Without the classiness of Evil Under the Sun, without the slicked-back elegance of Murder on the Orient Express (1974, Albert Finney, thank you), without the slapsticks of Clue, without the wryly wrought gesticulations of Columbo, and without, in reasonable estimation, any further need for a fresh take on the genre of murder-mystery movies, Rian Johnson has, in a generally self-aggrandizing way, assembled a star-studded cast of loathsome characters to act out farcical intrigue crossing the finish line through a crisp 130 minutes of obfuscation-cum-revelation, or maybe it was all just Quentin Tarantino's tenth film?

Although that all sounds positive, and Christopher Plummer continues to prove he can command the screen despite never having been in a Star Wars movie, something which neither Christopher Lee, Peter Cushing, Alec Guinness, nor Max von Sydow can add to their resumes, one cannot help but question the choice of Daniel Craig as a southern gentleman with folksy dialogue and an almost laughable attempt at a Texas drawl.

A lot of laughs were left on the table by not imbuing the main detective with funnier features. Imagine a French (or perhaps, Flemish) accent, a monocle, a lazy eye, a large gut, a handlebar mustache, jet-black and slicked-back hair under a hairnet, a double limp, two humps, and some pocket watches which are never accurate unless you want to know what time it is in Flanders.

It was a very good choice to have Chris Evans wear civilian clothes, however.