I’ve had a similar reaction to every film adaptation of a John le Carré work that I’ve ever seen. I find it admirable and fascinating in the moment, taking special notice of the careful consideration of the plain mechanics of the storytelling, the meticulous dispensing of information and the care of showing the small ways that people charged with carrying great secrets that can shake nations hold themselves together under great pressure. And then, as soon as the opening credits roll, the film begins to fade from my memory as steadily as a thin sheen of frost on the hood of a car that’s just roared to life. That’s what happened when I saw Fred Schepisi’s The Russia House, when I saw John Boorman’s The Tailor of Panama and when I saw Fernando Meirelles’s The Constant Gardener, though the last one stuck longer than most, largely due to a couple sensational acting performances that gave it something extra to grab ahold of. And now I can already feel it happening with Tomas Alfredson’s Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy.

I attribute much of that recurring result to le Carré himself. Widely acknowledged as the master of the espionage novel, no one ever accused him of writing potboilers. His stories of the largely passionless practitioners of the Cold War, as well as those who endured increasingly adrift after walls came down and massive nations dissolved into feuding new geographic entities, are built around sober evaluations of the inner clockwork of a desperate world and the shockingly callous maneuvering the powerful employ to keep their privileged perches. He shows little interest in jolting anyone out of their complacency, preferring the long game of introducing readers to the sensation of forlorn helplessness. In the new film, Gary Oldman plays the character that’s probably considered le Carré’s greatest creation, the weary British spy George Smiley. Oldman carries a reputation for garrulous embrace of his roles, but here he barely registers a pulse. In his best scene, he openly ruminates on a fruitless encounter with a distant adversary several years earlier. There’s no sense that the story will include any closure or that such a thing would provide him with any satisfaction anyway.

That quality in le Carré’s work tends to influence the directors who preside over the films, including Alfredson. The filmmaker who found endlessly inventive ways to stage scenes in Let the Right One In brings little of the same style to this film. He’s instead opted for a staidness that is admittedly apt for a story about men who lock themselves into small, confined rooms to ominously discuss betrayal. It’s just another part of the balance that the film’s firm, resolute story practically demands. There are glimmers of energy here and there, many supplied by Tom Hardy, who increasingly seems incapable of walking away with any scene he’s dropped into. Overall though, it’s fine and hearty, quietly rewarding in its stiff sturdiness. Just don’t ask me to recount anything about it a year from now.