In West Hollywood, streetwalkers hit the asphalt as victims of a serial killer — one who may be copycatting the crimes of Jack the Ripper, if the theory of L.A. police detective Manning (Alfred Molina, Spider-Man 2) proves correct. Well, of course it does, and it doesn’t take the removal of one hooker’s reproductive organs to see that!

Meanwhile, across town, the mysterious Malcolm (Simon Baker, Land of the Dead) rents the backyard guest house of a clinically depressed and sexually frustrated housewife named Ellen (Hope Davis, Real Steel) and her loutish schlub of a hubby (Donal Logue, Shark Night 3D) for $1,000 a month — brekky included! Claiming to be a writer, Malcolm is comically suspect from the start, insisting he “must not be disturbed,” that he have not only “total privacy,” but possess “the only key.” Ellen’s reaction to this: Get all gussied up and pray for a pity hump.

If any of The Lodger’s premise sounds familiar, it should; this multiplex-skipping version by David Ondaatje (who wrote and produced in addition to directing) is the fifth of too many movies made from Marie Belloc Lowndes’ 1913 novel, most famously in a 1927 production by Alfred Hitchcock, making his suspense-genre debut. Why Ondaatje even tried is a larger mystery than the one on which the venerable story is built; he brings nothing new to the material but cheap, flashy camera tricks and multiple scenes of internet searches, all of which serve to highlight his film’s immense deficiencies. It’s not that The Lodger is a hoary chestnut, but that Ondaatje has bitten off more than he can chew, even for an expectations-lowered DVD premiere. His first feature (which he has yet to follow up) is overwrought, overcooked and overgrazed with Mozart sauce in an attempt to at least sound dramatic.

Ondaatje’s adaptation holds more poor performances than his name does vowels. As Manning’s partner, The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen’s Shane West is the worst offender, all squints and/or scowls, but that’s modus operandi; ditto Baker’s uncanny ability to be a near-cipher of a screen presence. For being terrific actors, Davis and Molina astonish — and not in the good way — in how astray they seem to be have led. At least Davis gets to go through many of her scenes saying little to nothing; foisted in Molina’s mouth are foolish speeches such as, “Jack the Ripper was the personification of evil … his fucking shadow lurking in the darkest corner of the human mind.”

Had those two amped up the camp elements — and I suspect they wanted to — we’d have a Lodger worth the stay. Oh, it still would be awful, but awful and watchable. As is, the only reward is skipping to the penultimate scene, just to hear RED’s Rebecca Pidgeon enunciate “autoerotic.” —Rod Lott

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In a rare nexus of art and commerce, Hollywood has turned a best-selling novel by Gillian Flynn into a critically acclaimed, audience-pleasing smash that’s destined to embed itself in our pop-culture consciousness for decades to come.

I speak of Gone Girl, of course. One year later came Dark Places. It premiered on VOD.

In 1985, Libby Day was just 8 years old when her mother and sister were brutally murdered in what the media dubbed the “Kansas Prairie Massacre,” for which her teen brother, Ben, was convicted. Three decades down the line, Libby (Charlize Theron, Mad Max: Fury Road) is near-penniless after book royalties and funds from kind strangers have dried up. Naturally, she’s estranged from Ben (Corey Stoll, Ant-Man), who remains behind bars.

Dire straits are the lone reason why Libby agrees to be the paid special guest at a meeting of true-crime enthusiasts not only fascinated by her case, but convinced of her brother’s innocence. While the amateur organization is called The Kill Club, Libby’s recruiting member (Theron’s fellow Fury Road passenger Nicholas Hoult) promises, “It’s not as weird as it sounds.”

That, in a nutshell, is Dark Places’ largest problem: It’s not as weird as it sounds. In fact, it’s shockingly average, venturing to locales and situations not nearly as twisted as one hopes for, given the sales success of Flynn’s 2009 sophomore book and its use of the 1980s’ satanic-panic hysteria as a major subplot. A mystery is there, which Libby initially is reluctant to touch, but her manner of investigation is less than compelling and the secrets uncovered, disappointing due to sheer implausibility. Not having read the book, I do not know if blame should be assigned to Flynn or writer/director Gilles Paquet-Brenner, whose 2010 film, the low-key Sarah’s Key, generates markedly more suspense out of its slow-cooker of a story, also blessed with a strong female protagonist.

As usual, Theron gives it her all, even if her ever-the-sourpuss character is less than likable. Doing richer work — and all in flashbacks — is Mad Men resident redhead Christina Hendricks as Libby’s hardscrabble mother. She may have had the edge, with this being her second film in a row playing a financially desperate single mom, following last year’s Lost River. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.