I am exceedingly fond of the 1978 adaptation of Death on the Nile; I’ll go into more detail about this someday, but in short, it’s one of my favorite Christie films, based on one of my favorite Christie books. I can’t quite heap those accolades on its 1982 successor, Evil Under the Sun, but that movie offers its own breezy, colorful fun. It cheats just a little in how it resolves its mystery, but only the tiniest bit, and only at the tail end of a lot of well-handled, fair-play detection in service of a satisfying plot.

Most of the film takes place at a scenic, sun-drenched resort. Successful actress Arlena (Diana Rigg) has come to the island with her new(-ish) husband, Kenneth (Dennis Quilley), and teenage stepdaughter, Linda (Emily Hone): she’s openly unfaithful to the former and openly bullying and contemptuous to the latter. The resort belongs to Arlena’s one-time colleague, Daphne Castle (Maggie Smith), who parlayed a longstanding affair into a toehold in the hospitality business but has, perhaps, never gotten over Arlena taking so much of the limelight … and who, more pressingly, loves Kenneth in her own wistful, down-to-earth way. Also present are Odell and Myra Gardener (James Mason and Sylvia Miles), Broadway producers Arlena has cheerfully left in dire straits, and catty tell-all writer Rex (Roddy McDowall), who needs an unwilling Arlena to sign off on his book about her. Oh, and the Redferns: vibrant Patrick (Nicholas Clay) is having an affair with Arlena right under the nose of the quietly anguished and already wilting Christine (Jane Birkin). And the wealthy Sir Horace Blatt (Colin Blakely), who wants Arlena to return his diamond and who has hired famous detective Hercule Poirot (Peter Ustinov) to make sure she does.

Arlena is, of course, murdered, and Poirot, of course, must find out whodunnit.

There’s nothing especially grand here–no genuine ache of tragedy, no breathtaking cleverness–but it all has a sparkle to it. The actors are skilled and charismatic, turning in the kind of bold, effective performances that make it easy to juggle such a large cast. (McDowall and Smith are, unsurprisingly, particular highlights.) There’s a nice infusion of comedy. The mystery is fun, and it has a few nice, believably human complications–red herrings don’t just stem from a clever killer but from witnesses who, though innocent, lie anyway, for reasons that range from petty to understandable to moving. The costumes are fantastically, gaudily absurd, and if we weren’t regularly running low on image space, I’d fill up this review with them. You at least have to see Poirot’s bathing costume and watch him swim. Or, rather, “swim.”

Evil Under the Sun, despite its portentous title, is light on its feet. It wants to charm you, entertain you, and keep you happily engaged for its two-hour runtime. They’re modest ambitions, but they’re good ones, and we could always do with more films that take on those goals and succeed at them.

Evil Under the Sun is streaming on Amazon Prime.