I guess I should start by saying that I didn’t care for the novel the film is based on. But it’s still a damn sight better than the film. The internal monologues present in the book at least give some measure of breath (and breadth) to the lives of these characters. Those who have read it will, no doubt, recognize the wisps of backstory left intact that made the novel readable, if somewhat predictable. They also should be able to follow the convoluted plot a lot better. The compression from novel to screenplay didn’t do this story any favors.

Rachel (Emily Blunt) is an alcoholic who rides the train all day so she can pass by the house where she lived with her (now-ex) husband Tom (Justin Theroux) and throw herself a big pity party, complete with a vodka-filled sippy cup. Over the course of these trips, she has become obsessed with a young couple who live along the route, Megan (Haley Bennett) and Scott (Luke Evans), who enjoy the normal things we all do. You know, like having sex on the balcony in full view of the passing train. Did I mention that Megan and Scott are neighbors to Tom and his new wife, Anna (Rebecca Ferguson) who used to be Tom’s mistress? Oh, and Megan is Tom and Anna’s nanny, and Megan and Anna look very similar? (Although that might just be an unrelated complication of casting; I didn’t get that from the book.) Confused yet? Then one day Rachel sees Megan embracing with a man who is definitely not Scott, and before she can act upon the anger she feels at seeing Megan’s betrayal (an anger which seems completely forced, by the way) by alerting Scott, Megan up and vanishes. From then on, it’s like a red herring car wash, with pretty much everybody we’ve seen so far (except Allison Janney’s Detective Riley) thrown at us as possible baddies. Yes, even Rachel, who wakes up bloody and bruised from a blackout the morning after Megan disappears.

There really wasn’t much here to like, honestly. The dialogue does nothing but force the story along, and doesn’t seem to reflect the speaker…or seem realistic, for that matter. Everything feels rushed. It’s like writer Erin Cressida Wilson took all the best bits of the novel and just threw them away, keeping all the worst ones. And the acting could be better. Lots. Allison Janney—who I normally like—was completely wasted, and Emily Blunt—who I normally don’t—was supposed to be wasted (see what I did there?), but most of the time I felt like it wasn’t her “acting,” so much as her “looking confused, followed by some clever and mysterious editing, making her seem effective.” Most reviews I’ve seen rave about her performance, so I fully admit to being in the minority. And yet, there I am. I just really didn’t care for any of these women. I didn’t dislike them, mind you. I just…didn’t care. Whereas the novel gave them some depth, individuality, and inner strength, the film reduces them to a type—neurotic, alcoholic ex-wife; unsatisfied wife/mother; and oversexed nymphette. The guys aren’t much better. Justin Theroux is good-looking enough to make you believe these women might be attracted to him, but he’s so bland that you can’t really understand why they stay.

I hate to make this a review a “novel vs film” screed, but since the damage is already done, let me mention one more comparison—alcoholism. It’s a fairly big part of the novel, and shines a light on the complexities of Rachel’s character, including the way people treat her when she starts telling them what she saw. In the film, however, it feels meaningless, as though director Tate Taylor didn’t take it seriously, but saw it more as a dramatic complication, some generic detail to make Rachel an unreliable narrator, and therefore create suspense. And the film is all the poorer for it.

This film wants to be part Gaslight, part Rear Window, and part Suspicion. Lofty goals, but expecting to take elements from three great suspense films and throw them together haphazardly is like combining a few of the ingredients from your favorite recipes, and expecting the result to be just as good. (I’m laughing right now because I’m thinking of Joey’s reaction to the “meat trifle” Rachel accidentally made on “Friends” when two cookbook pages stuck together. Oh, Joey…you are incorrigible!)

IMDB has this at a 6.6, which I find high. I’d put it in the 4.5-5.0 range, although I will say that most people will probably enjoy it. It’s one of those films that if you don’t think about it too much, it will likely entertain you. For me, though, there were too many of what Hitchcock called “Icebox moments”: those inconsistencies within a film that you didn’t notice until rummaging through the fridge later that night because you were too caught up in the film at the time. Thrillers should, ultimately, thrill. This one doesn’t. It snoozes. So be careful you don’t nod off and miss your stop. (running time 1:52)