By: Dominic La-Viola
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: adapting a true event into a film is one of the most difficult tasks a director can take on. Yet Gus Van Sant not only pulls it off here, he does so with near-flawless control, leaning into the genre itself and turning that inherent challenge into one of the film’s greatest strengths.
Van Sant is no stranger to adapting real people and historical moments, and that experience is evident throughout. He crafts the narrative around the moments that matter most, without completely discarding the quieter or less immediately engaging details. The result is a tone and pace that feel deliberate and assured. This is, above all, a character-driven film telling an insane, almost unbelievable true story.
Much of Van Sant’s precision comes through in his visual choices. The decision to embrace a neutral, grounded color palette works in tandem with the cinematography of Arnaud Potier. Potier’s execution of Van Sant’s vision is admirable, particularly in a post-CGI era where most films arriving in theaters are saturated with digital effects—even those that appear largely practical, like the 2024 remake of Road House.
The craftsmanship on display in recreating 1970s Indianapolis is meticulous. Through thoughtful set design, archival footage, and a visual language that mirrors ’70s filmmaking styles, the film achieves a look and tone that feel authentically of the era rather than nostalgically performative.
Bill Skarsgård commands nearly every scene, with Dacre Montgomery coming close more than a few times. When the two share the screen, their characters don’t clash so much as press against one another, pushing both actors into deeper psychological territory.
Montgomery, in particular, is finally given the space to fully showcase his depth. While he has had previous opportunities to prove his talent, this feels like the first role that allows him to explore restraint, control, and emotional specificity in equal measure.
The scene in which he’s held captive while speaking to his father on the phone stands out as one of the film’s quietest yet most powerful moments. What makes it so effective isn’t the dialogue, direction, or camera placement—it’s Montgomery’s performance. His facial expressions, or more importantly the absence of them, the way he holds the phone, and the emotional disconnect he conveys do all the heavy lifting.
Most actors would overplay a scene like this, ensuring the audience understands every emotional beat. Montgomery resists that impulse. His performance is controlled, subtle, and confident—so much so that it may be overlooked entirely. Ironically, that restraint is what makes it so impressive.
Austin Kolodney’s screenplay is perfectly pitched, capturing not only the unbelievable true story of Tony Kiritsis but also giving the cast room to rise and fall on their own terms. Kolodney builds the narrative around Tony’s demeanor and intelligence, presenting him not as an unhinged caricature, but as someone calculated and perceptive. The FBI profiling scene, in particular, feels both authentic and sharply observed, especially when contrasted with the reaction of the local police.
While the film’s center of gravity rests with Skarsgård and Montgomery, the supporting cast is filled with efficiently written roles that make the most of limited screen time. Several performances shine in just a few minutes, leaving a lasting impression.
The lone misstep comes from Cary Elwes, specifically in his final scene. Though his overall presence is serviceable, that closing moment feels flat and underutilized—an unfortunate outcome given how crucial those final seconds could have been.
That said, the moment has little impact on the film as a whole. If anything, it only serves to highlight the strength and consistency of the central performances and the supporting cast surrounding them.