‘Dead Man’s Wire’ Review: Gus Van Sant Channels Sidney Lumet in Tense True Crime Tale

A lean, almost pocket-sized riff on Dog Day Afternoon—complete with Al Pacino in a small but pivotal role—Dead Man’s Wire channels the spirit of 1970s American crime cinema, steeped in that era’s obsession with the “little man” taking on faceless corporations. Here, that confrontation turns literal: a desperate individual tries to resolve a dispute with an insurance company by holding an executive at gunpoint and seeing how far the standoff can go.

The ghost of Sidney Lumet looms large over the film, which marks Gus Van Sant’s most accessible, overtly commercial work in over a decade, following a seven-year hiatus. Van Sant’s temperament is, as ever, more measured and observational than Lumet’s—at times recalling the quiet rhythms of The Mastermind by Kelly Reichardt—but the slow-burning anger of its protagonist, building from a simmer to a full boil, firmly anchors the film in the more incendiary tradition of titles like Network and the politically charged, media-savvy thrillers of that decade.

The story takes place in 1977, in Indianapolis, where Tony Kiritsis (Bill Skarsgård) storms into an insurance office intending to kidnap its owner, M.L. Hall (Pacino). Finding him away on vacation in Miami, he instead takes hostage the owner’s son and company vice president, Richard Hall (Dacre Montgomery). His method is as bizarre as it is effective: a contraption he calls a “dead man’s wire,” essentially rigging a shotgun to a cable looped around the hostage’s neck—any attempt to intervene could trigger it.

That device allows Tony to move through the city with his captive, all while trying to turn his personal grievance into a public spectacle. He enlists the help of a radio DJ he idolizes (Colman Domingo), using the airwaves to broadcast his demands as police and media trail him, hesitant to act. While his claims include financial compensation for losses tied to the insurance company’s decisions, what he truly seeks is an apology—and that proves far more elusive. As negotiations drag on, Tony and Richard develop an unexpected rapport, while the public, glued to live coverage over several days, begins to recast the captor as a kind of folk hero.

Van Sant leans into the formal vocabulary of the period, incorporating devices such as narration through still photography, archival imagery, and an extensive use of era-specific music—justified through the DJ character. The result is a film that balances the inherent tension of a hostage situation with a broader reflection on the dismissive, often exploitative treatment that large companies have historically inflicted on small operators like Kiritsis.

At the same time, the film avoids turning its central figure into a straightforward martyr. There are hints—sometimes more than hints—that, beyond being wronged, he may not be entirely stable. Echoing Lumet once again, Van Sant places strong emphasis on media coverage, blending archival footage with staged material and introducing a rookie journalist played by Myha’la (Industry), whose drive for exclusives adds another layer to the unfolding spectacle. Together, these elements sketch a portrait of a society on edge—angry, disillusioned with both political and corporate leadership, and grappling with economic strain.

Despite some narrative adjustments, the film remains largely faithful to real events—something underscored by the photographs and footage shown during the closing moments. At times, everything about it feels implausible, from the device itself to the actions of those involved. But reality, in this case, wasn’t much less absurd. As the saying goes, it’s the kind of story no screenwriter would dare invent.