Teresa Reviews Russian Ten Little Indians (1987)

Teresa Reviews Russian Ten Little Indians (1987) and found the foreign version one of the two most faithful adaptations of Christie’s haunting novel.

Where can I find it? YouTube.

(c)2023 by Teresa Peschel

Fidelity to text: 5 mixed weapons

The epilogue’s police investigation is dropped. Otherwise, unlike every other version, this follows the novel in setting, date, characters (including names), and fates.

Quality of film on its own: 5 mixed weapons

Fast paced, atmospheric, well-acted; this version has it all.

For Christie Movie Reviews
Read more of Teresa’s Agatha Christie movie reviews at Peschel Press.

Also, follow Teresa’s discussion of these movie on her podcast.

We didn’t watch the Agatha films in the order they were released. We didn’t originally plan to watch the foreign films, but eventually, we added them to the end of the list.

This is why, we finally reached the 1987 version of And Then There Were None. It’s our tenth adaptation of the novel, and it’s a winner, albeit not for the unlucky victims. But they deserved their fate so it’s okay.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that the Russian film industry would stick with the nihilistic novel, instead of the softer play. The Japanese version updated the novel to a very Japanese contemporary. The French version turned it into a contemporary slasher flick. Sarah Phelps stuck largely to the novel, but kept the play’s confrontation between Vera and Justice Wargrave even though she still got her just desserts.

Stanislav Sergeyevich Govorukhin (Станислав Сергеевич Говорухин), the director and screenwriter, stuck to the novel. It’s amazingly faithful, other than omitting some of the guilty remembrances and soul-searching along with the police investigation. But from the arrival on the island via a wonderful Russian ferry boat to Justice Wargrave’s oral summation, it’s all there. If you’ve read the novel, you’ll recognize every one of these guilty people.

A fascinating part of the Agatha project is seeing different interpretations of the same novel. This version made Blore a larger, more dramatic man of action. It also provided new insight into Vera’s backstory and character.

Of all the characters in the novel, William Henry Blore and Emily Brent get the most variation (apart from the play’s wholesale rewrite of Vera and Lombard, turning those dastards into heroes).

Emily Brent’s either a Bible-spouting, hypocritical spinster or a glamourous, murderous movie star. Here, she’s the nasty church lady, the one who’d report Jesus to the authorities for daring to associate with people she disapproves of. Anyone who’d throw a pregnant young woman out onto the streets to starve and then dismiss her despairing suicide as proof she was rotten didn’t get the message about Christian charity. She gets some screentime, especially when she has a vision of poor, drowned Beatrice Taylor, begging for sanctuary and being denied.

Blore, ex-police inspector turned private investigator, lied under oath for pay. His character in the adaptations range from almost nonexistent (the 1989 version mostly ignored him) to a comic and idiotic Keystone Kop who can be safely ignored to an abusive cop who beats a suspect to death to a cop who perjures himself so the defendant (who’s guilty of plenty of other stuff) is jailed so he can’t finish beating his wife to death. Sometimes, the class divide is very obvious and he fails to cross it successfully as part of his undercover mission for U. N. Owen. In other films, no one notices that he’s “not our kind, dear.”

If he connects with anyone, it’s Philip Lombard as both are outside the social hierarchy. They’re not servants (the Rogers and Vera). They’re not gentry (Emily Brent or Anthony Marston). They’re not socially respectable (Dr. Armstrong, General Maxwell, or Justice Wargrave).

Here, Blore’s still guilty of perjury. He tells Lombard his only regret is that he didn’t earn enough for lying in court. He’s also a dynamic man of action, taking Lombard’s usual role. This Lombard becomes a man in the shadows, watching and waiting to see what happens. They develop an interesting relationship. They’re both predators and swiftly evaluated each other as the only capable men on the island. Rogers is a servant and quickly dies, the General is waiting for death, the doctor is pompous and old, the judge is even more pompous and old. They’ll rescue themselves and, possibly, Vera, since she’s young and pretty instead of old and shrewish like Emily Brent.

It was really interesting watching Blore evaluate Vera. It’s almost as though he didn’t buy her tragic story (it would have been in all the newspapers). That’s why she went after Lombard. She knew Blore didn’t believe her but Lombard didn’t say anything. She took his hanging back as meaning she could manipulate him. She tried and succeeded, got his gun and shot him. Lombard, despite his experience, didn’t recognize Vera as a threat the way Blore suspected.

Even more interesting was the flashback between Vera and Hugo. In ten films, this is the first where Hugo goes into detail about how, even though he loves his nephew, if Fate had been different and Cyril had been Cynthia, he’d be the peer with the title and the estate. He loves Vera but he’s poor so they can’t marry.

Hint, hint, hint.

Hugo never says one word about how a tragic, completely accidental death for Cyril would be welcome. But that scene implies it, if Vera is that kind of a girl. Hugo doesn’t misjudge her: if he wants the title and estate more than he loves his nephew. That’s a big if. Yet that scene sticks in my mind. How badly does Vera want to marry a rich peer instead of a poor relation? If Hugo was hinting to Vera that he needed Cyril dead, he got what he wanted. And since it was a tragic, completely accidental death, no blame attaches to him, the next heir.

Which is also why Hugo — even if he wanted Vera to arrange Cyril’s drowning — wouldn’t marry her. It wouldn’t look right, for starters. Marrying the governess who drowned the boy who stood in the way? The gossips would have a field day. Hugo also sees clearly what kind of woman Vera is. She’d poison his coffee if he became a problem. Even if she never killed anyone again, Cyril’s murder would always be a barrier between them; the lurking, ugly secret that would destroy any chance at happiness.

Like Vera, Hugo needed the inquest to say the drowning was accidental. If Vera claimed in court that it was Hugo’s idea, he would naturally deny everything. After all, he never came out and said, “Drown that brat, and we’ll be happy together.” But he’d be forever tainted. He’d have the title, the loot, and the estate, but wherever he went, people would talk. An accidental death worked out great, for him. He wins and he can marry a girl of his class with money of her own instead of a destitute governess.

Vera, who seems reasonably bright, wasn’t bright enough to see the trap she walked into. Nor was she bright enough to understand that murdering a kid, even one she disliked (the novel makes it clear), would haunt her. She can’t stop thinking about it. Anyone who knows her backs away, increasing her isolation.

This version is a don’t-miss, and one of the four best: 1945 (for the play), 2015 (for the mashup), 2017 (for the contemporary), and this one. It’s tragedy and the triumph of warped justice.