We contain multitudes, but The Life Of Chuck mostly contains insipid sentimentality

The Life Of Chuck begins with an eerie sense of prescience. The news is awash with unyielding reports of cataclysmic natural disasters: In California, a chunk spanning “Fresno to Santa Barbara” breaks off and sinks into the ocean, and on top of that the internet has gone kaput. Everyone has pretty much internalized that the end of the world draws near, yet life’s little frivolities—pizza delivery, a generous nightcap, sitting in awful traffic during rush hour—keep people tethered to the façade of normal life. But just as the illusion of normalcy is irrevocably shattered, the film takes a concerted leap away from this air of anxiety, landing forcefully into a state of insipid sentimentality.

Adapting Stephen King’s novella of the same name, writer-director-editor Mike Flanagan, who previously adapted King’s horror novels Doctor Sleep and Gerald’s Game, is clearly trying to evoke the humanist focus of The Shawshank Redemption and Stand By Me. Perhaps a fault of the source text itself, there is no compelling examination of the wavering capacity for cruelty and kindness that lurks within every person’s psyche; instead, Flanagan applies a broad-stroke, feel-good gaze that insists that we all “contain multitudes,” and as a result house limitless potential to create and destroy by way of our very existence. There’s nothing inherently wrong with this message, but in a moment plagued by fascism, environmental collapse, and violent bigotry—all ills that must be collectively combated—The Life Of Chuck feels like the escapist fantasy of a rabid individualist.

The Life Of Chuck is told via three chapters, presented in reverse order. Act III, entitled “Thanks, Chuck,” centers on a schoolteacher (Chiwetel Ejiofor) and his estranged wife (Karen Gillan) as they unexpectedly bridge the gap between them amid the world’s teetering precarity. Something that strengthens their reconnection is a tandem bewilderment at the recent proliferation of ads—billboards, TV commercials, radio spots—that all read the same thing: “Charles Krantz. 39 great years! Thanks, Chuck.” No one has successfully identified this mysterious figure (embodied by Tom Hiddleston), though the accompanying portrait has everyone sure of one fact: This guy has got to be an accountant. 

Turns out, they’re spot on. After the calamitous end of the first (last) chapter, the second act, “Buskers Forever,” turns back the clock to follow a particularly eventful day in Chuck’s life. While aimlessly walking around after a conference for finance professionals, he comes across a skilled drummer (Taylor Gordon) busking on the sidewalk. Suddenly, he drops his suitcase and begins to dance with precision and fervor, even acquiring an impromptu dance partner (Annalise Basso) in the process. The inarguable centerpiece of the film, the extended dance sequence is most effective when Hiddleston and Gordon play off each other, each showcasing their knack for rhythm and physicality. Yet the subsequent bonhomie in this chapter is especially grating, with the busker extending excessive gratitude to Chuck and his dance partner and the latter two walking home while exchanging words of polite encouragement. Some may find this exaggerated earnestness refreshing, others painfully uninteresting. Not even the foreboding flare-up of Chuck’s splitting headaches manages to inject adequate stakes into the film; after all, by the time Act III wraps, the viewer is not only already well aware of Chuck’s fate, but has already digested the film’s general gimmick.