Stephen King, the undisputed laureate of the American nightmare, has spent most of his literary career inviting us into basements no one should go into and minds no one should live inside. He’s given us haunted hotels, killer clowns, cursed cars, and telekinetic prom queens. He’s taught us that the dark isn’t empty; it’s full, and probably angry. And yet, every so often, King lays down his bloodstained pen and writes something that doesn’t crawl out from under the bed, but rather under your skin; in that quieter, aching way. The Life of Chuck, written in 2020 and now adapted into a stunning film by frequent King whisperer Mike Flanagan, is one of those works.
It’s a story about dying. But more than that; it’s a story about living. Flanagan, best known for turning ghost stories into operatic grief symphonies, adapts The Life of Chuck with something like a scalpel in one hand and a rose in the other. The result is a movie so personal, so tender, it feels less like watching a film and more like eavesdropping on a stranger’s final dream and brings that old adage of “Your life flashing before your eyes” to the spotlight. And I cried. More than once.
The film opens at the end. Or the beginning. That’s part of the magic. The first act (though it’s called Act 3, in true Flanagan fashion) is titled “Thanks, Chuck,” and we’re dropped into a crumbling world that seems to be evaporating by the hour. Marty (a soulful Chiwetel Ejiofor), a teacher with a hollowed-out look in his eyes, is navigating what appears to be the slow, polite apocalypse. Cities fall silent. Birds stop flying. Toilets stop flushing; possibly the most terrifying thing in any King-related universe. And yet everywhere, from billboards to graffiti to commercials still somehow broadcasting into the void, is a face no one remembers: “39 Great Years. Thanks, Chuck.”
Chuck Krantz (Tom Hiddleston) is that face. A stranger. Or perhaps something more. Eventually, we meet Chuck; not as a myth, but as a man. He’s in a hospital bed, surrounded by family. Dying. Hiddleston plays him with a quiet, lived-in kind of light. There’s sadness behind the eyes, yes, but also wonder. It’s the performance of someone who’s felt everything; love, regret, the ache of growing up and out and old; and still chooses joy.
Then, in what might be the film’s most luminous moment, we go backward. Act 2 (“Buskers”) introduces Chuck as a slightly awkward, slightly too-handsome accountant who, one day, breaks into a spontaneous dance routine in the middle of a public plaza. It’s choreographed joy. He twirls. He grins. The camera lets the moment breathe. It’s all so deeply uncool, so nakedly earnest, that you’d think it wouldn’t work; and yet somehow, it does. You watch this man move like someone who knows he won’t get many more chances to. And your chest tightens.
The narrator; voiced with perfect bittersweetness by Nick Offerman; tells us, in the way narrators sometimes do, that Chuck’s time is limited. That this dance, like all good things, has an expiration date. But instead of being cruel, the voice sounds grateful. Reverent. Like someone watching a firefly knowing full well how briefly it will shine.
The final act (which is really the first) is titled “I Contain Multitudes”; a Whitman reference, because of course; takes us back to Chuck as a boy. Living with his grandparents (Mark Hamill, twinkly-eyed and firm, and Mia Sara, in a rare return to screen from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off), young Chuck finds refuge in the small joys of childhood: dancing after school, dreaming of the stars, wondering what’s in the forbidden third-floor cupola of his grandparent’s house. There’s mystery here, yes; King can’t help himself; but it’s soft-edged, almost incidental. What matters more is how fiercely this boy is loved though the fun heart of his grandmother and the truth of his grandfather’s eyes.
And that’s the through-line. Love. This isn’t a horror film, not really. It’s an elegy. A lullaby. It’s about how we’re all walking around with our own credits rolling in reverse behind our eyes. That every goodbye contains a hello. That even the smallest moment; a dance, a glance, a joke whispered during dinner; can echo louder than any scream.
Flanagan’s regular ensemble shows up like old friends at a wake: Matthew Lillard, Harvey Guillén, Carla Gugino, Kate Siegel, David Dastmalchian, Heather Langenkamp. They each get a scene, a line, a beat. Just enough to make you feel like the world is full of people, all going through it in their own small, devastating ways.
There’s a monologue; there’s always a monologue when Flanagan is on board; where a character talks about Carl Sagan and how the universe doesn’t care that we exist, but maybe, just maybe, that makes it all more beautiful. That love, in its futility, is the most miraculous thing there is. It sounds like something that would be insufferable if it weren’t delivered so sincerely. And it hits. Hard. Because we are in that universe.
By the end, you realize: Chuck isn’t famous. He isn’t special. He isn’t a superhero or a chosen one. He’s just… a guy. A guy who lived. And maybe that’s the point. Stephen King, it turns out, doesn’t need monsters to haunt us. Sometimes, all it takes is a mirror. And Mike Flanagan; God bless his bleeding heart, knows exactly where to hold it.
The Life of Chuck is the most beautiful film I’ve seen in years. It doesn’t shout. It hums. It weeps. It dances. And if you let it, it’ll remind you; gently, heartbreakingly; why we dance too. Watch this film as soon as you can.
WRITTEN BY: BRYAN KLUGER
BRYAN KLUGER, A SEASONED VOICE IN THE REALM OF ENTERTAINMENT CRITICISM, HAS CONTRIBUTED TO A WIDE ARRAY OF PUBLICATIONS INCLUDING ARTS+CULTURE MAGAZINE, HIGH DEF DIGEST, BOOMSTICK COMICS, AND HOUSING WIRE MAGAZINE, AMONG OTHERS.
HIS INSIGHTS ARE ALSO CAPTURED THROUGH HIS PODCASTS; MY BLOODY PODCAST AND FEAR AND LOATHING IN CINEMA PODCAST; WHICH LISTENERS CAN ENJOY ACROSS A VARIETY OF PLATFORMS.
IN ADDITION TO HIS WRITTEN WORK, KLUGER BRINGS HIS EXPERTISE TO THE AIRWAVES, HOSTING TWO LIVE RADIO SHOWS EACH WEEK: SOUNDTRAXXX RADIO ON WEDNESDAYS AND THE ENTERTAINMENT ANSWER ON SUNDAYS. HIS MULTIFACETED APPROACH TO MEDIA AND CULTURE OFFERS A UNIQUE, IMMERSIVE PERSPECTIVE FOR THOSE WHO SEEK BOTH DEPTH AND ENTERTAINMENT.
