Sam Mendes paints 1930s Chicago in shades of gloom and gunpowder, where Tom Hanks trades Forrest innocence for Michael Sullivan—a stone-cold mob enforcer with a heart that bleeds for his boy. When young Michael Jr. (Tyler Hoechlin) witnesses a hit gone wrong, it unleashes a spiral of betrayal: Paul Newman’s aging don John Rooney chooses blood over loyalty, sending hitman Harlen Maguire (Jude Law, all creepy smiles and camera flashes) on their tail.

Conrad L. Hall’s Oscar-winning cinematography drenches every frame in golden rain and shadowy diners, turning the Midwest into a mythic underworld. The violence is sparse but soul-shattering—silencers pop like thunderclaps—while the real gut-punch is the quiet: Hanks teaching his son to drive, sharing stolen glances amid the chaos. At 117 minutes, it’s a lean, elegiac gangster poem about legacy, loss, and the road you can’t outrun. If The Godfather had a rain-soaked cousin, this is it.

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