the last episode of Poirot
Let me preface this by saying that I've watched Poirot my whole life, and I'm very emotionally attached to the characters after knowing them for 25 years. This will be very, very serious and angsty. And long. I'm still trying to process how I feel about this all, so it will be a bit rambly. Bear with me on this one!
The last Poirot aired this weekend. And I'm just... sad. I suppose there's no way to watch a character you love die without it being sad, but it was a very dull, depressing episode in every way. Everything about it felt bleak and cold and empty. I wanted an elegy, but got a dirge instead. I was hoping for some sense of closure, but I actually feel like I'm left with more questions than answers after watching it. I don't suppose any one episode could adequately wrap-up any story after 25 years with the same characters, but I feel strangely let down. I've actually felt that way rather a lot in these last few seasons. Back in the day, I never felt that way. Every single episode was perfect, new and surprising and delighting, even while rigidly sticking to the same formula. Maybe I'm just spoiled after so many years of good stuff, but I feel like the writing has been missing something lately. I've heard this adaptation was quite faithful, so maybe it's just that the magic goes out at the end of anything, or maybe I've just seen one too many. I never used to be able to guess the murderer. I loved to be surprised at the end, that was part of the fun of a mystery! But this time, the minute I spotted a supposedly meek, unassuming character with a stutter, I immediately said to myself, "he's gotta be the killer. It's always the least likely guy, and that's TOO obvious." And even though I hoped I hadn't figured it out, and fell for one of the red herrings for a while, I was right. For the last one, that's a bit of a disappointment. (To be fair though, Aidan McCardle did say he likes to play villains the best, and last time he was in a Christie whodunit, he played a good guy, so it stands to reason he'd be the baddie here, but still.)
But the thing was, I didn't really care about the mystery any more. I've known and loved Poirot for 25 years, who cares about anyone else dying? Hastings being there actually hurt more than it helped. He's been away for so long I feel like we missed enough, but with the first time-jump the series has ever had to come at the very end, it's just too much. We never knew his wife or daughter, and it's very jarring to be dropped in the middle of this new reality when you've known someone one way your whole life. The fact that the daughter was a total brat didn't help. I really did think she had poisoned the wife to marry the husband for a while, (and it was obvious from the beginning the husband was the one she was in love with, not the little lothario, so that didn't feel like much of a clever plot twist either) and that was another thing that just hurt too much. I just can't stand to see Hastings hurt. He's so good and kind and loyal, he could never raise a child who could be unkind or callous, and no one should ever, ever hurt him. And his daughter did. And Poirot did. Poirot lashes out at other people when he's frustrated with himself, and even Hastings must know that at this point, but it still hurts. Both for the characters and the audience. To see Poirot so ill is agony enough, but to see him at the end of his life away from his home, away from his friends except one, and fighting with that one, just no. I can't. To see them lying to each other, that broke my heart. For Hastings, of all people, to try to murder that guy? No. How could he? Doing something unfairly or underhandedly is entirely opposite his nature, and we just spent a whole scene where Poirot berates him for this very fact. The entire premise of the 'Iago murderer' who incites other people to murder for fun, while an interesting idea, is a little preposterous in fact. I really doubt people are that susceptible to the suggestions of someone they don't personally know when it comes to something as serious as murder. Even if Poirot had told Hastings to kill someone, I doubt he could have done it, and he trusts Poirot more than anyone. (Yes, you could argue that a parent would do anything to protect a child, and that's probably true, but Hastings would go for a direct confrontation, not creep around in the shadows with poisons. It just didn't feel right.)
I suppose there had to be something along those lines so that Poirot would be forced to confront the ultimate, un-convictable killer, and thus forced to make the one decision he would never want to make. I guess it was supposed to be the ultimate plot twist, but really, I don't think it matters. We all know Poirot is a good man. He may wrestle with his conscience and fear for his immortal soul, but we don't. Everyone who knows him knows he's a force for good, as principled as anyone ever was. Everything he does is for the greater good, and he would never do anything that wasn't in the interest of preserving the lives of the innocent. He's a hero to the friends who love him, and to the audience who's watched him our whole lives. Nothing could ever change that.
So I'm still sad. Of course I never wanted the adventures to end, and I wanted more time with the characters I loved, all of them. I was disappointed that there had been so little of the gang in 'The Big Four', but that was still better. It felt more right. All together, another case closed, the day won, and the little family still there for each other till the end. It would have been nice to end the way it began. I suppose real life doesn't offer neat endings, and the last case being a bleak one is more realistic, but this isn't cinema verite. Detective stories are a comforting fantasy. They're about having all the questions answered, all the wrongs righted, truth discovered and justice served. Arthur Conan Doyle once called them 'the fairy realm of romance' and they are; an ideal world where even time doesn't intrude; for Sherlock Holmes, it was always 1895, and for Poirot, it's always 1935. In two decades it hadn't changed, and we don't need it to. And in a way, it never will. The old episodes are still there, we can go back to the DVDs any time we like. I'm sad for the end of an era in my life, since it started when I was three years old, and I literally can't remember a time when there wasn't always new Poirot to look forward to. I wish it hadn't broken my heart at the end, but as Poirot said, the old days, they were good days. Maybe that's the best we can hope for, to have had, somewhere in the middle of our lives, lots of very good days. That's what's important. We had so many good days with Poirot, and the beautiful thing about stories is that those old days will always live forever. So no goodbye to Poirot for me. Just 'until we meet again' in that perpetual 1935.
The last Poirot aired this weekend. And I'm just... sad. I suppose there's no way to watch a character you love die without it being sad, but it was a very dull, depressing episode in every way. Everything about it felt bleak and cold and empty. I wanted an elegy, but got a dirge instead. I was hoping for some sense of closure, but I actually feel like I'm left with more questions than answers after watching it. I don't suppose any one episode could adequately wrap-up any story after 25 years with the same characters, but I feel strangely let down. I've actually felt that way rather a lot in these last few seasons. Back in the day, I never felt that way. Every single episode was perfect, new and surprising and delighting, even while rigidly sticking to the same formula. Maybe I'm just spoiled after so many years of good stuff, but I feel like the writing has been missing something lately. I've heard this adaptation was quite faithful, so maybe it's just that the magic goes out at the end of anything, or maybe I've just seen one too many. I never used to be able to guess the murderer. I loved to be surprised at the end, that was part of the fun of a mystery! But this time, the minute I spotted a supposedly meek, unassuming character with a stutter, I immediately said to myself, "he's gotta be the killer. It's always the least likely guy, and that's TOO obvious." And even though I hoped I hadn't figured it out, and fell for one of the red herrings for a while, I was right. For the last one, that's a bit of a disappointment. (To be fair though, Aidan McCardle did say he likes to play villains the best, and last time he was in a Christie whodunit, he played a good guy, so it stands to reason he'd be the baddie here, but still.)
But the thing was, I didn't really care about the mystery any more. I've known and loved Poirot for 25 years, who cares about anyone else dying? Hastings being there actually hurt more than it helped. He's been away for so long I feel like we missed enough, but with the first time-jump the series has ever had to come at the very end, it's just too much. We never knew his wife or daughter, and it's very jarring to be dropped in the middle of this new reality when you've known someone one way your whole life. The fact that the daughter was a total brat didn't help. I really did think she had poisoned the wife to marry the husband for a while, (and it was obvious from the beginning the husband was the one she was in love with, not the little lothario, so that didn't feel like much of a clever plot twist either) and that was another thing that just hurt too much. I just can't stand to see Hastings hurt. He's so good and kind and loyal, he could never raise a child who could be unkind or callous, and no one should ever, ever hurt him. And his daughter did. And Poirot did. Poirot lashes out at other people when he's frustrated with himself, and even Hastings must know that at this point, but it still hurts. Both for the characters and the audience. To see Poirot so ill is agony enough, but to see him at the end of his life away from his home, away from his friends except one, and fighting with that one, just no. I can't. To see them lying to each other, that broke my heart. For Hastings, of all people, to try to murder that guy? No. How could he? Doing something unfairly or underhandedly is entirely opposite his nature, and we just spent a whole scene where Poirot berates him for this very fact. The entire premise of the 'Iago murderer' who incites other people to murder for fun, while an interesting idea, is a little preposterous in fact. I really doubt people are that susceptible to the suggestions of someone they don't personally know when it comes to something as serious as murder. Even if Poirot had told Hastings to kill someone, I doubt he could have done it, and he trusts Poirot more than anyone. (Yes, you could argue that a parent would do anything to protect a child, and that's probably true, but Hastings would go for a direct confrontation, not creep around in the shadows with poisons. It just didn't feel right.)
I suppose there had to be something along those lines so that Poirot would be forced to confront the ultimate, un-convictable killer, and thus forced to make the one decision he would never want to make. I guess it was supposed to be the ultimate plot twist, but really, I don't think it matters. We all know Poirot is a good man. He may wrestle with his conscience and fear for his immortal soul, but we don't. Everyone who knows him knows he's a force for good, as principled as anyone ever was. Everything he does is for the greater good, and he would never do anything that wasn't in the interest of preserving the lives of the innocent. He's a hero to the friends who love him, and to the audience who's watched him our whole lives. Nothing could ever change that.
So I'm still sad. Of course I never wanted the adventures to end, and I wanted more time with the characters I loved, all of them. I was disappointed that there had been so little of the gang in 'The Big Four', but that was still better. It felt more right. All together, another case closed, the day won, and the little family still there for each other till the end. It would have been nice to end the way it began. I suppose real life doesn't offer neat endings, and the last case being a bleak one is more realistic, but this isn't cinema verite. Detective stories are a comforting fantasy. They're about having all the questions answered, all the wrongs righted, truth discovered and justice served. Arthur Conan Doyle once called them 'the fairy realm of romance' and they are; an ideal world where even time doesn't intrude; for Sherlock Holmes, it was always 1895, and for Poirot, it's always 1935. In two decades it hadn't changed, and we don't need it to. And in a way, it never will. The old episodes are still there, we can go back to the DVDs any time we like. I'm sad for the end of an era in my life, since it started when I was three years old, and I literally can't remember a time when there wasn't always new Poirot to look forward to. I wish it hadn't broken my heart at the end, but as Poirot said, the old days, they were good days. Maybe that's the best we can hope for, to have had, somewhere in the middle of our lives, lots of very good days. That's what's important. We had so many good days with Poirot, and the beautiful thing about stories is that those old days will always live forever. So no goodbye to Poirot for me. Just 'until we meet again' in that perpetual 1935.