Teresa Reviews “The King of Clubs” (1989)

Fidelity to text: 3 blunt objects.
The basic story is intact, but the changes weaken the conflict, motivations, and even the mystery. They also weaken the characters because there’s no reason to care about Valerie Saintclair’s dilemmas. I certainly didn’t care.

Quality of film on its own: 3 blunt objects.
It’s serviceable, like the many, many films churned out by the film industry over the decades that are watched once and then forgotten. It’s entertaining, well-acted, gorgeous eye-candy as usual, yet you won’t care about any of the principals.

There were so many missed opportunities and unwelcome changes here. They all stem from Valerie Saintclair, our heroine and damsel in distress. In the 1923 short story, she’s a dancer in a nightclub run by a very shady, seedy man. Can you say organized crime tie-ins? Maybe Agatha didn’t write them but readers of the time would have thought of them. Seedy nightclub dancers are the very definition of unsuitable wives for princes like Prince Paul of Maurania, Valerie’s lover. They’re mistress material, born to be enjoyed and discarded. For respectable people, nightclub dancers were one step above taxi dancers and two steps above prostitutes.

In the film, set in the mid-1930s, Valerie has morphed into a well-regarded actress. That’s still perhaps not quite respectable, but an actress in the 1930s enjoys far more cachet than a nightclub dancer did in the 1920s. She could conceivably marry Prince Paul and even — if it’s not a morganatic marriage —become his princess consort and watch their children inherit.

That is, if his royal family doesn’t find other reasons to object to that blonde hussy who kisses strange men in public because it’s her job. But there are other reasons, which Valerie and the louche studio head both know, although I suspect Paul does not. Remember, Valerie is an actress. She’s a professional liar. If she conceals her secret shame, he’ll never learn it from her. If you can fake sincerity, you can get people to believe anything you tell them.

Valerie’s family does not apparently exist. When Prince Paul asks Poirot for help in the suspicious death of the wicked studio head, he does not mention Valerie’s relatives who might be concerned that she may have murdered someone. We get plenty of evidence that Henry Reedburn is a typical studio head. He’s abusive, loud, dictatorial, a lothario (watch his interaction with his hot secretary), his manservant admits Reedburn gets routine late-night lady visitors, and he collects blackmail material to keep the talent in line. All quite routine for a studio boss, but so much more could have been done with this goldmine of material.

The mystery is likewise given short shrift. In the short story, Valerie claims that she visited a clairvoyant and was warned about the King of Clubs. That fit nicely with a seedy nightclub owner but not so much with a studio head. The visit to the clairvoyant is dropped entirely. Instead, the only King of Clubs we see is the missing card Poirot discovers from observing the bridge hands spread out on the table in the Oglander’s parlor.

Wait. Who? Why, the Oglanders are the household that Valerie escapes to in her blind panic over discovering Reedburn’s murdered body. They live in a nearby house, but not the closest house. No, it’s farther away and Valerie had to find it by running through the tangled woods in the dark in her evening gown and high heels. In a pouring down rain. Sure.

When Poirot investigates, Hastings in tow, the Oglanders are quite blasé about having a famous movie star in their house who’s escaped from a dreadful crime scene. They seem protective of her, despite not knowing her other than watching her kiss strangers at the pictures. Mr. Oglander is wheelchair-bound and doesn’t speak. Mrs. Oglander does the talking.

Poirot notices the family portrait from previous years: the Oglanders and their three children, two daughters and a son. He’s met the son and one daughter. Where is daughter number three? Dead or so Mrs. Oglander says.

Inspector Japp shows up to investigate and gets sidetracked from examining the crime scene by examining gypsy boots out in the woods. Reedburn had been having run-ins with a local band so they make likely suspects, made even more so because Valerie the actress insisted she saw hobnailed boots sticking out from underneath the floor-length draperies in Reedburn’s library. Japp ignores other evidence, as does his team of policemen.

I know darn well they had basic forensics in 1935; we saw evidence of this in a previous episode, Four and Twenty Blackbirds. Why wasn’t Japp’s team examining the entire library, including the fancy lion-headed chairs? Because it would have prevented them discovering that the death didn’t happen the way a glance at the body implied. I can’t stand it when otherwise intelligent characters act incompetent because the plot demands it.

Japp and his team of investigators completely overlook the smear of blood on one of the chairs. They don’t apparently bother to go outside and follow Valerie’s panicked escape trail through the woods to the Oglander’s house. I know that gypsies make credible suspects but I refuse to believe that Inspector Japp would ignore other evidence when dirty, thieving gypsies are hanging about. He’s too dogged (as he tells Poirot) and thorough to overlook other possibilities.

But not here.

By now, an astute viewer will have figured out that Valerie, despite her protests of virtue, had to be involved. So do the Oglanders, because they behave so oddly. One would think that drenched movie stars regularly show up on their doorstep in the middle of the night. Again, the film was so bloodless. Valerie is the missing and estranged Oglander daughter but it didn’t seem she was estranged at all.

And that brings me back to the secret that Reedburn was using to blackmail Valerie with, keeping her tied to his studio with an onerous contract and (hint, hint) favors of a personal and intimate nature. It seems that Oglander is not the family’s real name.

It’s Hawtrey. Mr. Hawtrey committed serious fraud, enough to be in the newspapers and be brought up on charges. Reedburn knew, proved when we see Poirot discover his blackmail-ready newspaper clipping collection. We don’t know if Hawtrey went to jail and later got out but we can guess that Prince Paul doesn’t know this sordid story and if his family knew, they’d be livid. Actresses are bad enough, but actresses involved in suspicious deaths and who are related to thieves? Quelle horreur. No wonder the family changed their name and moved away. But it’s obvious that Valerie, despite what is supposed to be a serious estrangement, has maintained close ties with her family.

Thus, using the missing card from the bridge game and the mysterious closeness between Valerie and the Oglanders, Poirot pulls the solution from out of his boutonnière vase. Valerie went to meet Reedburn but she wasn’t alone. She went with her brother. Some kind of altercation took place, resulting in Reedburn’s death. But since Reedburn was a terrible man, Valerie is a desperate and sort-of-innocent woman, and her family reunited to save her, she gets off. Her brother isn’t charged with manslaughter. She’ll marry Prince Paul of Maurania and his family will remain unaware of her tawdry past. Inspector Japp will be left with an unsolved crime, after harassing a bunch of innocent gypsies who had nothing to do with the case.

This episode was gorgeous to watch, but it felt so bloodless. I didn’t care about Valerie’s troubles. There should have been lurid scenes set at the studio with other victims of Reedburn’s excesses. Or the Oglander family should have been more upset and traumatized with Valerie showing up on their doorstep, desperate for help from the people she abandoned when they needed her. Or the clairvoyant who told Valerie to beware the King of Clubs should have been left in, adding a much more interesting red herring.

Instead, we get serviceable and forgettable. Watch it, enjoy it, and move on to better films that are worth rewatching. This one isn’t.