Verity (2026)

A struggling writer moves into a stranger’s house to finish another woman’s novels. The premise promises bite. For its first half, though, Verity played like a relatively well-made midday movie for television: polished enough, competently put together, and a little too sure of every beat it was about to hit.

Michael Showalter directs this adaptation of Colleen Hoover’s 2018 bestseller, from a screenplay credited to Nick Antosca and Hoover. Dakota Johnson plays Lowen Ashleigh, a writer hired by Jeremy Crawford (Josh Hartnett) to finish the series his wife Verity (Anne Hathaway) can no longer write after an accident. Lowen moves into the Crawford home to work, and what she finds there is where the trouble starts. I’ll say no more.

The first half was predictable, and cheesy to start with. I could see where scenes were headed before they arrived, and the whole thing carried the polish of a television production and little of the nerve of a thriller. The acting was competent rather than great, and it didn’t always feel authentic, which made the cheesiness harder to forgive; a story built on people circling one another has little else to lean on when the performances falter. None of it was shoddy.

A thriller depends on not knowing what comes next. A first half that announces its moves leaves the viewer a step ahead, waiting for the film to catch up. I was rarely behind it. The first half also moved more slowly than the second, which made the wait more noticeable; in a film of nearly two hours, it felt like a long one, and I spent much of it wishing the story would surprise me instead of confirming what I had already guessed.

Then the second half takes over. The pace lifts, and once the tension tightens and the twists start arriving, the predictability falls away and the story gets the grip it lacked, with enough momentum to carry the performances along with it. The acting stayed competent rather than great, but a plot in motion forgives more than one standing still. Dakota Johnson fared best, because her role gave her the most to work with, and it showed in her performance. The ending is done well, and I’ll leave the details alone.

Underneath the plot sit two linked questions. One concerns authorship: who gets to tell a story. The other concerns truth: how we judge whether an account is accurate, and how persuasive a narrative can feel, true or not. A ghostwriter reading another woman’s pages suits both, because Lowen has to decide how far to trust what is in front of her. The first half states these questions and reaches for the obvious answers, which suits its television-movie feel. The ideas deserved better. Later, as the twists make you reconsider what you were told and by whom, the questions land, and the ending keeps faith with them.

The first half costs Verity goodwill. A slower, predictable, cheesy opening and merely competent performances weigh against it, while a gripping back half and a well-judged ending win much of that goodwill back. The result is a decent thriller with a weak start, sound enough to recommend and short of anything I’d press on a friend.

Anyone after a comfortable television-style watch will find the first half exactly that. Hoover’s readers will want a look anyway. Anyone who likes a twist that arrives late will get paid. If you need a thriller to surprise you from the opening scene, bring tolerance for the familiar and a slower start, because this one saves its best material for the second half.