And Then...

Some theatre folks in town recently told me about a difficult community theatre production they got hired for in a distant county. They were given some leeway to select the show, and they chose Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None, an old whodunnit chestnut.

The theatre board warned them that they may not get a big turnout for such an avant garde show.

"Avant Garde?"

How do you get less avant garde than Agatha Christie? I asked the director of this show "Did you do it in Esperanto, with the cast in animal masks?" She replied "We might as well have."

Anyway, I saw the movie version of And Then There Were None A.K.A. Ten Little Indians a few years back when I was having major mortality issues, and I was appalled. I'd enjoyed it as a child (British eccentrics traipsing about manor houses and such are a childhood favorite of mine) but the film's debonair attitude towards death offended me greatly.

It later occurred to me, however, that most Agatha Christie fans are a lot closer to their natural mortal ends than I am. Perhaps that's part of the allure of Agatha Christie's material... death as a plot point, largely devoid of horror or real significance, may help defang Death Itself in the minds of the fans.