David Fincher’s latest is a well oiled cinematic machine. It’s assured, seamless, and enveloped in his signature monochromatic matte. Ben Affleck makes the most of his cocksure self-consciousness and remarkably cleft chin as wife killer and/or ordinary putz Nick Dunne. Kim Dickens’s portrayal of Detective Boney brings a solid core to the hysterical events that systematically unfold.

Gillian Flynn adapted the screenplay from her novel, and though the movie is rather true to the book, there are a few key differences. For starters, the house—described as the book as a soul-killingly generic McMansion—is lushly bespoke. I'm hoping for a Gone Girl bedding collection, for example. More puzzlingly, this Amy does not have much of a personality arc. She is a rather campy alto purr that turns into a thrashing nag. Though the film does give you a snippet of the Cool Girl and its ultimate undoing of their relationship, the movie version of Amy doesn’t deign to be anything but calculating and arch, aside from borrowing a patina of warmth to snooker the dopey neighbor for a few frames. Most damningly, this woman pronounces crêpe as “craype”, something the fastidious Amy would never, ever, ever do—unless she was making fun of someone.

Two flashy cameo-plus roles from unexpected sources lend some energy and mischief to the proceedings. Tyler Perry is effortlessly sharp as attorney Tanner Bolt, and Sela Ward is all lupine cunning as a queenly television journalist. Question: why has this dangerously charismatic woman been simpering through weepy melodramas when she could have been absolutely devouring the scenery like this? Let’s hope her next act capitalizes on her presence and power.

This movie was essentially competent, but it also left me wondering about David Fincher’s trajectory. This is his follow-up to The Social Network, a silly smash about a bunch of annoying boys—and it takes us even further away from the compellingly woozy anarchy of Fight Club and Zodiac. I'm dying for Fincher to be more ambitious and visceral, and to stop relying upon the good taste of cinematographer Jeff Croneweth for pedigree and Trent Reznor's incessant Nietzschean throngs for depth.

There have been misgivings about his shallow take on female characters since Fight Club, and I’m inclined to agree that he doesn’t seem very interested in crafting fully-fledged women—especially given the source material he ignored here. I’d love to see an inappropriately timed remake…helmed by Sofia Coppola, Lisa Cholodenko, or Patty Jenkins.