Verity

Verity, based on the book by Colleen Hoover – there is your first clue as to what to expect from this mess of a film – is the new film from director Mike Showalter starring Anne Hathaway as the title character, Josh Hartnett as Verity’s husband Jeremy, and Dakota Johnson as Lowen, a writer of books similar to Verity’s novels. Lowen is brought in to help Verity’s publisher from losing its investment in her book series, following an accident that has made it impossible for Verity to continue writing. For a film that is at least partly about the writing process, the screenplay by Nick Antosca leaves much to be desired.

For fans of television, Antosca’s recent Cape Fear adaptation for Apple TV has many of the same problems as this project. There are gaps in story, leaps of logic and characters having plot point stupidity while bending to the will of a writer who has no talent for naturally leading characters where they need to go or trusting his audience. Scenes which should not have evinced laughs drew heavy guffaws and eye rolls, here. A late twist in the film also demonstrates a complete lack of understanding of forensic science and investigation.

This is a film that builds and builds and has too much end game. It is a film that wastes three fine performers. Johnson in particular comes across as often flat, with Lowen given no real personality. There are what turn out to be red herrings, of course, but this film could have used a dash of Gaslight or Rebecca to be more palatable. Similar to The Substance, there is an extended sequence that seems to exist – or linger – merely to provide an opportunity for ogling a character in a state of ecstasy.

This is a film that does not seem to know what it wants to do other than to play unfairly with the audience and hope nobody notices the disrespect. At each moment where the film might have grown intellect, shown innovation, or demonstrated anything other than laziness, it fails. This reminded this reviewer of a Gillian Flynn work, without the passion or playfulness. A more innovative director, even someone as questionable as an Emerald Fennell, might have injected some life into this otherwise bloodless travesty of a film.

It plays not so much as a thriller but as a spoof of a thriller, because it is so camp, and in no way is that a compliment. Moments that should feel genuinely transgressive and make you question yourself and what you have seen result only in one questioning the taste and intelligence of those behind the scenes. Again, it is a shame that this cast is trapped within such a boring waste of time. While much of this is the result of a very dumb if financially successful novel, the actors can only do so much.

It has been mentioned earlier here that Johnson is off and this is largely because she is given nothing with real meat. Despite being the lead of the film, you never get a sense of who or how Lowen really is. The differences between the novel and the movie, regarding this character, might have been made for brevity but it strips the character of depth and emotional resonance. Indeed, a scene near the end of the film plays quite differently when considering what you see in the book as opposed to what is left out of the film.

Hathaway and Hartnett play one of the least convincing couples in film history, and barely get any real scenes together. Mostly ridiculous sexual encounters that would make Fifty Shades of Grey scratch its head in confusion. This is easily one of the most disappointing releases of the year and a low point for everyone involved.