Nitram

Nitram isn’t a name; it’s a mirror image, a backwards identity for a man who spent his whole life looking for a way to fit into a world that didn’t have a slot for him. It’s also the name of a film that many people in Australia—and around the world—thought should never be made. When Justin Kurzel (the man who previously shook us with Snowtown and The True History of the Kelly Gang) announced he was tackling the lead-up to the 1996 Port Arthur massacre, the backlash was immediate. But here’s the thing about the contemporary streaming era: it allows for these difficult, jagged stories to find an audience that can handle them, away from the noise of a traditional wide theatrical release. I watched this on my laptop while my neighbor was aggressively leaf-blowing outside, and the rhythmic, irritating drone of his machine actually synced up perfectly with the rising anxiety on screen. It made the whole experience feel like my skin was vibrating.

The Face of a Fractured Mind

The film succeeds almost entirely on the shoulders of Caleb Landry Jones. If you recognize him as the creepy brother from Get Out or the frantic ad salesman in Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri, you know he specializes in a very specific kind of high-wire intensity. Here, he’s playing "Nitram," a fictionalized version of Martin Bryant. Jones delivers a performance that won him Best Actor at Cannes, and honestly, he deserved it just for the way he uses his hands. He’s physically awkward, hovering on the edge of a tantrum or a joke that no one else understands.

What I found so striking was how Justin Kurzel refuses to give us the "movie version" of a monster. There are no dramatic monologues about his plan. Instead, we see a man who is profoundly lonely and intellectually stunted, drifting through a suburban landscape that is exhausted by his presence. The film is less a slasher movie and more a slow-motion car crash where you’re screaming at the driver to hit the brakes. It’s uncomfortable to watch, not because it’s gory (it’s actually remarkably restrained), but because it forces you to sit with the mundane reality of how a tragedy like this actually begins.

A Family Under Siege

The supporting cast is a masterclass in "show, don't tell." Judy Davis plays the mother with a cold, brittle exhaustion that feels incredibly authentic. She’s a woman who has clearly been dealing with her son’s "episodes" for thirty years and has simply run out of love to give. Contrast that with Anthony LaPaglia as the father, who tries to lead with a soft, crumbling kindness that ultimately proves useless. Their house feels heavy, draped in the mid-90s beige and brown aesthetic that Shaun Grant’s script uses to highlight the stifling boredom of the Tasmanian suburbs.

Then there’s Essie Davis (of The Babadook fame) as Helen, a wealthy, eccentric recluse who takes Nitram in. Their relationship is the strangest part of the film—two lost souls clinging to each other in a big, decaying mansion filled with dogs and Gilbert and Sullivan records. It’s a brief window of warped sunshine before the clouds settle back in. The chemistry between Jones and Davis is genuinely sweet in a way that makes the eventual outcome feel even more sickening.

The Systemic Failure

In this current era of "prestige true crime," we’re often bombarded with content that exploits tragedy for clicks. Nitram avoids this by focusing on the "how" rather than the "what." The final act, where Nitram casually walks into a gun shop and buys high-powered weapons without a license, is the most terrifying part of the movie. There’s no music, no dramatic lighting—just the sound of a credit card being swiped. It’s a movie that hates the fact that it has to exist, serving as a blunt-force argument for the gun law reforms that followed the real-world events.

The cinematography by Germain McMicking captures the rugged beauty of Tasmania but frames it in a way that feels claustrophobic. You’re constantly aware of the distance between people. Even when characters are in the same room, they feel miles apart. It’s a film about the failure of connection—mental health systems failing, parents failing, and a society that would rather look away than intervene. By the time the credits roll, you don't feel entertained; you feel like you've been hollowed out with a melon baller.

Cool Details You Might Have Missed

If you’re wondering why the film feels so authentic, it’s because Caleb Landry Jones stayed in character for the entire shoot, maintaining a thick Australian accent even when the cameras weren't rolling. Apparently, the production was so sensitive to the local trauma that they didn't even film in Port Arthur; they shot the whole thing in Geelong, Victoria, to keep a respectful distance.

Also, the score by Jed Kurzel is a masterwork of minimalism. Instead of telling you how to feel with sweeping strings, he uses low-frequency hums and discordant notes that make your chest feel tight. It’s the kind of sound design that stays with you long after the screen goes dark.

Nitram isn't a "fun" Friday night watch, but it’s an essential one for anyone interested in how modern cinema can handle trauma without being exploitative. It’s a haunting, beautifully acted character study that asks us to look at the cracks in our society before something falls through them. Just make sure you have something lighthearted queued up on your watchlist for afterwards—you’re going to need a palate cleanser.

The film manages to be both a period piece and a deeply relevant commentary on our current struggles with isolation and radicalization. It’s a tough sit, but Justin Kurzel and his cast have created something that feels remarkably human in its tragedy. Don’t go in expecting a thriller; go in expecting a tragedy that moves with the inevitability of a tide coming in. It’s a quiet film that leaves a very loud ringing in your ears.