The Life of Chuck Is Your Reminder To Live Your Life To The Fullest
“I am large. I contain multitudes.”
If you were given the chance to know when you’ll die, would you want to? That’s the question I’ve been asking myself ever since I watched The Life of Chuck, and honestly, I still don’t know what my answer would be.
I didn’t expect this film to move me the way it did. It struck a chord I rarely allow myself to touch—the one thing that scares me more than anything: death. It’s been my biggest, most irrational fear for as long as I can remember. One moment you’re here, and the next… everything is gone. I don’t think my brain fully grasps it (we all know it’s inevitable, but you know what I mean). And when I let myself think about it for too long, it becomes overwhelming. I’m sure I’m not alone in that feeling.
The Life of Chuck, written and directed by Mike Flanagan, is based on Stephen King’s novella published in his 2020 collection If It Bleeds. The film premiered at TIFF 2024, and while I didn’t get to attend a screening, I kept hearing amazing things, which only deepened my curiosity. I’ve always appreciated Flanagan’s work, and I was especially intrigued by the fact that this wasn’t a horror film. Instead, it’s something else entirely: a quiet, layered, and deeply human reflection on life.
As the title suggests, The Life of Chuck follows Charles “Chuck” Krantz (portrayed by Tom Hiddleston, Jacob Tremblay, Benjamin Pajak, and Cody Flanagan) through three acts—told in reverse—starting with his death, then his adulthood, and finally his youth.
Act Three — Thanks, Chuck
The film opens with what is technically its third act, and starting here makes perfect sense. The tone is surreal, eerie, and mysterious, almost like a standalone short film with an apocalyptic edge. We follow middle school teacher Marty Anderson (Chiwetel Ejiofor) and his ex-wife Felicia Gordon (Karen Gillan) as the world seems to crumble around them. Natural disasters escalate, the internet disappears, phone lines go down, and strange posters begin appearing everywhere: “Charles Krantz: 39 Great Years! Thanks, Chuck.” His name pops up on radios, televisions, and billboards—yet no one seems to know who he is.
The confusion is palpable—for both the characters and the audience—and that tension is exactly what makes this act so captivating. There’s an eerie stillness to it, a sense of collective dread, and a slowly unraveling mystery that feels like a puzzle you’re not quite ready to solve.
As Marty and Felicia come together to spend the universe’s final moments watching the stars vanish one by one, the film cuts to Chuck and the pieces begin to fall into place. He’s revealed to be a 39-year-old man, dying in a hospital bed, surrounded by his wife (Q’orianka Kilcher) and young son (Antonio Raul Garcia). The spectacular collapse of the world is intimately connected to his passing. As his wife whispers, “39 great years. Thanks, Chuck,” and Marty quietly says to Felicia, “I love you,” the universe implodes.
Looking back, that opening act becomes even more powerful. It’s not just visually and artistically stunning—it’s deeply metaphorical. It captures the moment a universe ends with the death of a single person, reminding us that each life holds infinite worlds within it. It’s a striking, emotional sequence that stays with you long after the credits roll.
Act Two — Buskers Forever
The second act, the shortest of the three, follows Chuck during a single day in his adult life. Through the voice of a narrator, we slowly begin to understand who he is: a married accountant with a young son, unaware that he only has nine months left to live. Some viewers may find the narration a bit much, but I found it incredibly effective. It gives us a glimpse into the character’s inner worlds in a very limited amount of time, and adds a surprising amount of intimacy.
This act also features one of the most joyful dance sequences I’ve seen on screen. While attending a banking conference, Chuck steps outside and stumbles upon a busking drummer (Taylor Gordon), who begins playing just for him as he’s walking towards her. Without thinking, Chuck starts dancing. Janice Halliday (Annalise Basso), a heartbroken young woman nearby, joins him, and soon a crowd forms, clapping and cheering them on.
There’s something so life-affirming about seeing strangers come together like that. It’s spontaneous, vibrant, and unfiltered joy. That moment made me smile from ear to ear. It reminded me how powerful it is to witness happiness for happiness’s sake—and how rare it feels to see that on screen.
Though Chuck is momentarily slowed by a sudden headache, he keeps dancing, carried by the energy of the crowd. After parting ways with Taylor and Janice, he finds himself reflecting on the moment—Why did he stop to listen? Why did he start to dance? He doesn’t have an answer. As his health begins to decline in the months that follow, he starts to believe that maybe the world existed just for that one fleeting burst of joy. That thought hit me hard. It’s such a quiet, beautiful realization.
Act One — I Contain Multitudes
The first act truly broke me. It’s where we see Chuck as a child and teenager, shaped by both love and grief. After losing his parents in a car accident, Chuck goes to live with his grandparents, Albie (Mark Hamill) and Sarah (Mia Sara). The bond between Chuck and Sarah is one of the emotional cores of the film. Their moments together—dancing in the kitchen, watching old movies (West Side Story, Singin’ in the Rain, Cabaret, All That Jazz… she has impeccable taste)—felt so authentic and tender. I’m really close to my paternal grandmother, so I deeply understood that kind of connection. Watching those scenes made me emotional in a way I wasn’t prepared for. It reminded me of the quiet, everyday moments I sometimes take for granted. That bond is rare, and seeing it onscreen hit me right in the heart.
Albie, on the other hand, is heavy with grief, slowly descending into alcoholism. His presence casts a darker shadow over Chuck’s life, especially with his ominous warnings about the cupola in the attic, where he claims to have seen the ghosts of people before they died.
One scene in particular gutted me: young Chuck asking his teacher, Miss Richards (Kate Siegel), what Walt Whitman meant when he wrote, “I contain multitudes.” Her explanation is a moment of pure magic—so gentle, so affirming. She tells him that every year we live, the universe inside us grows richer and more complex. That we build entire worlds filled with people we love, imagine, and remember. That we are, each of us, a universe.
As Sarah passes away and Chuck finds himself increasingly alone, he turns to dance. It becomes his safe space—his joy. He joins the school’s “Twirlers and Spinners” club and eventually dances with his crush, Cat McCoy (Trinity Bliss), at the Fall Fling. It’s a scene bursting with hope and vulnerability. Afterward, he dances alone under the stars, injuring his hand in the process, leaving a scar that will become a symbol of both pain and presence later on.
When Albie dies, Chuck inherits the house and finally opens the cupola. There, he sees an apparition of his future self—on his deathbed, bearing the same scar. Rather than being paralyzed by fear, Chuck chooses to embrace life. His quiet affirmation—“I am wonderful. I deserve to be wonderful. And I contain multitudes”—felt like a small act of bravery. That moment shook me. It left me thinking about how I see my own life, my fears, and what it means to make peace with the unknown.
The Life of Chuck is, without a doubt, Flanagan’s most beautiful and personal work to date—and it touched me deeply. I saw the film days ago, and I still find myself thinking about it at least once a day. It’s a quiet, tender meditation on the fleeting beauty of life and the importance of cherishing every moment.
39 great years—thanks, Chuck.
(And thank you, Mike, for putting that incredible story on screen.)
Photos : Entract Films, Elevation Pictures, Neon
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