I wanted serious or crazy. I got stupid.
Remember earlier this year when people protested McDonald’s mozzarella sticks being hollow? They signed up for something cheap and just expected what they came for: breaded cheese, not air.
“The Girl on the Train” should inspire even more disappointment. It carries a whiff of sophistication — mozzarella sticks from a respected, independently owned bar at least — only to deliver less than the indulgent sensation of crappy drunk food. Trash disguised as prestige should at least go batshit, and right now the real world’s dominating that competition.
In fact, under the direction of Tate Taylor (“The Help,” “Get on Up”), it’s hard to buy that this relationship drama/erotic thriller/infidelity video game set to easy is, as a pre-screening ad claimed, “the thriller that shocked the world.” I didn’t read Paula Hawkins’ novel, which made-up stats indicate was devoured by 38 percent of the people you saw on your commute in the last year. But the movie uses pregnancy and loss and deception primarily as manipulative, clichéd plot machinations and would be more aptly titled “Cheaterpalooza.” It almost feels like Tyler Perry’s “Gone Girl.”
Emily Blunt stars as Rachel, who would never claim to be over her ex-husband, Tom (Justin Theroux), still living in their house with his former mistress/new wife, Anna (Rebecca Ferguson), and their baby. (Even if she did, drinking straight vodka from a reusable water bottle tends not to indicate emotional stability.) Every day on the train Rachel gazes at the house two doors down, where Megan (Haley Bennett of “The Magnificent Seven”) and her husband, Scott (Luke Evans), seem, from a distance and with the insight of a teenager, like an ideal couple, what with all the top-of-head kissing and kitchen-counter sex. As if anyone can spot martial discord passing by in a moving car from hundreds of feet away.
Anyway, you’ve seen the trailer — Rachel’s an alcoholic, and when Megan (Tom and Anna’s nanny, of course) goes missing, the titular voyeur, like a brokenhearted alum of “The Hangover,” can’t remember whether or not the fact that she woke up covered in blood means something or not. Speaking of perceived meaning, maybe opening with the voiceover, “My husband used to tell me I have an overactive imagination” might be a tip-off to an untrustworthy narrator?
If “The Girl on the Train” captured anything resembling desire or menace, at least it could land credibly on the Lifetime schedule it would never admit to craving. It’s mostly a muddled and shallow reminder that no one knows the inside of a relationship except the people involved (and sometimes not even them), told through a story that doesn’t get close enough to unpack the complexities that bring people together or break them apart. Plus, Rachel’s woozy search for what makes a happy marriage doesn’t match up to the situation. She knows exactly what happened in her relationship, and it had nothing to do with, as she speculates about Megan and Scott, what they talk about before bed.
Meanwhile, lies are both fetishized as an exciting escape and judged as the breeding ground for the weak and selfish. Sure, there’s a degree of tension in wanting to see how everything unravels despite the simplicity of the knot. (Several juicier ideas are floated but discarded.) Blunt convincingly harnesses Rachel’s wounded rage, and the movie arguably feels most honest when it’s angry.
But what might have been a study of how people’s identity may change based on what they do and what’s done to them — or just a sobering recognition of what people are capable of — turns into a fumbling attempt at suspense that barely knows what it’s looking for, much less how to find it. “The Girl on the Train” needed to be the craftiest liar, not the jilted spouse incorrectly guessing passwords.
C-.
