At the dawn of each semester, I like to choose A Thing to occupy me on the side. Ideally it would not be related to university and my degree, and must not require a ton of physical or mental strain, yet prevent me from slipping unhindered into a state of "bed rotting" (Rest's undesirable imitator), for the lack of a better term. Scrolling mindlessly is off the table. Not prohibited, mind, that only serves to strengthen its siren's call, but discouraged. Last semester, I listened to the audiobook for Donna Tartt's cult classic The Secret History; a novel that has been with me for nearly a decade already. This time, it is the 1989–2013 for-television adaptation of Agatha Christie's charming Belgian detective Hercule Poirot, Poirot.
The television series ran for thirteen seasons including occasional double episodes from the second season onwards, as well as entire feature length films (needless to say, I will be thus occupied for some time). Upon the conclusion of the show's final season, all major literary works of Christie's had been adapted. At a cursory glance, fans appear to prefer the earlier seasons, raving over David Suchet's splendid Poirot and faithful adaptations of their favourite mysteries, while expressing disappointment towards a turn that took place somewhere along the way. The latter does not surprise me considering an apparent trend among long-running shows especially, but, having watched a handful of episodes, neither does the former.
I read my first Agatha Christie novel, Murder on the Orient Express (1934), a few years ago after realising I did not know a thing about it––or, really, any of her works. Murder on the Orient Express, specifically, opens with a wintery bite; the language and her use thereof, compelled me. Her eye for detail dazzled and interested me immediately. I was subsequently disappointed to have solved the case prematurely, and frustrated to sit through a substantial portion of the novel before Poirot finally exposed what the both of us already knew. What could have been a secret shared, became an annoyance––baseless. (The fault is entirely my own; I may have read too many detective and mystery novels, seen too many such films growing up, and the autistic pattern recognition in combination with an inherent impatience I have yet to stamp out entirely, kicks in a touch too hard for me to fully enjoy these stories as, perhaps, is intended. It is the case for most well-written mysteries.)¹ Why, then, "waste" my time watching the television show? The simple answer is that Suchet's Poirot is entertaining and the show appears beautifully designed. The slightly more complex version, is that I enjoy Christie's intellect and breadth of knowledge, and I want to like her books. Consider mine a fun but ultimately inconsequential "side quest" on figuring out how to enjoy mystery novels again, if at all possible.
What sparked my memory and attracted me to this particular show, I cannot say for certain, but the timing is apt as (and I did not realise it until after I begun writing this post some days ago) 12th January 2026 happens to be the fiftieth anniversary of Christie's passing. A truer fan might have had something great and succinct to say on the occasion, alas, I am not (yet?), and turn the word outwards: Have you read any of her novels, or are you in the apparent minority alongside myself who know her only in name and scarcely at that? Do you enjoy her work? Do you not? And why is that?
Footnotes
1 Mysteries are also a big thing in Norway around Easter.
Sources
Wikipedia. "Poirot." https://no.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Poirot&oldid=24887690
IMDb. "Poirot." https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0094525/?ref_=ext_shr_lnk
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