Kenneth Branagh returns as fictional detective Hercule Poirot in A Haunting in Venice, which opens in cinemas this week. It is the third time around for Branagh as both star and director, following previous turns in Murder on the Orient Express (2017) and Death on the Nile (2022). As the phrase goes: ‘third time’s the charm’: while Venice arguably has the weakest plot of the three, it compensates with a strong atmosphere and a well-overdue sense of humour.

In 1947 Venice, Poirot (Branagh) lives a private life in retirement, refusing to take cases and separating himself from the outside world. It is only a visit from friend and author Ariadne Oliver (Tina Fey) that spurs him into action: to witness – and, if possible, debunk – the mysterious psychic Joyce Reynolds (Michelle Yeoh).

One massive advantage Venice gains over its predecessors is its choice of text. Both Orient Express and Nile remain among Christie’s most famous novels, with each already adapted to big and small screens multiple times and therefore drowning the new versions in comparisons. This time around a far less famous work has been selected; I am willing to guess the majority of people watching Venice will not have read Christie’s 1969 novel Hallowe’en Party, let alone heard of it before. It gives Branagh’s film authenticity – it is still an adaptation of a book – but also a clean slate with which to work. Free from comparisons, Branagh and screenwriter Michael Green are able to adapt the book more freely and find their own location and tone.

One major change is the shift of genre from detective story to supernatural thriller. It provokes a darker, more threatening aesthetic, and the relocation of the plot from English mansion to Venetian palazzo inspires a more gothic, haunted tone. Haris Zambarloukos, who directed the photography of Branagh’s Thor (2011), reteams with him here and delivers a very handsome picture. Hildur Guðnadóttir’s musical score is also very effective.

The standard Christie array of victims and suspects has always lended themselves to high profile ‘all-star’ casts, and Branagh’s films have previously embraced the trend enthusiastically. This time around the casting feels more restrained. While it does boast Tina Fey – who makes for an excellent Ariadne – and Michelle Yeoh – always a welcome presence – the remainder of the cast feel less conspicuous. Camille Cottin, Jamie Dornan, Riccardo Scamacio, and Kyle Allen all contribute to a strong ensemble. Jude Hill, whom Branagh directed in Belfast (2021), does an excellent turn as the archetypal creepy child. It is only Kelly Reilly, whose work I usually admire, that seems to struggle with her performance. It stands out in part because the other actors seem so comfortable in their roles.

Branagh continues to make for a distinctive and entertaining Poirot, and in this iteration feels particularly well grounded in the role. There is a lightness of touch here, as well as an unexpected vulnerability, that really makes his version of the character shine.

This is solid, mid-range commercial cinema. It is essentially warm comfort food. With Hollywood having long since bifurcated into low-budget indies and superhero franchises, it is always a pleasure to experience this sort of sleek, effective, popular filmmaking. There are more than eighty novels, stories, and plays written for Hercule Poirot. I would happily see Branagh take on two or three more.