Trimmed down from a pair of standout 2013 TIFF films – The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby: Him and The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby: Her – which each focused on a crumbled marriage from its own character’s point of view, The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby abandons this narrative invention to seek something more palatable for general audiences. As is almost always the case, in doing so, it’s lost any structural uniqueness and, therefore, any battle cry for an audience’s undivided attention. In effect, this Frankenstein’s monster of a romantic drama is a long-winded festival hit castrated into just another better-than-average weepy drama. I did leave wondering what it might have been like in its original format but still couldn’t shake the feeling that this product is nothing short of art that’s had its balls cut off.

The 89 minute Him – exclusively following James McAvoy‘s Conor’s point of view – and 100 minute Her – exclusively following Jessica Chastain‘s Beatles’ inspired Eleanor Rigby’s point of view – have been boiled together for this rebranded and more “digestible” 119 minute battlefield of love. And though we devoted cinephiles might mourn that lost 70 minutes, having already sat through 119 gloomy minutes, I couldn’t be convinced to revisit the endeavor in its entirety to work out the filmmaker’s original intent were I offered an exclusive interview with Jessica Chastain and a walk on role in her next project. Doing so would be akin to revisiting the park where you were mugged because you couldn’t remember whether the attacker’s right or left hook packed more punch.

Columbia grad and first time filmmaker Ned Benson‘s doomed affair starts amicably enough with our bubbly but impoverished couple dining and dashing at a chic joint before collapsing into each others arms at some darkness-clad NYC park. They giggle and roll into one another. Their chortles reek of carefreeness. Their passion is palpable even through their drunkenness. Without fanfare or even any warning, the next scene sees Eleanor Rigby park her bike and throw herself from a bridge. We’ve no insight into what just happened, or more importantly why, and are left guessing as to how much time has passed since that rumpus dinner date and this bridge-throwing venture. From here on out, giggles are left on the sideline and super serious “adult” stuff pounds us in the face.

What follows is a baleful tale of cat-and-mouse, a voyeur’s journey into the crushed lives of two star-crossed lovers who’ve found their star suddenly snuffed. Following a ballad of soul-bearing tête-à-têtes, with Chastain and McAvoy going toe-to-toe with the best of them, Benson leaves us in the dark to wonder what event has driven such a forceful wedge between these once inseparable partners. What power is strong enough to tear down the levy of love? Has a Christy Mack/War Machine situation unfolded behind the scene or did she perhaps Kristen Stewart his Robert Pattinson? We wonder in the dark. Conor lurks, Elle pushes things down inside. We’re sucked into sulking with them. The breakup mystery unfolds slowly and deliberately, showing a knack for patience and emotionally honesty for Benson while losing a certain amount of excitement-craving goodwill from any reasonable audience member.

That’s because watching The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby is like waking up with a sore throat. It’s sobering, passively aggressive and just won’t quit nagging at you. For those who found a melancholic solace in John Cameron Mitchell‘s weighty Rabbit Hole, The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby delivers much of the same. Tragedy befalls happy family, happy family no longer happy. Much pain. Much sadness. Bathe in tears. Rinse. Repeat.

If The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby were a Beatles song, it wants to be “Yesterday”, unaware that it’s really “She’s Leaving Home”; more “She goes downstairs to the kitchen clutching her handkerchief/Quietly turning the backdoor key/ Stepping outside she is free” than “Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away/Now it looks as though they’re here to stay/Oh, I believe in yesterday.” The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby is about forgetting what yesterday ever was in the first place, about cutting and running, about giving and sacrificing with nothing to show for it in the end.

Bolstered with two fine performances from its healthily talented leads, this truncated art film – while entirely a mouthful to say – will pique your morbid curiosity and satisfy any need for dispiriting drama, though it admittedly aims to leave you more rattled than it does. As such, it’s a second cousin to superior romance dramas like Blue Valentine or Like Crazy, more on par with the work of a filmmaker who hasn’t quite found his footing…or whose footing has been irrevocably altered by the Weinsteins. Then again, you know what they say about dancing with the devil…