In the fog-shrouded hamlets of upstate New York, where church spires pierce the sky like accusatory fingers and whispers of sin echo through confessional booths, Rian Johnson has unleashed his most audacious whodunit yet. Wake Up Dead Man: A Knives Out Mystery, the third installment in the beloved Benoit Blanc saga, hit select theaters on November 26, 2025, before galloping onto Netflix screens worldwide on December 12. From the moment the opening credits roll—accompanied by a haunting U2-inspired dirge that lends the film its titular edge—viewers are plunged into a labyrinth of locked-room intrigue, theological torment, and razor-sharp social satire. Critics and fans alike are in meltdown mode, hailing it as “next-level television” despite its cinematic bones, with early screenings sparking online tempests of theories, memes, and outright hysteria. “This isn’t just a mystery; it’s a goddamn exorcism of the soul,” one Toronto Film Festival attendee tweeted post-premiere, a sentiment that’s propelled #WakeUpDeadMan to trend globally, amassing over 500,000 mentions in its first week. Daniel Craig’s Blanc returns sharper than ever, dissecting a parish poisoned by secrets, while Josh O’Connor’s haunted priest and Glenn Close’s venomous grande dame elevate the ensemble to operatic heights. In a streaming landscape starved for cerebral thrills, Johnson’s latest proves the franchise isn’t just alive—it’s evolving into something darker, deeper, and utterly addictive.

The genesis of Wake Up Dead Man traces back to Johnson’s post-Glass Onion reflections in 2023, when the writer-director, fresh off the WGA strike’s resolution, dove into scripting what he called “the hardest puzzle I’ve ever pieced together.” Inspired by the locked-room masters like John Dickson Carr—those devilish tales where murder strikes in impossible confines—Johnson reimagines the genre through a lens of faith and fracture. Gone are the opulent estates and private islands of prior entries; this time, Blanc infiltrates the hallowed halls of St. Agnes Parish, a crumbling Gothic edifice in the fictional town of Eldridge Hollow. The inciting incident? A “perfectly impossible” slaying during midnight mass: Monsignor Jefferson Wicks, the parish’s charismatic firebrand (a role Josh Brolin sinks his teeth into with messianic zeal), drops dead mid-homily, poisoned by a chalice that no hand but God’s could have tainted. The congregation— a volatile mix of pious widows, scheming deacons, and wayward youth—freezes in collective horror as the chalice shatters on the altar, crimson wine mingling with arterial spray in a tableau that’s equal parts sacrilege and spectacle.

Enter Benoit Blanc, summoned not by family feud but by a desperate plea from the local constabulary, embodied by Mila Kunis as Chief Geraldine Scott—a no-nonsense lawwoman whose Scooby-Doo quips mask a mounting dread. “This town’s got more skeletons than a crypt,” she drawls in the trailer’s money shot, her eyes locking with Blanc’s as thunder cracks overhead. Craig’s detective arrives like a Southern storm, his drawl thicker than ever, linen suits swapped for a trench coat that billows like a cassock. But this case cuts personal: Blanc, ever the agnostic gadfly, grapples with echoes of his own buried doubts, his interrogations laced with philosophical jabs at divine justice. “If the Lord’s got a plan, darlin’, He’s got a helluva sense of humor,” Blanc muses over a stakeout whiskey, his eyes twinkling with the pain of unresolved grief from prior mysteries. As the investigation unfurls, layers peel back: embezzled tithe funds funneled to shadowy Vatican coffers, illicit affairs veiled in vespers, and a cursed relic unearthed from the parish catacombs that whispers of historical atrocities. Twists cascade like dominoes—accusations fly during a feverish parish council meeting, red herrings dangle from choir lofts, and a mid-film revelation involving a digital confession app shatters alliances in ways that feel ripped from our surveillance-saturated age.

What sets Wake Up Dead Man ablaze is its unflinching probe into the rot beneath piety, a timely skewer of insular communities where faith becomes a facade for bigotry and greed. Johnson, drawing from his own lapsed Catholic upbringing, infuses the script with soulful introspection: Is redemption a locked door or an open grave? The film’s 118-minute runtime—taut as a tautology—balances breakneck reveals with meditative pauses, like a candlelit vigil where Blanc pores over ancient ledgers, his silhouette flickering against stained-glass saints. Cinematographer Noah Doleac, a Johnson staple, bathes Eldridge Hollow in chiaroscuro gloom: shafts of moonlight slicing through confessional lattices, fog rolling off the Hudson like spectral incense. The score, a brooding fusion of Gregorian chants and Nathan Johnson’s signature synth stabs, pulses with ecclesiastical dread, swelling to a crescendo during the finale’s confessional showdown that has audiences gasping in unison.

At the epicenter is Daniel Craig, whose third outing as Blanc feels like a coronation. Post-No Time to Die, Craig has leaned into character work with relish, and here he delivers a tour de force: Blanc’s drawl drips with weary wisdom, his interrogations a verbal tango that disarms suspects before the stiletto strikes. Watch him corner a fidgety altar boy in the sacristy, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr—”Boy, if the devil’s in the details, we’re knee-deep in brimstone”—and you’ll see why fans are begging for a Blanc spinoff. Craig’s physicality shines too: a limp from an off-screen skirmish adds vulnerability, his eyes—those piercing blues—betraying flashes of existential fatigue. “Benoit’s not just solving crimes anymore; he’s wrestling angels,” Craig told Variety at TIFF, where the film world-premiered to a 12-minute ovation. It’s a performance that marries the flamboyance of Glass Onion with Knives Out‘s grounded grit, earning whispers of another Oscar nod and cementing Blanc as Craig’s post-Bond legacy.

Stealing thunder from the sleuth is Josh O’Connor as Father Jud Duplenticy, the earnest young priest dispatched to aid the monsignor—and unwittingly thrust into the maelstrom. O’Connor, whose soulful turn in Challengers marked him as a chameleon, here channels a guilt-riddled everyman: wide-eyed idealism cracking under the parish’s hypocrisies, his collar a noose tightening with every lie unearthed. Jud’s arc—from wide-eyed acolyte to moral fulcrum—anchors the film’s emotional core, his whispered confessions to Blanc revealing a backstory of abuse and atonement that hits like a gut punch. “Josh carries the film’s weight on his shoulders, but makes it feel like feathers,” Johnson praised in a BFI Q&A. O’Connor’s haunting restraint culminates in a rain-soaked midnight absolution scene, his sobs mingling with thunder, that has viewers ugly-crying in aisles. It’s career-best work, blending vulnerability with quiet fury, and has rocketed him to frontrunner status for Supporting Actor at the 2026 Globes.

Then there’s Glenn Close, whose villainous pivot as Evelyn “Evie” Hargrove—the parish’s iron-fisted benefactress and Wicks’ shadowy patron—delivers the film’s most jaw-dropping twist. Close, 78 and ferocious, channels Cruella with a rosary: her Evie is a blue-blood widow whose “philanthropy” masks a Machiavellian grip on the town’s soul, her drawl venomous as viper’s milk. Clad in Chanel tweeds and heirloom pearls, she glides through scenes like a specter, her eyes—cold as communion wafers—daring Blanc to connect the dots. The reveal, a mid-second-act bombshell tying Evie to the relic’s bloody provenance, lands with operatic flair: Close’s monologue in the crypt, lit by torchlight, crackles with unhinged eloquence, blending Dangerous Liaisons hauteur with newfound menace. “Glenn doesn’t just steal scenes; she buries the bodies,” one early reviewer quipped, and audiences agree—her arc has spawned fan edits splicing Evie with Close’s Fatal Attraction rage, racking up millions on TikTok.

The ensemble orbits these titans like a celestial conspiracy: Josh Brolin’s Monsignor Wicks, a silver-tongued zealot whose sermons double as smokescreens; Kerry Washington as Sister Clara Voss, the nun with a hacker’s edge and a grudge against the cloth; Andrew Scott’s oily Deacon Harlan Crowe, whose fleabag charm hides forensic savvy; Cailee Spaeny’s fiery acolyte Lena, a Gen-Z firebrand clashing with Evie’s old guard; Mila Kunis’ Chief Scott, trading barbs with Blanc in a buddy-cop rhythm that’s pure popcorn; Jeremy Renner’s grizzled groundskeeper, a red-herring redneck with depths untold; Daryl McCormack’s enigmatic choir director, whose baritone conceals baroque betrayals; and Thomas Haden Church’s bumbling bishop, comic relief with a confessional kicker. Their chemistry fizzes like sacramental wine—dinner-table interrogations devolve into shouting matches over potluck casseroles, while a parish bake sale turns into a covert sting op. Johnson cast with his signature “dinner party” ethos, assembling a rogues’ gallery that feels lived-in, their accents a polyglot pastiche of Rust Belt drawls and affected Oxbridgian lilt.

Production on Wake Up Dead Man was a Herculean hymn to collaboration. Filming wrapped in London’s Pinewood Studios and atmospheric upstate proxies during summer 2024, with Johnson insisting on practical effects: real chalice poisons (edible, of course), a catacomb set built from reclaimed church ruins, and a midnight mass sequence shot in one take amid a freak downpour that left the cast soaked and euphoric. Budgeted at $120 million—Netflix’s blank-check faith paying dividends—the film boasts Johnson’s trademarks: Easter eggs for sleuths (a Radiohead nod in the hymnals, Beatles blueprints in the blueprints), and a finale that flips the locked-room paradigm inside out. Post-TIFF, where it snagged the People’s Choice, buzz snowballed: the BFI London opener drew A-listers, and the November 26 theatrical bow—limited but fervent—sold out in select cities, fans queuing in Blanc cosplay.

As December 12 dawns, the frenzy peaks. Social scrolls overflow with breakdowns: Reddit’s r/KnivesOut dissects the relic’s lore (is it tied to real Vatican scandals?), X threads map suspect alibis, and Letterboxd logs average 4.2 stars from 50,000 logs, praising its “gothic delight” while docking points for a plot-heavy third act. “Bigger than Sherlock, darker than True Detective, more addictive than Luther,” one viral post declares, echoing the chorus. Detractors nitpick the faith motifs as preachy, but most surrender to the spell—Johnson’s sincere fixation on forgiveness amid festering hate resonating in our polarized age. With Netflix’s global drop imminent, projections eye 100 million hours viewed in week one, eclipsing Glass Onion‘s debut.

Wake Up Dead Man isn’t mere escapism; it’s a requiem for the righteous, a puzzle where every piece pricks the conscience. Blanc’s parting line—”Murder’s just the Lord’s rough draft for judgment”—lingers like incense smoke, a benediction on the series’ bold pivot. As Johnson eyes installment four (“Why stop when the mysteries multiply?”), this chapter cements the franchise as prestige pop—witty, wounding, wondrous. Stream it, solve it, savor the shiver. The parish bells toll; Benoit Blanc answers. And in Eldridge Hollow’s shadows, the dead indeed awaken.