Dead Man’s Wire movie Review: Gus Van Sant Turns a True Crime Nightmare Into a Chilling Psychological Study

Dead Man’s Wire, now in theaters, is not the kind of crime thriller that chases twists or cheap suspense. Instead, director Gus Van Sant delivers something colder, quieter, and far more unsettling—a methodical reconstruction of a real-life hostage crisis that exposes desperation, entitlement, and the thin line between grievance and madness.

Inspired by the infamous 1977 Tony Kiritsis standoff, the film transforms a shocking historical event into a grim character study that lingers long after the final frame.

A True Crime Story That Refuses Sensationalism

Directed by Gus Van Sant and written by Austin Kolodney, Dead Man’s Wire is based on the same real events explored in the 2018 documentary Dead Man’s Line. That documentary DNA shows.

Rather than stylizing the hostage situation into a typical cat-and-mouse thriller, the film stays uncomfortably close to reality. The tension doesn’t come from action set pieces—it comes from waiting, listening, and watching people slowly realize they are trapped by one man’s obsession.

Bill Skarsgård’s Most Disturbing Performance Yet

Bill Skarsgård delivers a deeply unnerving performance as Tony Kiritsis, a man convinced he has been cheated by a mortgage company and decides to force the world to listen.

Skarsgård doesn’t play Tony as a cartoon villain or a misunderstood hero. Instead, he presents him as something far more dangerous: a man who believes—absolutely—that he is right.

His calm, measured delivery makes the brutality of his actions even harder to stomach. When Tony wires a shotgun to his hostage’s neck using a dead man’s switch, the horror isn’t just physical—it’s psychological. Every conversation becomes a negotiation with death.

A Hostage Thriller Fueled by Dialogue, Not Gunfire

The film’s central ordeal unfolds over several days, as Tony holds mortgage broker Richard Hall captive while media, police, and the public gather outside.

Richard, played with increasing fragility by Dacre Montgomery, becomes less a character and more a symbol of collateral damage—an ordinary man crushed between corporate indifference and personal obsession.

Van Sant’s direction emphasizes:

• Long, suffocating conversations

• Media intrusion and public spectacle

• The performative nature of modern crisis

By the time the standoff turns into a televised press conference, the film has already made its point: this is no longer about justice—it’s about attention, validation, and ego.

A Powerful Supporting Cast Adds Weight

The ensemble cast reinforces the film’s grounded tone:

• Colman Domingo brings weary authority to law enforcement’s moral confusion

• Al Pacino appears in a restrained role that leans more on presence than theatrics

• Cary Elwes and Myha’la add texture to the media and institutional response surrounding the crisis

No one is allowed to grandstand—not even Pacino. That restraint is intentional, and effective.

Media, Power, and the Illusion of Control

One of Dead Man’s Wire’s sharpest observations is how quickly the standoff becomes entertainment.

Television crews circle. Radio hosts become intermediaries. The police manipulate optics while preparing lethal outcomes. And Tony, fully aware of the cameras, begins shaping his own mythology in real time.

The film quietly asks: At what point does public attention stop being a tool—and start becoming the fuel?

Van Sant never answers directly. He doesn’t need to.

A Haunting, Unsatisfying Ending—By Design

The film’s final act resists catharsis. Tony is arrested without a shootout. Justice feels unresolved. The epilogue reveals long-term consequences that are messy, unfair, and deeply human.

This isn’t a story where anyone truly wins.

Richard’s trauma follows him. Tony’s punishment feels both insufficient and excessive. Institutions move on. The system shrugs.

That emotional discomfort is the film’s strongest weapon.

Dead Man’s Wire is not a crowd-pleasing thriller—and that’s exactly why it works.

Gus Van Sant delivers a disciplined, unnerving true crime film anchored by one of Bill Skarsgård’s most chilling performances. It’s a story about entitlement disguised as grievance, media spectacle disguised as justice, and the devastating cost of obsession.

This is a film that respects its audience enough to leave them unsettled.

And in a genre crowded with noise, that restraint feels radical.