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reesepective 's review for:
Elephants Can Remember
by Agatha Christie
Celia Ravenscroft’s parents died fourteen years ago in a mysterious case that could’ve been a homicide-suicide, or the other way around. The motive? Who knows. Enter Ariadne Oliver, Celia Ravenscroft’s godmother, who begs Hercule Poirot to unravel the cold case because Celia Ravenscroft’s future marriage depends on it. Hercule Poirot, being Hercule Poirot, dives deep into the past to get to the truth.
Now, don’t get me wrong—I never criticize Agatha Christie, but I can’t help but admit that this one didn’t hit the same sweet spot for me. It’s classic Agatha Christie, with a bunch of sketchy suspects and plenty of red herrings, but... it just didn’t feel as solid. The book kind of dragged, especially in the first 100-ish pages, where I felt like Hercule Poirot and the crew were walking in circles. Honestly, reading this felt like chatting with a tipsy, slow-moving elderly lady who’s almost getting to the point but keeps getting distracted. Not a bad thing, but not exactly thrilling either.
I wanted to love this book. I kept pushing through, convincing myself that maybe it was just me being picky. And while there were some solid Agatha Christie moments (because of course there were), a lot of it just felt... jumbled. Inconsistencies popped up, and I found myself wishing for a little more finesse. That said, by the end, a clever plot twist appeared—though it did feel a bit too convenient.
So yeah, it wasn’t the worst, but it wasn’t exactly a home run. If you’re a die-hard Hercule Poirot fan, you might find it worth the read, but I wouldn’t rush to recommend it unless you’re in it for the nostalgia and the familiar Agatha Christie formula.
Now, don’t get me wrong—I never criticize Agatha Christie, but I can’t help but admit that this one didn’t hit the same sweet spot for me. It’s classic Agatha Christie, with a bunch of sketchy suspects and plenty of red herrings, but... it just didn’t feel as solid. The book kind of dragged, especially in the first 100-ish pages, where I felt like Hercule Poirot and the crew were walking in circles. Honestly, reading this felt like chatting with a tipsy, slow-moving elderly lady who’s almost getting to the point but keeps getting distracted. Not a bad thing, but not exactly thrilling either.
I wanted to love this book. I kept pushing through, convincing myself that maybe it was just me being picky. And while there were some solid Agatha Christie moments (because of course there were), a lot of it just felt... jumbled. Inconsistencies popped up, and I found myself wishing for a little more finesse. That said, by the end, a clever plot twist appeared—though it did feel a bit too convenient.
So yeah, it wasn’t the worst, but it wasn’t exactly a home run. If you’re a die-hard Hercule Poirot fan, you might find it worth the read, but I wouldn’t rush to recommend it unless you’re in it for the nostalgia and the familiar Agatha Christie formula.