Splash! Or do I mean splat? In fact, it’s both in the case of the BBC’s latest vaguely dirty Agatha Christie update, Towards Zero. Seen from the top of the Devon cliffs where a grand house called Gull’s Point signals entitlement from every last portico, the aquamarine sea is bright and roiling, the rocks below promising death and destruction. But even if a couple of people will indeed get it, their starched pillowcases stained deep red by early morning, the dramatic potential somehow remains unfulfilled. Portentousness is boring when overly laboured, and class war – an obsession of these adaptations – a bit tiresome given that most of us are only watching for the servants and the cocktails, the feeling of a summer’s day that will never end.
The writer, Rachel Bennette, has mucked about with the novel’s plot to no great effect, and it goes like this: in Devon, Lady Tressilian (Anjelica Huston), a wealthy, childless widow, awaits the arrival of her tennis star nephew Neville (Oliver Jackson-Cohen) and both his current wife, Kay (Mimi Keene), and his ex-wife, Audrey (Ella Lily Hyland). Naturally, she doesn’t approve of this arrangement – why do Neville and Kay want to spend their honeymoon with Audrey? – but in fact, this throuple may be the least of her problems.
Unbeknownst to Lady Tressilian, her companion, Mary (Anjana Vasan), has been secretly writing to another nephew, the black sheep Thomas (Jack Farthing), in Malaya, where he runs a rubber plantation – and now, against her fervent wishes, he’s en route to Gull’s Point as well. Throw in a creepy valet (Adam Hugill), Lady Tressilian’s lawyer, Mr Treves (Clarke Peters), and his klepto ward, Sylvia (Grace Doherty), and the stage is set for quite the house party. I’ll have a gin and tonic – and make it a double, please!
Towards Zero is an Inspector Battle novel, but here he’s replaced by Inspector Leach, a man whose experiences in the trenches have left him with a terrible depression. Leach is played by Matthew Rhys, and his performance is brilliant: sincere and convincing out of all proportion to the production itself, which is neither. (His face is as grey as a puttee that has been worn too long.) The same is true of Farthing, a marvellous actor, who gives it his all even in a small part – and who doesn’t want to watch Anjelica Huston bossing it from a bedroom she never leaves? Her face! Her basilisk stare! Lady Tressilian edits her will as if it was the Times, every day a new front page. Money is her superpower, and everyone downstairs wants a share of it, even if they can’t be bothered to show up for lunch.
But alas, not even Rhys, Farthing and Huston can save this hot mess of wonky accents and dubious furs. For minutes at a time, nothing happens; people just sit and stare, whether in horror or boredom one is never absolutely sure. The styling of the eternally pouting Kay, a grifter by any other name, is very odd indeed. She has the appearance of a football Wag who was promised Dubai only to find herself in Plymouth. Even after a body has been found, she still appears in the drawing room with two Waikiki flowers in her hair. Red herrings abound, which is as it should be, but such devices only work if the audience falls for them. It’s hard to believe in the younger characters’ jealousy and competitiveness – especially Kay’s.
The 21st-century way with Christie is to imbue her with extra darkness; to transplant our own feelings, vices and virtues on to her characters and plots. I’m not against this per se, though even if I were, it wouldn’t do much good; it’s a simple case of supply and demand. But it must be seamless, not grafted on.
I won’t tell you who dies, let alone why and by whose hand. What I will say, though, is that the scene in which Neville gives Audrey oral sex – no, really – on the Gull’s Point staircase in full view of all the other guests below isn’t shocking. It’s laughable, and a bit gross. With his head entirely covered by her evening dress, Neville the tennis pro begins to resemble a photographer who’s using one of those old-fashioned cameras. Smile, please, everyone! And don’t worry, it’ll all be over soon.
Towards Zero
BBC One
[See also: London’s season of sexed-up Shakespeare]
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This article appears in the 05 Mar 2025 issue of the New Statesman, The Fall Out