A Haunting in Venice

Kenneth Branagh's Hercule Poirot returns in his most visually haunting case yet—a murder mystery wrapped in genuine supernatural dread that feels less like a cozy whodunit and more like a Guillermo del Toro fever dream filtered through the precision of prestige television. When a séance at a decaying Venetian palazzo turns deadly, Branagh transforms Poirot from cerebral puzzle-solver into something darker, a man confronting both a killer and the possibility that the dead themselves are speaking. The gothic atmosphere is suffocating; every shadow, every reflection in the canal waters, feels like it might conceal the answer.

What distinguishes this from the previous Poirot films is its willingness to lean into genuine unease. The pacing is deliberate, almost Slow Burn HBO—patient enough to let dread accumulate, quick enough that you never check your phone. Cinematographer Haris Zambarloukos bathes Venice in sickly greens and blacks, turning the city into a character as complicit as any suspect. Tina Fey and Jamie Dornan anchor the ensemble with unsettling intensity, their performances crackling with secrets.

This is for viewers who loved the Knives Out puzzle but wanted more atmosphere, more menace. You'll finish it debating whether what you witnessed was murder or something far stranger—and you'll be rewinding that final séance scene for weeks.