Adapted by horror maestro Mike Flanagan from a lesser-known 2020 Stephen King novella, The Life of Chuck is an ambitious and unusual meditation on mortality, memory, and the fragility of life. Told in reverse, the film opens at the end of the world and gradually winds its way back to childhood innocence, a structure that is bold on paper but often falters in execution.
The story begins in a small American town where the apocalypse is unfolding. Teacher Marty Anderson, played with gravitas by Chiwetel Ejiofor and his ex-wife Felicia (Karen Gillan) attempt to navigate collapsing coastlines, vanishing internet access and a creeping sense of inevitability. Against this backdrop of despair, mysterious billboards and advertisements start appearing with the simple, baffling message: “Thank you, Chuck Krantz.” These images lend the film an eerie quality, suggesting that the fate of the entire world is somehow tied to an otherwise ordinary man.
That man is Chuck, portrayed by Tom Hiddleston, who gradually becomes the emotional centre of the narrative. As the story folds back in time, we learn that Chuck is not a messiah or chosen figure, but simply a man dying from a degenerative disease. Hiddleston gives a committed performance, bringing warmth and melancholy to a character whose life is examined in fragments. Yet the script never quite allows him to transcend the weight placed on his shoulders, leaving his journey feeling oddly detached from the cosmic stakes Flanagan initially sets up.
One of the most divisive sequences arrives in the second act, where Chuck, determined to embrace joy, bursts into a public street-dance with Christina (Annalise Basso). It’s clearly intended as a “life-affirming” high point. Unfortunately, the execution feels more manipulative than moving, with the choreography and swelling music straining to convince us of an emotional truth that the script hasn’t fully earned.
The final chapter rewinds to Chuck’s childhood, where he is played by Benjamin Pajak. Here, the film most closely resembles King’s signature style—layering the sweetness of familial bonds with creeping supernatural menace. Young Chuck’s relationship with his grandmother provides tenderness, while a locked attic room introduces a spectral edge. Supporting turns from Carl Lumbly, Jacob Tremblay, and Mark Hamill enrich these sequences but ultimately serve more as texture than substance.
The central problem with The Life of Chuck isn’t a lack of sincerity—Flanagan and his cast approach the material with clear conviction. Rather, it’s that the film is far less clever and profound than it believes itself to be. Its grand pronouncements about life, death, and what it means to be remembered land with the heaviness of a lecture.
What could have been a haunting, elliptical reflection instead becomes a somewhat ponderous and more than a little pretentious morality play. Admirable in ambition but flawed in execution, The Life of Chuck ultimately proves that not every King story needs to be adapted. Still, the film is moving in moments and anchored by strong performances, but its heavy-handed storytelling and lack of subtlety stop it from reaching the profound heights it aims for.
