‘Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and caldron…’ simmer? Sarah Phelps’ two-part adaptation of the Agatha Christie novel, The Pale Horse, is suitably spellbinding, even if it lacks a punchy ending. 

Phelps … manages to turn what were previously cosy little murders accompanied by scones into grimy and disturbing slaughters

The choice of story is intriguing – The Pale Horse was originally published in 1961 at a time when Christie was arguably struggling to write in view of changing moral values. Phelps, nevertheless, always manages to turn what were previously cosy little murders accompanied by scones into grimy and disturbing slaughters (although I will always love sitting down to one of those elegant murders on a rainy Sunday). 

There are, as is usual in Phelps’ adaptations, significant, often clever deviations from the original plot. In this adaptation, we see Mark Easterbrook (Rufus Sewell), an antique dealer, living in a miserable second marriage to Hermia (Kaya Scodelario) after the death of his beloved first wife, Delphine (Georgina Campbell). Easterbrook is by no means the perfect man, which is a clever variation of the original story in which it is Delphine who has an affair and is the cause of his misery. 

The plot is catalysed after the mysterious deaths of two local women. These two deaths have something in common: both victims lost their hair before they died. Desperate to prevent his own death and find his intended killer, Easterbrook starts his own investigation, much to the annoyance of Inspector Lejeune. 

Phelps’ version is delightful viewing with stylish, period aesthetics

Phelps’ version is delightful viewing with stylish, period aesthetics. A favourite is the 1960s vibrating exercise belt used by Hermia whilst she ironically enjoys a cigarette: the perfect illustration of misguided mid-twentieth century health advice. Easterbrook’s car, a Lagonda Coupe 1956, is the crowning period feature with the money spent on hiring the car being put to full use through its frequent appearance, it seems, even for the smallest of journeys. 

Beautiful film locations are chosen, such as Easterbrook’s sumptuous urban home and the countryside village of Much Deeping, which Easterbrook’s friend Ardingly (Henry Lloyd-Hughes) says ‘sounds pornographic, so I’m all in favour’ – I would be surprised if Christie put that in her novel. The Lammas Fair at Much Deeping is terrifying with masks, veils and a strange side-stepping march that all the villagers seem to think is perfectly normal. In addition, the recurring song, ‘My Dream’, by The Platters is, as the title suggests, a sublimely oneiric choice and neatly ties into the plot of the adaptation.

Kaya Scodelario does a marvellous job of being the diligent yet unstable housewife

Amongst this spectacular scenery is a host of acting talent. The pensive Rufus Sewell is the perfect selection for the flawed character of Easterbrook. Playing the Stepford Wives-type wife Hermia Easterbrook, Kaya Scodelario does a marvellous job of being the diligent yet unstable housewife on medication. Apologies for the profanities, but a favourite moment is when an irritating guest taps the ashes from a cigarette onto the dining table and Hermia longingly imagines hitting her over the head with a leg of lamb and yelling ‘Use a f**king ashtray you b*tch!’. Claire Skinner further proves herself to be incredibly versatile by playing the callous Yvonne Tuckerton.

I will not spoil the ending, but after such a promising lead up until the last twenty minutes, it did disappoint. It seems unfair to place the blame on Christie, as the ending to her original novel is a punchy and resounding one. Phelps’ ending, on the other hand, is slightly tenuous, supernatural and therefore lacking that feeling of satisfaction one generally derives from a Christie novel when the murderer is cleverly uncovered, causing an exclamation of ‘Aha!’ from the reader.

Phelps’ feminist plot brilliantly brings the novel kicking and screaming out of Christie’s early-twentieth-century ideals

While this adaptation will inevitably get a beating from Christie purist fans, who have probably tutted their way through it sitting with their well-thumbed copies of Poirot and Miss Marple at hand, the feminist plot which Phelps has devised brilliantly brings the novel kicking and screaming out of Christie’s early-twentieth-century ideals. The problem is that by using a Christie novel, the viewers are set up to watch a traditional detective story, which is why the ending seems a little flat. If one removes this expectation, The Pale Horse is intelligent and highly entertaining television. 

Rating = 4/5

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