If only this convoluted but interesting setup were any fun. Like Gone Girl, The Girl on the Train bounces between perspectives, including Megan's pre-trauma timeline, to maximize the surprises. But The Girl on the Train strains to wring suspense from the best-selling source material. Blunt, who's typically subtler than her name suggests, spends so much time sniffling, yammering, and panicked, you'd think she was starring in a presidential debate. Rebecca Ferguson, last seen kicking ass in Mission: Impossible - Rogue Nation, and Haley Bennett, last seen kicking ass in The Magnificent Seven, are stuck as floundering wives who do the opposite of kick ass.
The movie also idolizes Justin Theroux, Luke Evans, and Édgar Ramírez, the male counterparts winding up the women, as slabs of beef worth lusting over, despite not displaying any redeeming qualities beyond "looks good in Abercrombie." (You can almost understand Megan leaving her husband for a guy who can pull off Chelsea boots like Ramírez, but then you remember her eight tons of psychological baggage and go back to not buying it.)