The Appeal of Stephen King's Softer Side

The Atlantic

a day ago

Of Stephen King's two dozen novellas, The Life of Chuck is among the odder choices to make into a movie. The titular protagonist is an unexceptional accountant. His tale is told backwards, in loosely connected vignettes. And he barely appears in the first act, which follows a teacher making peace with what seems to be the end of the world. The story, as a whole, is heady, elegiac, and rather philosophical: At one point, Chuck wonders 'why God made the world.'
In the wrong hands, such a story would become inert on-screen. Its sentimentality could easily come across as maudlin, its structure too confusing to follow. The Life of Chuck 's director, Mike Flanagan, has become something of a King whisperer, however, after bringing two of the author's (considered difficult-to-film) novels to the screen. Here, he has managed to translate the tricky material into a crowd-pleaser.
King's work regularly gets turned into films and television shows: Aside from The Monkey, this year will also see the release of adaptations of The Long Walk, The Running Man, and The Institute, and a prequel series based on It. But as much as King may be known as a maestro at horror—an inherently cinematic genre—his greatest talent is generating worlds that feel lived in. He can conjure sense memories and a feeling of familiarity even for readers who have never, say, resided in a small town in Maine, stayed at an empty hotel, or found a dead body buried near a set of train tracks. The appeal of Flanagan's take on The Life of Chuck rests on his understanding of this resonant quality of King's writing; on-screen, as on the page, the story hums because it highlights the ordinary foundation upon which the supernatural can be built. Within the strange events is a core that is bittersweet and familiar.
Told in three chapters, The Life of Chuck begins at the end of Chuck's journey, though the character (played from oldest to youngest by Tom Hiddleston, Jacob Tremblay, and Benjamin Pajak) appears mostly as an image on a series of advertisements thanking him for '39 great years!' until the movie's middle stretch. The high-concept reasons for that are best left unspoiled, although they're challenging in a way that makes Flanagan's efforts to render them legible even more enjoyable to watch; as with his other takes on the author's work, the director faithfully captures the source material down to its last King-ian flourish, whether that be a macabre joke or a precise detail. If anything, Flanagan revels in the novella's genre-bending dexterity, magnifying the eeriness of its opening scenes before deepening the homespun warmth of its subsequent chapters. He shoots each section using a different aspect ratio, and he swaps out casts and tones with abandon. Each storyline thus takes on a life of its own.
Please forgive the cliché; it's only appropriate, because The Life of Chuck leans on quite a few of them. Inspired by Walt Whitman's 'Song of Myself' —specifically, the verse that reads 'I am large, I contain multitudes'—the overarching plot relies on familiar archetypes and tropes to communicate a poignant idea. Of course Chuck had a tragic childhood, one that would make him accept advice from his grandfather Albie (an affecting Mark Hamill) to choose a stable life over a passionate one. Of course the girl Chuck drags into dancing with him during the second act is someone who, like Chuck, desperately needs a pick-me-up. And of course Chuck discovers, as a boy, that within him, as with everyone, is a magic that can't be extinguished by time or circumstance. 'In this moment, I am wonderful,' the young Chuck tells himself one evening as he gazes at the stars, paraphrasing Whitman. 'I have a right to be wonderful.'
The line borders on saccharine, and will probably make those less tolerant of sappiness cringe. But I fell for the film's earnest insistence that each of us has access to an inner world no one else can ever fully know; that message, as trite as it may be, is particularly touching because of its pointed delivery. Flanagan's well-assembled group of actors also helps balance out the film's mushier elements: Nick Offerman narrates throughout with a matter-of-fact wisdom, Hiddleston exudes an infectious verve during his centerpiece scene, and Mia Sara, coming out of retirement to play Chuck's grandmother, is a casting masterstroke. Her presence anchors the story, as in a scene of her character dancing in her kitchen, playfully singing along to a rock song on the radio while beckoning Chuck to join her. The moment is beautifully lit and performed, playing like a memory and a dream all at once.
The best of King's works, even the ones that come with telekinetic teenagers and murderous clowns, find something amazing within the everyday. Trailers for The Life of Chuck have touted King as the author behind the stories that inspired The Shawshank Redemption, The Green Mile, and Stand by Me —all selections that fall outside of the horror he typically writes. Doing so makes sense; unlike the rest of this year's plentiful offerings, The Life of Chuck joins those titles as a King entry that probably won't induce nightmares, just potent emotion, maybe even joy. Yet Chuck's tale isn't devoid of suspense. It's aligned with the rest of the author's oeuvre because it illuminates the wonder and terror of being human: that to live means acknowledging that death approaches, that the multitudes we contain can't last forever. This truth is perhaps the most visceral fear there is—yet we should take comfort in knowing that it's also the most mundane.