★ ★ ★ ½ ☆
Emily Blunt rescues this pulpy whodunit from its more clunky
moments with a remarkable central performance. She stars as Rachel; an unemployed,
alcoholic divorcee who – on her daily train journey to nowhere – catches a glimpse
of a woman she’s watched from the tracks many times before. Only this time, she’s
kissing a man who isn’t her husband. When the woman, Megan, goes missing,
Rachel becomes entangled in the investigation, much to the concern and
suspicion of her ex-husband, Tom (Justin Theroux), and his new wife, Anna
(Rebecca Ferguson).
For the first time in an age, I came to this adaptation
having actually read the source novel. Paula Hawkins’ potboiler – relying so
much on the written thoughts of its three central characters – does not
immediately scream ‘movie magic’, but the way in which the main narrative hangs
on a single image (Megan and her mysterious lover seen through the window of a
speeding train) is decidedly cinematic.
When attempting to picture the morose, eternally-intoxicated
and allegedly unalluring Rachel, the visage of Emily Blunt does not immediately
spring to mind. However, there is so much conviction in her voice and a real
effort to tone down the Hollywood glamour that the whole façade is surprisingly
effective, thanks not least to some subtle but effective make-up and
prosthetics.
While Blunt’s casting may have raised objections and quizzical
responses, the secondary characters are an array of undoubtedly excellent casting
choices. The master stroke is Luke Evans as Scott, Megan’s skittish husband.
Evans’ earnest vocal inflections speak to Scott’s sincerity, but his bulky,
somewhat thuggish physicality ensures he remains a prime suspect. Edgar Ramírez carries
a similar disposition as Megan’s therapist, Kamal Abdic, while Ferguson
acts everyone else off the screen with eyes that are simultaneously burning but
restrained.
It’s amazing how little is lost in the commute from page to
screen. The largest alteration is the move from Britain to the US, but Blunt
retains her accent (a conscious effort, one imagines, to make the transition
smoother). The lack of an internal monologue (save for small spats of necessary
narration) is hardly felt, and the slightly episodic feel slowly oozes away as
the flashbacks become less frequent. There are also some neat visual elements
introduced, too: Rachel draws what she sees, rather than keeping a written
diary, and a statue in the park towards the end reveals the tale’s true form.
Not a crime thriller, not a mystery, but a story about the struggles of three
women.
The cinematography itself is – there’s really no other word
for it – cool. It’s an enticing, blue-grey affair that occasionally brings to
mind Jeff Cronenweth’s work on Gone Girl,
but remains grounded in Rachel’s story by employing ‘the drunk aesthetic’.
Objects a certain distance from our heroine’s viewpoint become fuzzy, and jumpy
editing emphasises the small moments lost in the process as she is buffeted about
by onlookers and events alike.
Besides the many twists and turns of the story, perhaps the
biggest surprise is a completely counterintuitive score from Danny Elfman,
completely free of his idiosyncrasies but still supremely effective. Perhaps
the fact that it’s so different from his usual style (a style that I readily
admit became stale for me some time ago) makes me more inclined to praise it,
but having listened to it separately since seeing the film, I strongly disagree.
While it’s not without some languor and a fair share of
flimsy dialogue, The Girl on the Train is
constructed with more than a little panache and keeps its focus securely locked
onto the three women at the centre of the story. With a keen and unique
technical approach, this is certainly a more praiseworthy and gripping experience
than the extended Eastenders episode referred
to by others.
