Dead Man’s Wire lands on Netflix after 48-year crime

Gus Van Sant’s Dead Man’s Wire is trending on Netflix—adapting the 1977 Indianapolis kidnapping of Richard Hall by Tony Kiritsis into a tightly staged thriller, with a chilling end-credits moment that matches real TV footage.

On a screen that can feel effortless—on Netflix, in 2025—Gus Van Sant suddenly drops viewers back into 1977. The loaded gun is close. The rules are simple: if the hostage, Richard Hall, makes any sudden move, his head will be blown off.

In the story. an Indianapolis man named Tony Kiritsis (Bill Skarsgård) abducts Hall. the son of a mortgage broker Kiritsis says wronged him. Kiritsis loops a short wire attached to a shotgun around Hall’s neck. turning one fragile instinct—moving—into a deadly trigger. Dead Man’s Wire. now trending on Netflix. builds its tension in tight. deliberate strokes. leaning on a docudrama sensibility that wants you to feel the period without pretending it’s romantic.

The film’s “perfect” thriller mechanics don’t arrive as a guess. Van Sant underlines them with proof. Over the end credits of Dead Man’s Wire. he shows TV footage of the real Kiritsis marching the real Hall down the street with the shotgun pressed into Hall’s neck. Hall’s shirt collar turned up and his shoulders hunched against the deadly noose. The moment looks exactly as it does in the movie. The story doesn’t ask you to imagine the worst—it shows you the camera did.

That choice matters because Dead Man’s Wire is not just recreating a crime; it’s recreating its authority. The director. Gus Van Sant. has spent decades both mastering cinematic technique and stepping into controversy—through projects such as his shot-for-shot remake of Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho and his dreamlike school shooting film Elephant. which directly echoed the 1999 Columbine massacre just a few years later. He’s also directed ’90s classics To Die For and Good Will Hunting.

Here, the authenticity comes in layers. Dead Man’s Wire was shot in just 19 days. and it leans on minutely observed 1970s details: costumes. and carefully curated needle drops that include Deodato. Labi Siffre. Donna Summer. and Barry White. Even the narration is a piece of the design. Radio DJ Fred Temple, played by Colman Domingo, initially sounds like scene-setting. In the film, he becomes a key character.

Everything is arranged for purpose. The gun at the center of the docudrama isn’t just a plot device—it’s a focal point the film keeps returning to. Its rhythm is patient and observational. with Van Sant shooting in a way that summons the past without using old film stock or directly aping ’70s styling.

But the film’s most unsettling turn isn’t the weapon. It’s the casting choice—especially in that end-credits moment, where the actor’s look clashes with what’s remembered. The real Kiritsis is described as unassuming and middle-aged. Bill Skarsgård. known for transforming in roles like the monster of It and Nosferatu. appears as a chiseled. looming figure with a powerful baritone voice that hits like machinery. As Kiritsis. he’s nervy and explosive. but he can also slip into humor. charm. and even gallantry as he tries to ingratiate himself with Dick Hall. the man he has threatened with death.

And the motive, the film shows, isn’t clean. Tony believes Hall’s father, M.L. (played by a grotesque Al Pacino), intentionally thwarted his plans to develop land into a shopping mall. Kiritsis wants to get paid—but his grievances run deeper than money. What he most wants, the film makes clear, is an apology from M.L. and recognition of his personhood from the media that quickly swarms around the incident, including Temple, Tony’s favorite DJ.

Dead Man’s Wire ends up in a complicated emotional place, and it refuses to settle the question for you. Van Sant’s point of view rests uneasily between Tony’s volatility—hardly excusable—and Dick’s sense of privilege while still framing him as victimized. Dacre Montgomery. playing Richard Hall. is described as superb. but the film doesn’t direct the viewer to a single moral lane. Van Sant “pointedly refuses to answer” where sympathy should lie.

That refusal is part of why the story feels so contemporary, even as it stays locked inside 1977. The film’s attack is violently personal and dehumanizingly system-facing in a way that can be felt as a foretaste of Luigi Mangione. as well as a reflection of smartphone-surveillance-era angles—cutting constantly to TV cameras’ distant. shaky perspectives on the action. Yet the movie also stops short of making a political statement outright. or of delivering a straightforward moral verdict on Tony’s actions.

Dead Man’s Wire is based on the 2018 documentary Dead Man’s Line, whose directors consulted on the new film. The framing is the same kind of directness the recreation uses: this is what happened; you decide.

It’s easy to miss how much the film asks you to carry until the end credits. Then the evidence arrives again—real footage, matched to the scene you’ve just watched—turning the entertainment into something sharper, and harder to look away from.

In 2025, on Netflix, the story is still terrifying. Not because it’s perfectly built to thrill, but because the world once recorded it—and now the film insists you see the recording too.

Dead Man’s Wire Netflix Gus Van Sant Bill Skarsgård Dacre Montgomery Colman Domingo Al Pacino true crime 1977 Indianapolis Dead Man’s Line