SPOILER ALERT: The following contains major spoilers for A House of Dynamite.

A House of Dynamite is the movie that made me feel alive again. It reminded me why I love movies and why I write and that I could feel something other than the six months of depression I’d been struggling with. When I walked out of that theater crying, I knew I had to get to my keyboard and write with a passion I hadn’t had since my now-former workplace ground me down to nothing. I didn’t get to do that (I was committed to running errands on the way home), but those thirty minutes were a surreal experience all on their own.

Apparently I was slightly hyperventilating; I didn’t notice until someone else brought it up. What I did recognize was a feeling of almost being detached from reality. That it was taking my body a few minutes to remember that what happened in that theater was just a movie. Even though I was conscious of that fact, walking through the aisles of a Target store, the anxiety and the discomfort I felt was very real. It eventually gave way to a desire to analyze the film—to talk about everything going through my head, to better the experience by fully appreciating it. The best part of being a critic is that sense of seeing something no one else does, and letting it come out of you onto a virtual piece of paper and hoping it finds an audience. I hadn’t felt that magic in over a year and a half. I certainly hadn’t felt inspiration mixed with fear.

I spoke broadly about A House of Dynamite in my review, but there’s so much more to say on several different levels—technically and emotionally. I didn’t want to ruin the viewing experience for anyone by saying too much, and I still don’t. It’s such a good movie that I’m going to tell you if you haven’t watched it yet, to go stream it on Netflix and then come back to this blog afterward. Not just because I’m going to give up some major spoilers, but because this is a film everyone deserves to see. I certainly won’t forget it any time soon.

I. A House of Dynamite is a pure cinematic experience

A House of Dynamite took me back to the film that made me a storyteller: 1991’s Terminator 2: Judgment Day. I was maybe six years old, hiding in my grandparents’ living room just in time to watch the movie’s climactic steel mill battle. I recall being terrified of Robert Patrick’s performance as the T-1000 Terminator, which would appear in my nightmares for years afterward. But I was also conscious of the fact that liquid metal robots did not exist. I knew that I was looking at a fabrication, yet that didn’t make the fear and anxiety I was feeling any less real. It was that awareness of how fiction can change lives that I was fascinated by, and have been chasing ever since.

That same visceral feeling exists in A House of Dynamite. Plot or technical discussions aside—this is a movie that makes the audience feel. More than once, honestly, as there are multiple points in the film that prompt tears or the shortness of breath. This isn’t a project for the faint of heart. But isn’t that what we go to the movies for? Isn’t the fundamental point of creating this billion-dollar industry supposed to be to have some kind of a shared experience, where we’re taken out of our lives and put into another? It’s something that happens less and less, as audiences are bombarded with so many different options and so many of those options feel mass-produced. Entertainment is an escape, an adventure, a challenge, and A House of Dynamite is undeniably real.

Movies especially are meant to be communal. The movie experience can be made or broken by the people in the theater around you. The only reason I remember the 2002 Denzel Washington movie John Q is because I could hear everyone in the theater crying every time the film cut to black. I don’t remember much about the plot, but I remember how that felt. Netflix was very smart to give A House of Dynamite a limited theatrical release before its streaming premiere—because this film deserves to be in that environment. The big-screen experience makes A House of Dynamite immersive instead of individual. The darkness creates a growing feeling of claustrophobia, with the audience unable to escape the harsh reality in front of them—it puts the viewer on the same level as the characters. There is no natural disconnect.

What I particularly appreciate about A House of Dynamite is the respect that director Kathryn Bigelow and screenwriter Noah Oppenheim have for the emotional component.

What I particularly appreciate about the movie is the respect that director Kathryn Bigelow and screenwriter Noah Oppenheim have for the emotional component of the journey. I don’t know if this was intentional or not, but there’s an understanding of what they’re asking the audience to go through. There are plenty of emotional movies, but few with emotional intelligence as high as this. A House of Dynamite never feels overwrought or manipulative. Of course Bigelow and Oppenheim want the viewer to grasp the severity of the situation and feel this massive loss, but they allow people to get there themselves. There are no unnecessary scenes of people sobbing, just enough extreme close-ups on the actors to get the point, no overdone moments of panic or annoyingly dramatic pauses. This movie feels very human—and that includes its grace and the way it treats everyone, viewers included, with dignity.

It creates a paradox where one temporarily finds oneself waiting, and then almost begging for, those “movie moments.” We are trained in dystopian films and TV shows to see the scenes of anguish, death and destruction. Those are the moments that are always there to prove the severity of the situation. And as the sadness rises and one’s chest tightens in A House of Dynamite, you almost want to see someone break or lash out, just to see that they feel what you’re feeling. To get that emotional release. But the only moment that falls into that category is when the Secretary of Defense, played by Foundation’s Jared Harris, dies by suicide after realizing that his daughter will be among those killed by the nuclear blast. Audiences have to live with their emotion inside of themselves, and it’s not easy, but it’s worth it.

A House of Dynamite’s unique story structure is the biggest testament to this. The choice to restart the story twice won’t go over well with some viewers; I heard some audible frustration behind me at my first screening. But it serves several important functions, the biggest of which is emotional. By pulling back and starting again, the movie never deprives its audience of that small amount of hope. Viewers know what will happen each time the story repeats—yet the actors play their parts so well that the audience can’t keep from hoping that this time, there will be a solution. This time it will be okay. In fact, since the film ends without a clear outcome, one can think that the warhead didn’t detonate and be absolutely right. That probably doesn’t happen, but it means something to give the viewer that hope, instead of just emotionally steamrolling them.

It would be nice to have a finite conclusion. But the truth is that the answer doesn’t matter. That sounds bonkers to say, but think about it: giving a clear answer creates a right and wrong. It prompts the audience to judge the characters and their actions, and focus on what they should or shouldn’t have done based on the outcome. Then the movie experience becomes a factual debate. That’s not the point. What ending could Bigelow and Oppenheim give that would be more effective than that glimmer of hope the viewer is still holding onto? Let the viewer walk away hoping that everything was, however unlikely, all right. Let them walk away thinking about it. Even showing a happy ending would feel hollow, to go through this entire journey and then have the filmmakers say, “Okay, luckily none of that actually mattered.” The emotional journey matters. A House of Dynamite isn’t a big studio blockbuster, and it’s not a cautionary tale up on a soapbox—it’s just a damn good movie.

II. A House of Dynamite has a cast that gives the film their heart

A House of Dynamite may have one of the most stacked casts in a long time—and audiences probably don’t know it. This is a slew of talented actors, but few that may be considered “household names” outside of Idris Elba, who portrays the President of the United States. But anyone who watches a lot of movies and TV and even Broadway theater will constantly be recognizing faces—and that’s a perfect balance. These are great performers, but not so massively known that the audience sees them instead of the characters they’re playing.

To wit: the film includes Elba, Emmy nominee Harris, Pulitzer Prize and Tony-winning actor/writer Tracy Letts (August: Osage County), Rebecca Ferguson (the Mission: Impossible franchise), Jason Clarke (who previously worked with Bigelow on Zero Dark Thirty), Gabriel Basso (from Netflix’s The Night Agent), Anthony Ramos and Renee Elise Goldsberry (both from the original Broadway cast of Hamilton), Jonah Hauer-King (Doctor Who), actor/director Brian Tee (Chicago Med), Gbenga Akinnagbe (the original Broadway cast of To Kill a Mockingbird) and Kaitlyn Dever (The Last of Us). That’s not everyone, but that alone is an enviable list of talent.

They have an interesting challenge put in front of them. Because of the film’s story structure, and the way that each third focuses on a different part of the process, no one actor has a large amount of screen time. There’s no one lead or one huge scene. This is tremendously effective in the sense that everyone is on an even playing field and no one matters more to the audience than anyone else. But as an actor, how do you tell a complete story for your character in a limited space? How do you bring them to life, especially when the nature of the plot requires that you’re probably using a fair amount of jargon? That’s where the talent level of this cast comes in; these are all veteran actors who can do a lot more with a lot less. They make every moment count, and Bigelow—one of our generation’s best directors—knows to have the camera get out of their way and just support their work.

These are all veteran actors who can do a lot more with a lot less. They make every moment count, and Bigelow knows to have the camera get out of their way.

Who particularly stands out in A House of Dynamite is Gabriel Basso as Deputy National Security Advisor Jake Baerington. For one, his role here is so opposite to his performance as Peter Sutherland in The Night Agent that it’s great to see another side of his talent. But beyond that, Jake evolves quietly but steadily through the film. He’s introduced telling his wife how unhappy he is in his job, and only gets pulled into the plot because his boss is unavailable. Jake is in over his head, and Basso is wonderful at portraying his anxiety and vulnerability that never goes away—but it does get sublimated by a growing desperation for his voice to be heard. He’s the contrarian who doesn’t want the United States to start a nuclear war, who suddenly has to plead his case to the Russians and the President, but who rises to the occasion he probably never even thought of being in. He’s heroic in his determination even in the face of near-certain defeat. Basso picks his spots to emphasize Jake’s emotions. The one line in which he starts to tell the Russian representative that his wife is six months pregnant is heartbreaking, even though he only gets out two words. He doesn’t need more than that. It’s the way Basso says it, then can’t get out the rest, and the look in his eyes that makes it one of the most powerful moments in the film. It’s Jake remembering, at the worst possible moment, what he’s about to lose.

Another standout is Anthony Ramos as Major Daniel Gonzalez, the leader of the group of U.S. Army soldiers in Alaska who are unable to stop the missile in mid-air. The viewer knows that they have to fail, because if they knocked the warhead out of the sky, this would be a very short movie. Thus what makes their screen time so effective is how everyone in that small room reacts to that failure. They wear their hearts on their sleeve, and audiences understand with very few words the self-blame that they’re all feeling. These scenes set the tone for the entire rest of the movie. We know that these ground-level soldiers, in the middle of nowhere, will feel responsible for the potential end of the world—even though, as one of them says in shock, they did everything right. And by virtue of being where they are, they can’t do anything else but sit and watch the consequences. These cuts back to the seemingly smallest people are a reminder that everyone is affected by what happens in the world. It’s fitting that the final shot of the film is Gonzalez on his knees in anguish, because that’s what A House of Dynamite boils down to. For all these massive organizations and nations, there are so many “little people” who go completely unnoticed. Yet they can change the world, or at least try.

Rebecca Ferguson portrays Captain Olivia Walker, the ranking officer in the White House Situation Room, and possibly the most straightforward character in A House of Dynamite. She’s the tough as nails protagonist who holds down the fort no matter what. Olivia even passes on the opportunity to be evacuated when her boss Andrew (quietly and ably played by Clarke, currently starring in Apple TV’s The Last Frontier) tells her to go in his place—even though she has a husband and young son to think of. Ferguson could go incredibly one-note with all of this and just be a stoic soldier. But she toggles between Olivia’s public persona and her privately cracking with a wonderful smoothness. Her best scene is near the end, when Olivia and her number-two Davis (played by Malachi Beasley) know it’s almost over. Olivia reaches out and takes Davis’ hand to give him that last measure of comfort, even though there are tears in her eyes. It’s not that she isn’t sad or afraid; it’s that she’s holding it all in to take care of those around her.

A lot of the actors are saddled with procedural and technical jargon that Oppenheim can’t avoid; that’s just how this goes. Yet they never feel like they’re just saying words, even those who are playing military officers. They create dynamics with each other that give even the most banal sentences meaning. Clarke, for example, is an effective counterpoint to Basso stylistically. Basso’s portrayal of Jake is a man pushing his way through chaos (both internal and external), while Clarke is a solid force as Andrew. In the scene where Jake is on the phone with the Russians, Andrew is there coaching him through it. He’s a stabilizer. Clarke is an incredibly underrated actor, going back to his phenomenal performance in the Showtime series Brotherhood, but in A House of Dynamite the work he does is subtle and steady. He makes Basso’s performance better by giving him something to lean on.

The writing in A House of Dynamite is nearly perfect. But it’s the cast that provides the core of the movie. This is a human story, not a whodunit or postulating on post-Cold War nuclear proliferation. The reason it works is because all of the actors are so open emotionally. They’re willing to be vulnerable. And they know how to portion out that vulnerability. It’s not a constant barrage of emotion, which would make every subsequent scene less and less effective. Each actor finds their precise spots to break. Each time, the viewer notices something new, and by the end they feel like they know these people at least on an emotional level—what they care about, what they stand for—even if they’re only meeting them for roughly 20 minutes of their lives. They may even feel like one of these people, because there’s nothing stopping them from making that human connection.

III. Why A House of Dynamite must be different

A House of Dynamite is a movie about what isn’t there. There are no easy answers (no answers at all, in fact). There is no overly stylistically or manipulative camera work to tell the audience what to feel or try to make a moment bigger. The movie’s underscore mercifully comes and goes organically, instead of signaling to everyone in the theater when the most important or dramatic moments are. Bigelow, Oppenheim, the cast and the creative team are just making a movie, without any of the trappings of what that usually means.

To examine the script that Oppenheim has put together is to start a whole other discussion. As mentioned previously, the decision to divide the film into three repetitive pieces will not be for everyone. However, this is the biggest aspect that separates A House of Dynamite from Fail-Safe and other films of similar ethos. Aside from what this allows the movie to do emotionally, it is structurally inspired. Each repetition enables Oppenheim to shift the focus to a different group of people and different part of a multi-layered process. If there were just one straightforward narrative, it would be chaotic with too many cuts and too many characters getting shoved to the side. People like Major Gonzalez and his team would become minor players, if not afterthoughts. Important thoughts and voices would run the risk of being drowned out.

As an audience, we have little understanding of the procedures that are unfolding in front of us. By handing them to us in parts, Oppenheim makes the plot easy to follow; the worst thing that could happen would be for the audience to get lost in the jargon or the procedure and detach themselves from the narrative. He takes the broad strokes and makes them intimate. That’s what was missing from his previous Netflix project, Zero Day. It lacked palpable heart. There’s still a narrative cohesion, as characters and lines from one part weave into another, but viewers are able to devote their focus (and more importantly their emotional bandwidth) to specific people at each time.

They’re also not able to get comfortable, which honestly is a fault of most movies and TV shows these days; fans have simply seen too much and are able to make educated guesses. For example, saving the President’s arc for the final chapter is counter to how any other project would’ve done it; viewers have watched countless thrillers that go right to the President of the United States making harrowing decisions. Oppenheim ends with the President. He slowly builds up the proverbial chain so that by the time the movie gets to that last critical decision, the audience understands everything (as well as everyone) that is a factor in that choice. They may very well find themselves forming their own opinion, based on what they’ve already seen.

The back and forth also sustains tension throughout the film. Not going chronologically means that Oppenheim sidesteps several cliches of the apocalyptic or dystopian narrative. Audiences have several moments of bittersweet resolution, instead of just expecting that one big one at the end. There’s no need to drag out the nail-biting by making scenes any longer than they need to be, or introducing any kind of hand-wringing filler, because Oppenheim builds three smaller arcs instead of one to stretch across 90 minutes. (Thank heaven for that, because the lack of overwrought emotion preserves the characters as people, instead of turning them into emotional cannon fodder.)

Anyone who spent a decade-plus watching 24 understands how much anxiety comes out of a ticking clock. 18 minutes is just the right amount of time to let situations build, let emotions grow and then breathe. The audience’s ability to come down from a dramatic high point is what makes them able to come back up for the next one. If they can’t emotionally process it, they can’t understand or appreciate it. There’s the constant reminder of time in the background but Oppenheim never rushes. The film has a steadiness that allows characters to grow because actors flourish. It doesn’t stop, but that slow movement to the end is a lot more impactful than rushing to the finish line in a panic.

The only thing that doesn’t really work in A House of Dynamite are the few attempts at levity. The one that lands is Harris’ character blurting out his frustration about how much money the government spent on what amounts to a “coin toss,” and that’s because Harris is so damn good at delivering the line (and the Secretary kind of has a point). Within this space, certain asides or jokes run the risk of sounding flippant, even when they’re not intended as such. Still, one understands why they exist; the writer doesn’t want to beat everyone over the head with the gravity of the situation. The goal of this movie is not to induce depression, if for no other reason than a depressed audience is not a receptive audience.

Particularly given Bigelow’s resume with Zero Dark Thirty and The Hurt Locker, audiences may be expecting some kind of message herein. There isn’t one. Again, there’s nothing A House of Dynamite can say that is going to answer the nuclear question, and to get up on a soapbox would just undercut the rest of the movie. If there’s any point, it will be one that the audience creates for themselves—and there’s nothing wrong with that. Art that inspires people to think is a lot better than art that tells people what they should think. (The biggest issue with the Law & Order revival, for example, is that it tends to take sides on its topics rather than letting the audience decide for themselves.)

Noah Oppenheim has written a script that could be called (for lack of a better word) minimalist. He eschews big speeches, and dialogue sounds like actual people would actually say it. Basso, in particular, is excellent at making Jake relatable while he trips over his words—and then stops doing so when he can find his confidence. The script being written so simply further puts the focus in the right place. There’s not a quotable line in A House of Dynamite, nor should there be, because if you’re listening for a witty turn of phrase, you’re not really hearing the movie as a whole. Bigelow’s sharp eye for who or what to show keeps viewers from becoming conscious of the camera, instead being placed in the moment alongside the characters, except for the instances of small details that are well worth noticing (a wedding ring, the small notepad on a desk being used for the ominous “dead list”).

This is the best movie of 2025 because it’s a massive subject made so disarmingly simple. It’s beautiful, it’s destructive, it’s hopeful, and it’s talented people coming together to just tell one story remarkably well. Nothing else required.

Last but certainly not least—who knows if this was the point or just an impactful coincidence, but anyone who stays for A House of Dynamite’s closing credits will see that most of the characters are listed with their entire names, whether their first names were said in the movie or not. It’s a final nice touch at the end to make all of these people more human to the viewers. Giving them first and last names brings them a little more to life—and makes their potential death a little more saddening. It’s almost a way to remember them, even though they’re fictional, a scrolling in memoriam. Or maybe not. Hopefully not.

But whether from a filmmaking point of view, or just a film enthusiast’s point of view, A House of Dynamite is something distinct and special. It’s a movie that works on every level. It’s not perfect, and it may not get remembered in the same way as Zero Dark Thirty or The Hurt Locker especially with it being on Netflix, but it’s some of Kathryn Bigelow’s best work and a movie that deserves its flowers.

Which brings me back to that movie theater. It means more than I can probably articulate to be inspired to create for the first time in six months, and in so doing, feel like myself again. To get my dignity back because I saw I could still do what I’m passionate about doing. This is the movie that got me to fall in love with moviemaking again—and anyone else who sees it will have something they can take away from it, too.

A House of Dynamite is now streaming on Netflix. Photo Credit: Courtesy of Netflix.