There was a time when erotic psychological thrillers dominated the big screen. During the genre’s heyday, filmmakers such as Brian De Palma, David Lynch and David Cronenberg pushed its boundaries, crafting films that challenged viewers to confront the darker recesses of their own psyches. In the decades since, however, the genre has largely fallen into a creative rut, producing precious few gems amid a sea of uninspired and derivative offerings. Few films in 2026 exemplify this decline more glaringly than Verity.
Based on Colleen Hoover’s bestselling novel, Verity follows struggling writer Lowen Ashleigh (Dakota Johnson), who is hired to complete the remaining books in a successful series after its author, Verity Crawford (Anne Hathaway), is left incapacitated by a mysterious accident. As Lowen settles into the Crawford household, she stumbles upon an unfinished autobiography that threatens to expose disturbing secrets about Verity’s past, drawing her into an increasingly unsettling relationship with Verity’s husband, Jeremy (Josh Hartnett). What follows is a tale of obsession, deception and sexual intrigue that desperately wants to get under your skin but barely manages to scratch the surface.
Hathaway, at least, understands the assignment. Throwing herself into a poorly written character, she brings a conviction and intensity that the material scarcely deserves. Her performance is easily the film’s most compelling asset, elevating what would otherwise be a thoroughly mediocre affair into something approaching watchability. Hartnett, meanwhile, does what he can with the material, but a script riddled with inconsistencies leaves him little room to make a lasting impression. He is serviceable enough, though rarely given the opportunity to truly shine.
Johnson fares considerably worse. Saddled with what is arguably the story’s most poorly conceived character, she struggles to make Lowen a compelling presence. The performance does little to compensate for the character’s shortcomings, leaving us with a protagonist who is difficult to relate to and even harder to root for. For a film so dependent on its central character’s emotional and psychological entanglements, this is a rather fatal flaw.
But the biggest problem with Verity is that its central conceit is neither sexually charged nor psychologically compelling enough to warrant the audience’s investment. Erotic thrillers thrive on tension, seduction and the creeping suspicion that something far more sinister lurks beneath the surface. Psychological thrillers, meanwhile, require characters and motivations that invite scrutiny. Verity offers precious little of either. Without that essential undercurrent of erotic tension and psychological intrigue, the film is left flailing, its recognisable trio of leading actors unable to salvage a story that never quite comes together.
That is not to say the film is entirely without entertainment value. There is a certain absurd pleasure in watching its increasingly nonsensical narrative unfold, if only to see what ludicrous revelation it will conjure next in an attempt to justify its own convoluted existence. Unfortunately, the eventual payoff is no more convincing than the journey itself.
For a film that promises forbidden desire and psychological depravity, Verity is remarkably devoid of both. What remains is a half-baked thriller propped up by Hathaway’s commitment and a narrative whose greatest mystery is how anyone thought it worked in the first place.
