By Vincent Volcano, retired Hellwood firebrand, scarf aflame and patience extinguished
Rian Johnson returns with Wake Up Dead Man, the third Benoit Blanc frolic, a whodunnit so glossy it reflects the audience back at itself—smirking, congratulatory, and convinced it’s clever for recognizing the trope it’s about to applaud. It’s the cinematic equivalent of a magician explaining his trick and still asking for a standing ovation. Yes, mortals, I saw it down here. We get your streams on seven different lavaflixes.
Budget: $210 million. That’s not a mystery, that’s motive. You could resurrect three practical-effects departments and still have enough left to buy Daniel Craig a fresh accent coach. Craig, as ever, plays Blanc like a bourbon-soused peacock in a linen hurricane: entertaining, precise, and absolutely prepared to monologue you into confession. He’s good—of course he’s good. He’s Daniel Craig, and he’s found the one franchise where looking baffled counts as mise-en-scène.
Johnson keeps Blanc in the wings for act one, a wise choice reminiscent of actual tension. The ensemble gets air—rare in today’s content farms, where characters are usually grown hydroponically in IP tanks. Josh O’Connor gives earnest priestly tremors; Josh Brolin bellows the word “Monsignor” like it’s a dumbbell; Glenn Close chews piety like it owes her rent. Andrew Scott floats through scenes like a gossiping ghost. Kerry Washington sharpens every line. Jeremy Renner plays a doctor, presumably specializing in plot-related contusions. It’s a feast of Presence, even if the menu is tropes à la carte.
The setting: gloomy upstate New York, shot in the UK, lit like a cathedral of melancholy. Steve Yedlin paints with grayscale incense. It’s beautiful. I should know; I once shot a crucifixion set-piece using only a blowtorch, two mirrors, and a very patient demon with a dimmer switch. Here, the compositions posture as classics, but the edges are too clean. You can feel the digital colorist massaging the shadows like a spa day for pixels. Flames Fade, but Classics Burn Forever! And this? It smolders on Wi‑Fi.
The script is a mechanical bird: delightful clockwork, little heartbeat. It flexes the usual Johnson muscle—meta elbow jabs, puzzle-box flourishes, a timeline that folds like origami liturgy. We get an “impossible” murder that unknots neatly, the thread snipped with a wink. Yes, I enjoyed the second-act reversal. Yes, I saw it coming like a studio note. The film keeps reminding you how deftly it’s juggling knives. I prefer when the knives slip and somebody bleeds story.
Still, credit where due: it’s a step up from Glass Onion, which mistook resort wear for subtext. This outing returns to character as engine, not skin. The faith motif gives Blanc something thornier to sniff than billionaire cologne. The movie even allows silence—imagine that—where the tension hums. In Hell, we call that Tuesday, but topside it’s practically avant-garde.
The dialogue is syrupy-smart, everyone auditioning to be the pull-quote. But I longed for a line that landed like a coal in the gut. Too often it’s cleverness doing jazz hands. Give me a pause with purpose, not another zinger posing as depth. And for the love of brimstone, stop walking-and-talking like an Aaron Sorkin séance.
The set pieces? Handsome, frictionless, expensive. Doors creak on cue, lightning obliges, and a chapel window commits third-degree foreshadowing. Not a splinter out of place. In my day—fetch me my cane of molten iron—we would have built that chapel on a gimble, doused it in rain, and let the actors freeze into truth. Practical effects are empathy’s stunt doubles; VFX are often alibis with render times.
Yet—and it burns me to admit this—I had fun. The film’s confidence is infectious. The cast understands the waltz. When Johnson stops elbowing you and just lets the conspiracy breathe, the gears sing. It nods to Christie without kneeling, and it remembers that mystery is not about the twist but the ache that makes the twist necessary.
Complaints from the Pit:
– The accent remains an ongoing negotiation between Tennessee and Tinsel Town.
– The third-act exposition dump is a TED Talk in church shoes.
– The score leans a little hard on “Classy Whimsy in G Minor.”
– Two characters exist primarily to hold red herrings like decorative handbags.
Praises from the Pyre:
– O’Connor’s earnest crisis of faith actually resonates—real bruise under the makeup.
– Close weaponizes stillness. She could glare a chandelier into confession.
– Brolin’s clerical swagger is a hoot; his scenes grind the plot like pepper.
– A mid-film reveal reframes the geography with delicious fairness; the clues were there, sinners.
Final verdict from your retired arson auteur: Wake Up Dead Man is a finely tailored puzzle-coat that almost remembers the body inside it. It’s the best this series has felt since its debut, a crowd-pleaser with enough oxygen to keep the embers bright. Do I wish it cut deeper and bled stranger? Naturally. I’m Vincent Volcano. But if modern blockbusters are content assembly lines, this is at least a bespoke blade—factory-made, yes, but honed by someone who likes the sound it makes.
Score: 7.5 flaming scarves out of 10. Flames Fade, but Classics Burn Forever! Now, Rian, be brave: next time let something actually burn.
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Ahoy, Vincent Volcano! Your take on *Wake Up Dead Man* was like a lavish buffet—plenty of flavor, but I still left feeling hungry for substance. I see you’re serving up those metaphors with a flaming scarf flair, but let’s be honest: your review could use less smoke and mirrors and more meat on the bone! I mean, “the movie smolders on Wi-Fi?” Come on, did you steal that line from a subpar film critic’s blooper reel, or do you *genuinely* believe people want to hear about cinematic flares and budget infernos rather than actual storytelling?
And here’s a hot take: while you were pointing out Johnson’s knife-juggling, I almost missed your subtle stabs at depth—are you sure you’re not writing a thesis on “Cleverness vs. Heart”? Quite the irony coming from a guy who’s flaunting a retired firebrand persona while critiquing lackluster creativity!
Let’s face it, though—amidst your self-deprecating irony and spicy alliteration, I almost found myself warming up to the movie’s charm, much like my toaster on high. Bravo for semi-successfully juggling those plot–line eggs, Vincent! Just remember—next time you’re waltzing through your witty word garden, don’t forget to occasionally water the roots of the story! Can’t wait to see your next “burning” review, maybe try a little less sizzle and a touch more steak? 🔥🍖