L’Heure zéro (2007) - film review

Just what was Guillaume Neuville thinking when he invited his ex-wife Aude and his latest wife Caroline to his Aunt Camilla’s home in Brittany?  Did he really think the two women, one stroppy and vulgar, the other introverted and refined, would get on?  Whatever Guillaume’s motives, and in spite of the soothing Breton seaside air, the sparks soon begin to fly.  But worse is to come, for this will be no ordinary family reunion.  Someone intends to commit the perfect murder...

Agatha Christie is enjoying something of a rival in France, if the recent spate of film adaptations of her novels is anything to go by.   Director Pascal Thomas set the ball rolling (presumably it was a ball and not a severed head) with his Mon petit doigt m’a dit... (2005), an off-the-wall reinterpretation of Christie’s By the pricking of my thumbs.  This was followed by three more adaptations: L’Heure zéro (2007), Le Grand alibi (2008) and Le Crime est notre affaire (2008), all quality productions that were well-received by cinemagoers and critics alike.  This renewed French craving for mystery and intrigue, British-style, probably has some way to run.  The francophilic Queen of Crime would have been très ravie.

Of these four most recent Gallic adaptations of Christie’s work, L’Heure zéro is the one that is closest in spirit to its source novel and, arguably, the most entertaining.  Whilst it closely adheres to the plot of Christie’s Towards Zero, with Superintendent Battle renamed Commissaire Bataille (not replaced by Miss Marple, as in a British TV version made the same year), it is given a blackly comedic slant which augments rather than detracts from the intrigue.  One of the problems with the original story is that the murderer is too easily identified – just look for the character with the cast-iron alibi and you have uncovered the identity of the killer in a thrice.  Presumably mindful of this deficiency, Thomas and his team of writers succeed in muddying the waters, distracting us with comic diversions so that, if we do guess who the killer is, at least we do not get bored out of our skulls waiting for him or her to be unmasked.

The characters and the setting are instantly recognisable as Christie-esque.  The story may take place in our own lacklustre time, but the mood and style instantly evoke the dark, labyrinthine yet cosily reassuring world of England’s most prolific writer of crime fiction.  There is plenty of comedy, but there is always a sinister dark edge to it.  The humour serves as a cunning trompe l’oeil that masks the sordid reality and prevents us from seeing the calculating evil that lurks beneath a semblance of normality.  From a distance, the clown and the mad man are indisinguishable.

As in the best screen adaptations of Christie’s work, the film offers both impressive production values and a superlative ensemble cast that includes some very well-known actors (after all, as Hercule Poirot once remarked, on n’attrape pas les mouches avec du vinaigre).  As the obligatory Christie super-bitch, Laura Smet goes way, way over the top, but enjoyably so; François Morel is much more understated but just as funny as Commissaire Bataille, the cop who uses the most unorthodox means to eliminate his suspects; and a devil-made-flesh Melvil Poupaud comes close to out-doing Anthony Perkins in the creepiness stakes.  True aficionados of Agatha Christie will not be disappointed by this mystery romp, a respectable and highly entertaining adaptation with an unmistakable Gallic twist.

© James Travers 2010

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