Wake Up Dead Man (2025) Review

Catching up with Wake Up Dead Man felt a little like catching your breath after a long season of life. Between a new baby, relentless travel, and the general blur that was the end of 2025, Bob and Brad took a while to watch this third Benoit Blanc mystery, which sat on Netflix doing the thing Netflix movies do best: waiting patiently while we didn’t quite get around to pressing play. But once we did, it became immediately clear why this one was worth a longer conversation.

We come to Rian Johnson’s work with very different baggage: Bob tends to admire the craft even when the seams show, while Brad’s long-running skepticism of Johnson is practically a recurring segment unto itself. Wake Up Dead Man hits a nerve that goes beyond the usual Knives Out pleasures. By dropping Blanc into an American church ecosystem and building its mystery around miracles, confession, and pastoral care, the film invites questions that overlap uncomfortably with our own histories in faith communities and ministry. We agree quickly on its flaws: characters that veer into caricature and satire that sometimes undercuts itself, but we’re also surprised by how often the movie pauses to let something sincere through. The result is a film that’s often frustrating in its broadness, occasionally impressive in its craft, and, at its best, surprisingly sincere about the emotional power of faith even while critiquing the way faith gets entangled with politics and power.

Wake Up Dead Man (2025)
Dir. Rian Johnson
Part of: Knives Out mysteries (Benoit Blanc)

Bob: I finally watched Wake Up Dead Man and I wanted to talk about it because it’s right up our alley. We’ve had a lot of hot takes about Rian Johnson over the course of this podcast, but beyond that, this one is explicitly playing with religion in America and what pastoring even looks like in 2025. So before we spoil anything, did you actually like it? And do you consider yourself a fan of Knives Out at all?

Brad: If you deleted my entire Rian Johnson baggage, yeah, I’d probably watch it. I liked the first Knives Out. It was fun and refreshing, Daniel Craig is awesome and Benoit Blanc is a great palate cleanser after Bond. I just really despise Rian Johnson, and if you want the short version, I think he’s a dick and he’s mean to people who are sincere. But even with that, there are parts of this movie that are genuinely good. My problem is: the main takeaway I walked away with is that it reminded me way too much of Juror #2. Clint Eastwood can’t carft subtle characters—there’s no subtlety in his bones—and Wake Up Dead Man felt like Clint Eastwood wrote the characters.

Bob: I actually agree with that more than I want to. The genre already lends itself to archetypes, and murder mysteries come with stock characters by design. Knives Out lives closer to Clue on the spectrum of seriousness: slightly ridiculous, lots of red herrings, lots of twists, and a heightened world where everyone’s a “type.” But this movie leans into that hard. And Johnson is constantly drawing attention to the artificiality, with sets look fake on purpose, the design feels more heightened than the first two: there are expressionist touches, shadows, demonic lighting. The trouble is that when everything looks fake and the characters also feel fake, it’s harder to stay immersed. It took a lot for me to get bought in, especially because the first half of this film feels shakier than the other two Knives Out mysteries.

Brad: The imagery is strong at times. The staging is strong. Even late in the movie, when you get Josh O’Connor standing in the rain with a singular light on him, and then the point-of-view flips… the crypt versus the shack it’s in front of, that’s just good visual language. There are genuinely great scenes. But the weak links are painful. The social media guy—Daryl McCormick’s character—he’s the most paper-thin character in the whole thing, as if Johnson thought, “imagine the worst alt-right douche YouTuber who thinks he’s clever.” He’s taping everything, he has a stupid little quip for everything, and it ruins immersion every time he’s on screen. And I don’t even blame the actor. He had nothing to work with. It’s one of the worst written characters I’ve seen in a long time.

Bob: Totally. Even when the plot later tries to justify why he’s there, it still doesn’t really justify why we needed that character. He exists to annoy you and to signify “look how awful this kind of person is,” but it’s not played in a way that’s actually funny. And it’s hard to lampoon influencer culture because it’s already absurd, so you heighten it and it becomes disconnected from reality. And then you’ve got other characters who feel underdeveloped too. Jeremy Renner becomes important, but he still doesn’t feel fleshed-out. Andrew Scott's whole “author in the woods with a moat” thing is pure cartoon. It’s like the movie wants everyone to be a caricature until suddenly it needs a few people to become human. And the contrast gets even sharper.

Brad: Exactly. And even beyond that, the inclusion of YouTube and TikTok and “virality” in movies instantly takes me out. Maybe that’s me showing my age, but I’m trying to enter a film world, and the moment a character is like, “here, look at my channel,” I’m gone. And this movie does it constantly. So even when it’s cinematic , the tone keeps getting kneecapped by choices like that.

Bob: And yet, despite all that, I still think there’s a reason to talk about this one specifically: because for all the cartoonishness, it swings for something weightier than the other two. It’s not just “rich people, murder, twist.” It’s trying to use the mystery as a vehicle to talk about American religiosity, especially how faith gets mixed with power and politics, and I think there are moments where it’s genuinely thoughtful. But we kind of have to spoil the big turns to talk about what actually works. You good with that?

Brad: Spoil it.

Bob: Glenn Close did it. Glenn Close, working with Jeremy Renner, orchestrates the murder, and Thomas Hayden Church gets folded into the body-double “resurrection” scheme. Josh Brolin’s character is the murdered priest, and the movie builds its whole second-half propulsion around the question of “did he rise” and what people will believe when “miracle” language gets introduced into a public scandal.

Brad: It lands because it captures something people don’t take seriously, which is the Lord’s Prayer: forgive us our sins as we forgive those who have sinned against us. People don’t understand how important that is. When Father Judd gives her the chance to forgive this person she has hated for sixty-plus years, it’s beautiful. And Josh O’Connor is incredible in that scene. But the scene that stuck out to me even earlier is the phone call. Father Judd gets caught up in the Benoit Blanc mystery brain and he’s rushing this woman at a construction site, trying to get her to tell him who signed off on something. And she’s talking because she’s lonely—at least it felt obvious to me, as someone who’s worked with hurting people. My chaplain years were on. And then she finally says, “You know what, Father, there is something you could be praying for me for.” And I’m like, "oh, here it comes." Because I’ve heard that tone of voice hundreds of times: the moment before somebody says, “Here’s what I’m actually struggling with.” And Josh O’Connor clicks back into pastor brain. I was flabbergasted that Rian Johnson could put something like that in the movie. It felt true to my experience. And that’s why those scenes work: they’re not caricatures, they’re not “types”. But here’s my question for you: do you think Johnson is sincerely trying to understand faith here, or is he using Christianity as a vehicle for something else?

Bob: I think he’s using American religiosity to make commentary on Trumpism. I really do. Brolin’s priest reads like a stand-in for what Johnson thinks of Trump in 2025: the alt-right messaging, the media-empire vibe, the web of manipulation. And I think that’s why the movie is complicated. Because as a Christian, I want to believe the movie is “about Christianity,” and in the pastoral moments it feels like it is. But the central metaphor is political. And that makes the “olive branch” feel different. Because it’s one thing to say, “I may not believe in what you believe, but I respect what you do when you care for people.” That’s beautiful. But it’s another thing to say that from within the political sphere, where you actually do believe in the system, you just believe in the other side of the platform. Now, that olive branch feels like like finding common ground. It becomes “I like the parts of what you believe that I agree with, and those are the valid parts.” That’s the fine line. So here’s what I’m struggling to put into words: why did his olive branch feel more sincere to me than most atheist-filmmaker olive branches? And did it feel sincere to you, or did it feel like “having his cake and eating it too”?

Brad: It feels different because he is so caustic about bad Christians that he makes you feel like you’re part of the in crowd. The movie keeps inviting you to go, “Yeah, that guy’s a dick,” and you feel included because you agree. Joshua O’Connor punches a deacon who’s a dick. The bishops are dicks. Jeffrey Wright is like, “It’s all right, we all know such-and-such is a dick.” The podcaster is a dick. The author is disgusted his book appealed to khaki-camo overweight white men. Johnson portrays the more right-wing Christians as dumb yokels or evil priests or podcaster trash. There’s no nuance for a person Johnson thinks is dumb. And then he gets to say, “But look, there are good Christians,” meaning: the ones who aren’t evangelical, aren’t right-wing, aren’t political, who are just nice and pastoral. “I get to decide who the good ones are.” That’s where I get frustrated. Because yes, he gives moments of beauty. But he also wants to keep the audience in a smug posture. So my question is: can a film really offer an olive branch if it still needs the audience to feel superior most of the time?

Bob: That’s fair. But remember, if the central metaphor isn't about religion at all, but about right-versus-eft politics (or perhaps more charitably, the confluence of right-wing politics and American religion), then Johnson is trying to condemn the loudmouthed, platformed leadership, while still extolling the virtues of whoever John O'Connor is supposed to represent in that paradigm. Ultimately, because that metaphor got a little muddy, it fails to land with the level of grace it would have if it were truly only about religion. And it forces me to ask: do I do the same thing in reverse? Anytime you say “I disagree with you but I respect this about you,” it can be genuine respect, or it can be a way of saying “I like the parts of you that resemble me.” And I think the movie toggles between those. At its best, it’s mutual: “I don’t share your metaphysics, but I see the human good.” At its worst, it’s patronizing: “Your faith is fiction, but it’s cute that it makes you nice.”

Crucially, I didn’t feel the patronizing tone in the confession scene. That scene felt like Johnson was actually letting the tradition speak, letting it have dignity. But then you zoom out, and you’re right: the broader caricature makes the resolution messy. It’s like the more you try to map the metaphor—Christian political right, Trumpism, manipulation—the more it falls apart. I respect the swing. I think it’s sincere in moments. But the movie’s hyperbole keeps distracting from the genuine. So if we’re landing the plane: does that mean the movie is “almost there” for you? Or is “almost there” still not enough when the politics keep clawing back in?

Brad: It’s almost there, and that’s what drives me nuts. There are a few moments where I feel like he got it: the confession, Father Judd on the phone comforting Louise while her mother is dying. But then he jumps right back into his caustic views, like he keeps brushing against something true and then refusing to sit with it because he needs the satire and the agenda. And I think you’re right: he’s not commenting on Christianity as much as he is commenting on the Christian political right. And at the end of the day, I think a lot of people will give Christianity credit when it acts out its faith in a meaningful and kind way, and that’s good. But the part filmmakers miss is: people don’t believe this just because someone was kind. They believe because they experienced Jesus Christ. It might have been through another person, but it’s the intense personal experience of Jesus that compels it. Johnson comes close to capturing that with Josh O’Connor with a hint of a "Damascus Road" thing, but he’s not committed enough to it. And it’s probably because he’s still aiming the whole thing at politics. So I guess the question is: does that make it a better movie as political metaphor or a better movie as faith portrait? Or does it weaken both?

Bob: I think it weakens the metaphor the more you press it, but it strengthens the movie emotionally because the faith portrait scenes are genuinely strong. And it’s weird: I’m further left than you, and I still agree with you that being beaten over the head by politics is grating. The impressive thing here is that he hangs the premise on politics and still manages not to be as offensive about it as he could’ve been, because underneath the obviousness he’s doing something more nuanced. But it’s still obvious on purpose. And you can feel the tug-of-war: “I want to build a heightened cartoon murder mystery” and also “I want to say something serious about faith and care.” That’s a tough high-wire act. I think he lands it better than most people expected, especially for a Netflix entry that could’ve just been "content." So let’s score this movie on a 1-10 scale. Where do you land?

Brad: I’m at a 7/10, and that’s me being generous. Any time somebody tries to beat me over the head with their political viewpoint, it grates on me, right-wing or left-wing. It’s just that it’s usually left-wing directors doing it in Hollywood. I hate Rian Johnson. I think politically he’s wildly off base from what I think is healthy. And I think he comes as close as I’ve seen in a long time to not ruining a movie with his political opinions. That’s the weird compliment. It’s close. It’s almost there. But it still frustrates me because I think he could make incredible movies if he’d stop shoving politics down your throat.

Bob: I’m a little higher. The first Knives Out is like an 8.5/10 bordering on a 9/10 for me. Glass Onion is the worst of the three for me. This one is a solid 8/10—a step up from “three stars, good use of my time.” It’s flawed, it’s too long, some characters are underwritten, and it takes a while to get going. But it has a few genuinely great moments, and I’m impressed by how sincerely it treats confession and pastoral care, even if the broader caricatures complicate what it’s trying to do. It’s at least 20 minutes too long, but it’s worth watching and it’s worth engaging with, especially if you’ve lived anywhere near church culture and you want to argue with us about whether Johnson’s “olive branch” is actually mutual respect or just selective validation.