The Life of Chuck – Film Review

Mike Flanagan’s The Life of Chuck is not your typical science fiction drama. Based on Stephen King’s quietly profound novella from If It Bleeds, the film unfolds in reverse chronology, peeling back the life of one man from death to childhood as if tracing footprints back to their source. The result is an introspective, emotionally resonant experience—a lyrical meditation on existence, memory, and personal impact that showcases Flanagan’s most mature and humane storytelling to date.

Starring Tom Hiddleston in a career-best performance as Charles “Chuck” Krantz, the film is structured into three acts: “Thanks, Chuck,” “Buskers Forever,” and “I Contain Multitudes.” Each section offers a window into Chuck’s life, beginning at the end of the universe and ending with his childhood revelations. Though the narrative may appear fragmented at first glance, it ultimately forms a beautiful mosaic—one that affirms the quiet power of a single human life.

In the first act (titled “Thanks, Chuck,” though chronologically the final chapter of Chuck’s life), Flanagan anchors the existential with the personal. Through the eyes of high school teacher Marty (Chiwetel Ejiofor) and his ex-wife Felicia (Karen Gillan), we watch the surreal unraveling of reality: internet outages, vanishing stars, inexplicable billboards thanking someone named Chuck for “39 Great Years.” But instead of leaning into apocalyptic spectacle, Flanagan turns inward, focusing on human connections in the face of cosmic unraveling. This section works as a spiritual cousin to Lars von Trier’s Melancholia, though less despairing and more affectionate—resigned to the end, but with a grateful heart.

Tom Hiddleston brings pathos and nuance to Chuck’s final moments, which are rendered with aching grace. The film’s science fiction elements never overpower the humanity of the piece. Rather than world-ending CGI or bombast, we get dimming lights, hushed conversations, and the warmth of a hand held. Flanagan’s minimalist aesthetic—long takes, warm lighting, and purposeful silences—elevates the emotion without manipulation.

In “Buskers Forever,” the story moves backward to a moment that seems, at first glance, minor: Chuck dancing with strangers in the streets of Boston. It’s here that the film’s tonal dexterity truly shines. What could be a saccharine detour becomes a poignant snapshot of fleeting joy, and a key to understanding Chuck’s character. It’s a celebration of spontaneity, connection, and the small decisions that etch themselves into our memory.

Hiddleston plays Chuck in this phase with a kind of bewildered glee, his physicality effortlessly capturing the rhythms of a man moved by something he can’t explain. Annalise Basso’s Janice, a stranger who joins Chuck in dancing, is radiant in her brief role, while Taylor Gordon’s Taylor, the drummer, adds a soulful, rhythmic heartbeat to the scene. Their interaction is full of life, humor, and a sense of shared humanity that lingers far after the music stops.

There’s a dreamlike tone throughout this act, with Boston’s busy street corner taking on an almost stage-like quality. Composers The Newton Brothers deliver one of their most emotionally stirring scores to date, building on gentle motifs that recur throughout the film, weaving scenes together across time. Flanagan clearly understands that wonder is often found not in spectacle, but in stillness, in the fleeting intersections between strangers, and in the mystery of our most inexplicable joys.

The film’s final act, “I Contain Multitudes,” is the emotional core of The Life of Chuck. Centered on Chuck’s early years, this section is rich in character development, bringing to life the relationships and philosophical seeds that shaped the man. Benjamin Pajak, Jacob Tremblay, and Cody Flanagan all portray Chuck at different ages, each contributing an authentic layer to his evolving self. Pajak, in particular, delivers a moving performance that captures the confusion, hope, and longing of adolescence with remarkable restraint.

Mark Hamill, as Chuck’s grieving grandfather Albie, is a standout. He imbues the role with quiet heartbreak and bitterness, showing how unresolved grief can calcify into sternness. Yet he’s never one-note; his love for Chuck is deeply felt beneath the gruffness. Mia Sara brings warmth and intelligence as Chuck’s grandmother Sarah, whose passion for dancing helps shape Chuck’s sense of self and imagination. Her sudden absence is felt as a seismic emotional shift—subtle but crushing.

The script’s literary origins are especially pronounced in this act, where references to Walt Whitman’s poetry, particularly the line “I contain multitudes,” become a central motif. Flanagan handles these references with tenderness and clarity, never descending into pretension. Instead, the film suggests that inside each of us is an infinite cosmos of memory, love, regret, and hope—a message that resonates with the quiet force of truth.

Tom Hiddleston’s performance across all timelines is nothing short of remarkable. He never plays Chuck as a one-note figure, instead modulating his portrayal to reflect each era’s emotional truth. Whether bedridden or bursting into spontaneous dance, his Chuck feels fully inhabited, filled with longing, wonder, and unspoken fears. It’s a performance of remarkable interiority, elevating the abstract to something touchable.

The reverse chronology could have come off as gimmicky in lesser hands, but Flanagan uses it to build thematic richness. As we move further from death and closer to innocence, the film paradoxically feels heavier, as each prior moment retroactively colors what we already know of Chuck’s fate. It’s a brilliant structure that forces us to reconsider cause and effect, not just in plot but in emotional resonance. Rather than constructing suspense in a traditional way, Flanagan constructs poignancy.

In terms of visuals, cinematographer Eben Bolter captures the film’s shifting tones with precision: the cold fluorescent lighting of the hospital, the sun-dappled nostalgia of Chuck’s childhood, and the vibrant earthiness of a Boston sidewalk. The imagery is restrained but poetic, often lingering on faces, hands, or everyday objects that gain symbolic weight as the story unfolds in reverse.

The Life of Chuck is a profound, humanistic work—more soulful than sci-fi, more meditative than dramatic, and one of the most quietly powerful adaptations of Stephen King’s work ever made. Mike Flanagan has crafted a film that doesn’t need monsters or mayhem to haunt you. Instead, it lingers because of its emotional insight, its poetic storytelling, and its faith in the meaning found within each life, no matter how small or ordinary.

It’s not a film for everyone—its structure is unconventional, and it requires patience. But for those willing to engage, The Life of Chuck is a deeply rewarding, quietly stunning cinematic experience. It reminds us that while the universe may end, what we hold within ourselves—the memories, the moments, the multitudes—may be the most infinite thing of all.