday conversation) for Theatre 3. It was Agatha Christie. I was not enthused. First, because if, like me, you have seen more than one AC story, there ain’t going to be any new rabbits pulled out of any old hats in Death on the Nile. Plus, no Hercule Poirot in the story? What’s the point?

I did come up with a clever out though. I took my niece. She’s 17. It’s all new to her. And I could enjoy her enjoying some period costumed mayhem.

What kind of astounded me was the people in the audience who were trying to figure the story out. Really? Do you people not watch Law & Order? Let’s review the character list, shall we: one crabby old bat (possible vic, but never the doer), one wronged German doctor (only if there is a rare antiquity involved), one English communist (everyone knows communism is just a red herring – snort), one poor but morally upright American secretary (never, and if you don’t know who she ends up makin’ the smoochie faces with by the curtain call, you ain’t payin’ attention), one morally upright yet charming cleric (in the absence of Miss Marple or M. Poirot, our de facto detective, natch), one bright young thing socialite who’s recently stolen her best friend’s man (Marked. For. Death. Hussies never prosper), and her new husband who finds himself suddenly rich when his bride ends up with a bad case of bullet in the brain. Duh. I admit I was momentarily thrown off by the fact that the merry widower was the baddy in the last 2 things I saw him in (surely not), but after getting a load of the rest of the cast (and the GIANT glaring tell with blinking lights spelling “he’s going to kill somebody”) in the first 15 minutes I just settled back to let the murder most horrid play out. [Though I do have to give the usual suspect credit in that he had remarkably Hugh Grantish floppy hair, but heroically resisted the impulse to flip it back in that insouciantly boyish way that makes me want to smack Hugh Grant in every movie he’s ever been in.]

Not that the show wasn’t well done. Given that the actors had to utter some real groaners, they soldiered on and made the whole thing enjoyable. But there really is only so much you can do with a play by possibly one of the most imitated authors in the English language. My favorite thing in the whole night was the actual English woman who was sitting next to me (who probably has the plots of every Dame Agatha mystery embedded in her DNA), who commented that she didn’t trust the maid. To which I got to say, “Well, she is French.” in my best droll voice. Which of course got a laugh. Brits, lord love ‘em. Busting on a frog is always good for a giggle.