Powered by the magnetic Aaron Taylor-Johnson, it’s rough around the edges, but still intoxicating.

The film’s sincere core is threatened a little by its flashier directorial effects.

The movie version plays exactly like every other rehab-facility melodrama ever made. Even the stuff that Frey invented seems overly familiar, borrowed from sources ranging from "28 Days" to (somewhat improbably — people in recovery aren’t necessarily allowed dental anesthetic, it turns out) "Marathon Man."

As a film, the biggest issue with A Million Little Pieces isn’t whether any of this happened; it’s that, even if it did, none of it stands out from the many similar movies that came before it.

“Pieces” becomes just like every other addiction film, relying on colorful addict characters and torture-porn scenes to arrive at a hopeful end.

It’s well-intentioned and pretty, but not much else. Occasional stylistic flourish aside, it offers nothing we haven’t seen before, buckling under the weight of its own conservatism.

A Million Little Pieces is a weirdly unreflective exploration of the destructive force of addiction and, setting a new benchmark for blandness, drags on for what feels like a million not-so-little minutes.

Another ruin-and-rehab tale, one that initially tantalizes then flatly disappoints.

A Million Little Pieces is little more than a million little melodrama rehab cliches.

Nothing on screen is as electrifying or surprising as it was on the page, as semi-fictionally enhanced as the writing was.