The Woman in the Window review: Are you trapped enough to Watch this Film

It’s never an easy task to adapt a best-selling book into a movie, but sometimes the journey takes an especially long and winding path.

And then there’s “The Woman in the Window.”

Netflix released the much awaited movie on Friday. After creating hype for over two years, “The Woman in the Window” was met with cold responses from viewers and critics.

“The Woman in the Window” was published in January 2018, to much excitement. It debuted at No. 1 on the New York Times bestseller. Fox 2000 Pictures ( acquired and shut down by Disney) acquired the movie rights of the book years ago.

Fans who were awaiting the movie release in 2019. But the production was hit by unrealistic narration leading to re-shooting.

The film’s swaying away from best-selling novel to Netflix (streaming May 14) has already become a narrative in its own right. Famous organization New Yorker exposed misdeeds of the author Dan Mallory, creating trouble for the makers. Factors adding to the delays were early studio changes and extensive reshoots followed by the requisite pandemic delays.

And the end result — a gorgeously shot pile of half-cooked ideas and atmosphere — does have the feel of something tweaked and market-tested into oblivion, its story line never quite trusting that the viewer will follow along unless every clue is buried in a shallow grave, with at least one red flag planted to mark the spot.

Plot

Anna is a nervous wreck of an agoraphobe who hasn’t left the house in 10 months. It’s her cocoon, her prison, her stately dream chamber. (It is also, from the look of it, worth $5 to 10 million, so it’s hard to feel too bad for her.) The high-ceilinged rooms are bathed in a shadowy glow, the muted colors left over from an aging renovation, with a winding wooden staircase that extends so far up it never seems to end. It’s a dwelling fit for the Magnificent Ambersons, or maybe a good haunting.

The child psychologist suffers, ironically, from a crippling disorder herself: agoraphobia. She can’t leave home lest the anxiety overwhelm her. If she so much steps outside her New York City brownstone, she’s liable to pass out.

Her contacts these days are predictably few. She was forced to give up her practice after the condition reared up. Her husband and daughter, Olivia, don’t live with her anymore. Her only company is her cat, Punch—unless you count the wine she quaffs and the pills she pops. The only people she sees regularly are her own shrink, who dutifully visits her once a week; and her tenant, David, who lives in her basement.