Stillness Cuts Deeper Than Violence

Read Time:5 Minute, 21 Second

MOVIE REVIEW
Fall Is a Good Time to Die
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Genre: Crime, Drama, Thriller
Year Released: 2025
Runtime: 1h 29m
Director(s): Dalton Coffey
Writer(s): Dalton Coffey
Cast: Joey Lauren Adams, Joe Hiatt, Jennifer Pierce Mathus, Borden Rolf, Christopher Dobesh, Clayton Tesch, Micah Kittelson, Michael Dobesh, Bill Beckers, Bill Sutton, Mickila Dewit
Where to Watch: premieres June 20, 2025, on all major VOD platforms

RAVING REVIEW: This isn’t just a story about a man seeking justice—it’s about what happens when that pursuit becomes the only thing holding someone together. What starts as a seemingly simple premise uncoils into something more introspective, leaning into long silences, raw tension, and morality rather than answers. The film doesn’t rush to justify its characters; instead, it leaves them—and us—sitting with uncertainty. And that’s where it finds its strongest footing.

Cody, a lone ranch hand whose world has long since stopped working, is pushed into motion again after learning about a man’s release from prison—someone tied to a deep, unresolved pain. Set across the open, windswept plains of South Dakota, the film anchors itself in a visual and emotional landscape marked by absence. The setting doesn’t just serve as a backdrop; it reflects everything Cody refuses to say out loud.

Dalton Coffey, pulling double duty as writer and director, leans hard into that visual storytelling. Rather than drive the plot forward with exposition or theatrics, he lets scenes breathe, sometimes until they feel like they’re holding their breath. While that approach works in theory—and often in practice—it occasionally tips into over-reliance on atmosphere. The film thrives in stillness but fights slightly when that stillness becomes the only way.

Joe Hiatt’s performance as Cody is grounded, subtle, and intentionally low on theatrics. He doesn’t play the character as someone waiting to explode but as someone who already did—quietly, years ago—and never quite put himself back together. Every gesture feels deliberate, and every silence carries weight.

Joey Lauren Adams shares the story with Hiatt as Trista, the county sheriff. She’s not here to deliver moral lectures or provide an easy counterpoint. Instead, Adams presents a woman with her share of regrets, trying to stay balanced while walking an ethical tightrope. Their scenes together avoid confrontation in favor of reflection. There's a mutual recognition of loss, mistakes, and roads that could’ve led somewhere better.

Jason White, the recently released man whose freedom sparks Cody’s reawakening, remains more ghost than antagonist. That’s intentional—the film wants him to be an idea as much as a person—but the downside is that Cody’s mission lacks a tangible force to push against.

One strength that can't be overlooked is how Coffey’s direction trusts silence, not just the absence of sound but the kind of silence that makes a viewer lean forward. The camera lingers, not to build suspense in the traditional sense but to emphasize the distance between characters and the thoughts they’re not voicing. That choice doesn’t just reinforce the film’s mood—it becomes its mood.

The sheriff’s past gets a few hints, but remains mostly out of reach. Giving her more room to deal with her choices would have added depth, especially since she’s portrayed as someone still learning to live with consequences. The same could be said for Cody’s sister, whose trauma catalyzes the plot. She exists more as a concept than a memory, which weakens the emotional stakes. A glimpse of who she was—something intimate, even fleeting—might have made Cody’s spiral feel more deeply personal.

Still, the film deserves credit for embracing moral ambiguity without flinching. There are no easy answers here, no clear lines between right and wrong. Cody isn’t hunting resolution—he’s just trying to move forward without breaking. That sense of moral drift keeps the story alive, even when its momentum stalls.

This isn’t a movie interested in catharsis. It doesn’t promise redemption and is not here to tie up loose ends. It’s a quiet character study about how grief rewires people, about how justice sometimes feels more like a direction than a destination. While not every moment sticks its landing, and some choices beg for more substance, there’s a clear sense of purpose in how the story is told.

What ultimately works best is the commitment to tone. The film isn’t confused about what it is—it leans into restraint, unresolved tension, and muted emotion. That confidence gives the project its identity, even with a few rough patches. By the time the credits roll, what lingers isn’t a twist or a final confrontation, but the question of whether anyone in this story ever finds what they’re looking for. The answer isn’t important. What matters is the search, and how far someone’s willing to go to feel something again.

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[photo courtesy of BUFFALO 8]

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