Dir: Tate Taylor, with Emily Blunt
Not a film worth getting rained-on for – and certainly not in both directions.
I thought it might be intriguing – an unreliable, alcoholic narrator and some expressionist, drunken camerawork – but it turned out to be tiresome, despite the strong central performance. Lots of perfectly groomed and toned people living in glossy magazine luxury, with the usual denouement to reveal a psychopathic killer. It needed more astringency to dissolve those clichés; as it was, it was just cloying.
Oh, there were interesting bits: my favourite was perhaps the first intimation of Rachel’s drinking problem when she was over-effusive about a baby and you saw the miniatures rolling around in her handbag. The idea of three baby-fixated women all linked to the same man suggested a composite female experience as potential victims of men and biology – so the bracing woman detective was an antidote. Husbands were cheating murderers or merely menacingly controlling. The black holes in the plot and the over-elaborate time jumps were just irritating.