20 Sep TIFF REVIEW – ‘The Life of Chuck’ is a true gem of a film
In an unexpected and deeply moving departure from his horror-heavy oeuvre, Mike Flanagan’s The Life of Chuck marks a bold and graceful pivot into something more abstract, more lyrical, and ultimately more human than anything he’s directed before. Adapted from the Stephen King novella of the same name found within If It Bleeds, this film isn’t just a curiosity or a detour for Flanagan. It feels like a culmination, not of scares or suspense, but of something more intangible, like wonder.
There’s a deep vein of melancholy running through this story, but it’s offset by joy, music, connection, and love. That Flanagan, best known for tightening the screws on dread, has made a movie this gentle and generous is its own kind of magic trick. But what makes The Life of Chuck so staggeringly striking is how sincere it is in its ambition and how utterly unconcerned it is with explaining itself. It just invites you to feel. And this true gem of a film is one we could all do with right now.
What begins as something apocalyptic quickly transforms into a far more intimate character study, fractured across time and memory. Told in reverse chronological order across three acts, The Life of Chuck gradually peels back the layers of its central figure, Chuck Krantz (Tom Hiddleston), to show not only what made his life extraordinary but also how every seemingly small encounter left a lasting ripple.
The film opens with a city on the verge of collapse. Power grids are failing. Birds are falling from the sky. The internet’s gone dark. But amidst the chaos, people begin to notice something strange: billboards and screens flash tribute messages to a man named Charles Krantz, a seemingly ordinary banker no one quite seems to know. As the world buckles under some unnamed force, we meet Marty (Chiwetel Ejiofor), a science teacher navigating the crumbling infrastructure with his colleague Felicia (Karen Gillan), both of them reflecting on the meaning of life as their surroundings unravel.
From there, the film pivots into its second act, a more whimsical and poetic interlude in which Chuck, now alive and well and played with gentle charisma by Hiddleston, shares an unexpected moment of joy. He encounters a street drummer and suddenly bursts into dance, drawing a small crowd and inviting the viewer to bask in this fleeting, euphoric moment. It’s a scene that could have tipped into sentimentality, but it never does. Flanagan captures it with an unshakable sincerity, helped enormously by Hiddleston’s openness and the way the camera lingers just long enough to let the moment breathe. It’s here that The Life of Chuck declares itself not as a mystery to be solved, but as a celebration of the very act of living.
The final act of the film (chronologically the earliest) reorients the story around the early life of Chuck (Benjamin Pajak and Jacob Tremblay at different points), recently orphaned and living with his grandparents, played with quiet strength by Mark Hamill and a particularly warm, lovely Mia Sara. Here, the tone shifts again, tilting toward the impressionistic as it explores how a boy processes grief, curiosity, and the slow realisation of mortality.
The dulcet tones of Nick Offerman narrate, guiding the viewer through young Chuck’s formative years, his love of the stars, and his growing understanding that time, while linear, is also a kind of illusion. It’s the most abstract section of the film, and arguably its most challenging, but it’s also the key to unlocking everything that’s come before. Flanagan doesn’t spell out the metaphysics of what’s happening, nor does he need to. What matters isn’t what’s literal — it’s what lingers.
What makes The Life of Chuck resonate so powerfully is its complete commitment to tone and texture. This is a movie that wants to wrap around you like a memory, familiar and bittersweet, full of little moments that may not seem important until you look back and realise they were everything. The reverse structure isn’t a gimmick; it’s essential to the film’s emotional rhythm. By beginning with endings and working backwards toward beginnings, Flanagan nudges the viewer to consider not just what we remember, but how we remember and the ways each moment can echo forward and backward through a life. In a way, it’s about the parts of ourselves we foolishly never recognise are meaningful until they’re gone.
Hiddleston delivers what might be the most quietly affecting performance of his career. Chuck isn’t a man of big speeches or grand gestures. He’s just a person, awkward, kind, private, trying to make the most of the life he’s been given. In Hiddleston’s hands, that modesty becomes magnetic. There’s a fragility to him, but also a steady glow. He doesn’t push for tears or pathos; he just listens, smiles, and sometimes dances. It’s a performance that lives in the in-between spaces — the pauses, the silences, the eye contact that lasts half a second longer than expected. It’s all incredibly effective, and it gives the film its centre of gravity.
As for that destined-to-be-iconic dance sequence, it’s a standout moment of unfiltered joy and emotional release, captured with a disarming simplicity that makes it one of the film’s most memorable scenes. As Chuck spontaneously joins a street drummer and begins to dance, the camera lingers with warmth and patience, allowing the moment to unfold without irony. It’s a scene that functions as the emotional heartbeat of the film; a fleeting expression of gratitude, freedom, and presence that encapsulates the film’s larger themes about finding beauty in the now. It’s not flashy or overly choreographed, but it’s soulful and deeply felt, carried by Hiddleston’s vulnerability and the sheer sincerity of the moment.
Ejiofor, too, is terrific in a role that requires immense control. As Marty, he serves as something of an audience surrogate in the opening act, trying to make sense of the surreal events unfolding around him. But Ejiofor brings a quiet grace to the part, allowing us to feel the weight of what’s unsaid. There’s a scene near the start where Marty and Felicia sit and talk while the world literally crumbles behind them, and the honesty in Ejiofor’s eyes tells you everything you need to know. In a relatively small role, Gillen shines as she brings emotional clarity and texture to every moment she’s given.
Pajak and Tremblay share the role of young Chuck with a tenderness that underscores the film’s deep emotional throughline. Pajak, playing Chuck in his earliest years, brings a fragile sincerity to the character and a wide-eyed innocence that quietly absorbs the strange, magical world around him. Tremblay, taking over as the slightly older Chuck, carries that thread forward with a sense of growing curiosity and emotional nuance, grounding his scenes in a gentle realism that never feels forced. Both performances work in tandem to show the roots of the man Chuck will become, and they imbue the film’s first act with a wistful melancholy that’s both quietly heartbreaking and full of wonder.
Kate Siegel’s brief but memorable appearance as Chuck’s sixth-grade teacher is nothing short of arresting, delivering a single-scene monologue that leaves a lasting imprint on the film’s emotional core. With measured intensity and quiet devastation, she navigates a moment of existential clarity that perfectly captures the movie’s aching sense of impermanence. She’s just one member of a beautiful ensemble supporting cast, where each gets their moment to capture your heart, including Matthew Lillard, Heather Langenkamp, Carl Lumbly, and Annalise Basso.
The music is also integral to the film’s emotional impact. The charming score by The Newton Brothers is understated, never imposing itself, but it flows like a heartbeat under each scene, guiding the viewer gently through the film’s shifting moods. The choice to let moments play out with minimal music at times also pays off. Flanagan trusts his actors, and he trusts the audience. Silence becomes its own kind of language here, creating a space to reflect, to breathe, to remember.
Visually, the film is gorgeous, full of warm hues and soft lighting, particularly in the second and third acts. Eben Bolter’s cinematography avoids the clinical polish that sometimes plagues movies about memory and mortality. Instead, it leans into the organic. It captures the texture of everyday life; the glow of a lamp in a bedroom, the flicker of streetlights on a wet sidewalk, the dust motes dancing in a sunbeam. It’s not flashy, but it’s beautiful in its restraint, and it suits the story perfectly.
Flanagan also brings a literary sensitivity to the material, with explicit nods to Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself and a general air of poetic curiosity. But more importantly, he resists the urge to explain too much. This is not a film that seeks to define the afterlife or to spell out some grand philosophical theory. It’s about how we live, not what comes after. That’s where it finds its power; in the mundane, in the joy of eating cereal with someone you love, or hearing your favourite song in the street. It’s a love letter to all the little things that add up to something vast.
The non-linear structure may alienate some viewers. The emotional payoffs land differently when you’re working backwards, and for those expecting a more conventional experience, the lack of a traditional arc could be a stumbling block. There are also moments, particularly in the first act, where the film’s deliberate pacing might test the patience of those waiting for the narrative “hook.” But even these criticisms feel small in the shadow of what the film accomplishes. This isn’t a movie trying to thrill or shock. It’s attempting to mean something. And it succeeds in spades.
Flanagan has always been interested in death, but never quite like this. In The Haunting of Hill House, it was about grief. In Midnight Mass, it was about faith. Here, it’s about legacy. Not in a grand historical sense, but in the microcosmic one. The imprint we leave on others. The gestures that seem small but resonate for decades. A smile, a kindness, a moment of joy. Chuck isn’t famous. He isn’t powerful. But his life mattered, and the film quietly insists that every life does. That’s not a new idea, but Flanagan makes it feel profound again.
By the time the final images roll, there’s a real sense of peace that settles in. Not because every question has been answered, but because it doesn’t need to be. The journey backward through Chuck’s life has illuminated not just who he was, but who we are – flawed, hopeful, and endlessly interconnected. That’s what makes this film so special. It isn’t just telling a story. It’s inviting the viewer to reflect on their own. On what they’ll leave behind. On the people they’ve loved. On the moments that might have seemed small but weren’t.
The Life of Chuck is the kind of masterful film that sneaks up on you. It may not bowl you over in its first few minutes. It may even confuse or frustrate you at times. But by the end, if you’ve let it in, it leaves an indelible mark; one likely to leave you in a puddle of joyful tears. It makes you want to call someone you miss. To tell your loved ones how much they mean to you. To look up at the stars. To dance in the street. And in doing so, it accomplishes something rare and beautiful. It reminds you that this life, as fleeting and messy as it is, is worth celebrating. Flanagan has made his most personal film yet, and perhaps his best. It’s not a horror story. It’s a thank-you note to existence. And it’s quietly extraordinary.
Distributor: TBC
Cast: Tom Hiddleston, Chiwetel Ejiofor, Karen Gillan, Jacob Tremblay, Mark Hamill, Annalise Basso, Mia Sara, Matthew Lillard, Carl Lumbly, Kate Siegel, Nick Offerman
Director: Mike Flanagan
Producers: Mike Flanagan, Trevor Macy
Screenplay: Mike Flanagan
Cinematography: Eben Bolter
Production Design: Steve Arnold
Costume Design: Terry Anderson
Editor: Mike Flanagan
Music: The Newton Brothers
Running Time: 110 minutes
Release Date: TBC