We’ve all had this experience, haven’t we? The encroaching, heavy and unbearable wait before something we’ve been looking forward to.

When Kenneth Branagh’s action-man Hercule Poirot first bounds onto the screen, we find ourselves in Jerusalem 1933. And while this is sure to be an unfamiliar opening to many of Christie’s more avid readers, we’re soon back into comfortable territory as Poirot’s sense of self-importance and masterful pomp come bubbling to the surface during his self-absorbed denouement.

All Hallows Eve, the one night of the year when daemons, ghosties and probably even the monsters under your bed are free to roam the land of the living.