The Long Walk Review

While I’m passionate about films, Nigel is much more of a cinema-goer than me. There was a point about a year ago when he’d go every Monday, and more often than not I’d predict it would be shit. Nine times out of ten, he’d come out laughing, admitting I was right. I’d say his taste is 65% rubbish, made up of immature comedies, uninspired sci-fi and war-films. To his credit, he does prefer things with some degree of emotional depth—so his bad taste isn’t intentionally bad, it’s more a case of poor trailer judgement. Sorry, Nigel!

So when he suggested we go to the cinema the first weekend after our wedding, I wasn’t overly keen. After a hectic week of work, I was desperate for quiet home time together. So we decided on a weekday showing, instead. My expectations? I thought The Long Walk would be “just okay.” And for context—I haven’t read the book, so this is purely based on the film.

Things open with Garraty’s acceptance letter into the Long Walk. Having seen the trailer, I knew the penalty for failure was being shot, but I didn’t know whether that was apparent to Garraty yet. The first scene, Garraty saying goodbye to his mother, immediately defied my expectations. I thought we’d get the sulky-kid trope, brushing off her affection. Instead, while not as grateful for her cookies as he should have been, Garraty reciprocates. His mother is distraught, knowing full well what this means, and the actress sells it completely. Right away, I got the answer to my first question, and was moved.

At the gates, we’re introduced to the other boys. Each gets a quick flash of personality without too much exposition. Stebbins caught my attention—cold, detached, with a soldier’s bearing. I guessed he’d be the main antagonist and that he was the Major’s son when the tags were handed out, which turned out to be mostly correct. The rules are made clear: walk at three miles per hour, stay on the road, three warnings and you’re shot. It’s all being filmed as a kind of dystopian reality TV.

The first twenty miles progress with character-building banter, which is tolerable enough. Then comes the shift as the underage boy with an angelic face falters due to leg cramp. He is shot, and the camera doesn’t cut away—half his face blown clean away. It’s brutal. Now this film has my attention. Suddenly the reality of what they’d signed up for hits Garraty hard. I found myself wondering how far I could walk before giving in. Honestly? Not far. A day, maybe? A day and a half? But some days, with my illness, even a mile is enough to flatten me.

The film also answered all the practical questions I had that many never dare touch. How do they relieve themselves if they have to keep to the three miles an hour pace? Well, one boy is shot when diarrhoea forces him to stop and drop his trousers. This isn’t played for laughs—it’s grim, humiliating, stark. That impressed me. The realism matters. Having seen my mum live with colitis for twenty years, it made me think about whether the shame of soiling yourself might be greater than the fear of death—or whether it’s simply impossible to shit standing up. Either way, the film didn’t sanitise it, and that rawness gave it humanity.

Soon, as the first night falls, the boys face a monstrous hill at night. Garraty nearly collapses, and is saved only by Pete—the upbeat, strongly built, scarred boy who becomes the backbone of the film. Pete lifts others up, keeps spirits high. But I sensed, as with most relentlessly cheerful people, his optimism was born from hardship. His scar hinted at that kind of past. Watching him, I thought of Squid Game. Would people in this situation really form camaraderie, or would they turn ruthless, willing to do anything to outlast the others? My gut tells me Squid Game’s depiction is likely much closer to human nature. But here, the film’s choice made sense. Facing death, almost no one wants to be alone. People crave distraction, jokes, small comforts. It’s a coping mechanism—and in its way, very realistic.

About halfway through is where the film really got under my skin. The boys begin to share what they’d wish for if they win. One predictably wishes for naked women. Pete says he wants to change the world. Garraty, hesitant, only opens up when it’s just him and Pete.

This is where the dystopia comes into focus. Garraty reveals his wish: to shoot the Major, who killed his father. Through Garraty’s memories, we learn this society has outlawed art, literature, and free opinion. His father raised him on banned material like Nietzsche, and Garraty idolised him for it. Revenge burns deep.

But Pete reframes it. He says Garraty’s father wasn’t a hero at all. He was selfish. He clung to his ideals at the cost of his family’s happiness and safety. A man who abandoned his loved ones for pride. Delivered bluntly, these words visibily shake Garraty into a new perspective.

That moment struck me as relatable, too. How many of us grow up idolising a relative, only to later realise they weren’t who we thought? It’s painful when the pedestal collapses, but it’s a universal part of growing up. This film captured that better than most.

From this point, the walk grows heavier. One by one, boys give in—some to the strain of their bodies, others to the weight of despair. Garraty, too, grows quieter, more inward. The camaraderie lingers, but its tone has shifted; every laugh feels fragile, every word edged with the knowledge of what’s coming. Then comes one of the film’s most devastating moments: Garraty sees his mother in the street, her face crumpling as she sees his bare, bloodied feet. The sight drives him to a breaking point. He staggers back toward her, desperate to apologise, to undo the choice he made in chasing revenge. For a moment it seems certain he’ll collapse into her arms and be executed then and there. Again, it’s only Pete’s intervention that pulls him back, keeping him alive even after he racks up two warnings.

As the hours turn into days, the toll of sleeplessness kicks in. I thought back to when I missed two nights of sleep and started hallucinating and I think, for me, the one thing missing from the film is the sheer toll sleeplessness has on the human body. By the fourth day, organs can begin to shut down. This was largely missing. However, what I did like at this point is, even the film’s main bully becomes sympathetic when you see his fear of dying, outside of the group.

Eventually, only Garraty and Pete remain. And here comes the cruelest question: what happens when survival means outlasting the one person you’ve come to care about? With a stranger, you’d push yourself endlessly. With a friend, though? A brother? It becomes more complicated.

Pete is the first to falter, willing to give his life for Garraty. But Garraty rushes back to bring him back up to pace, insisting that Pete walk just a little further with him. However, seconds later, Garraty mirrors pete and does the same. He’s shot in the stomach. In his last moments, he admits regret: wishing he’d stayed home, wishing he’d chosen his mother over revenge, realising too late that his father’s choices had left him bitter and lost. Believing Pete the better man, he accepts death.

Pete is declared the winner and fireworks explode in the sky as he cries out in horror. Offered wealth, glory and his one wish, he instead asks for the gun and points it at the Major. For a moment, you can’t tell if the Major’s words are having an impact on Pete—whether greed will still tempt him, or if he’ll remember his desire to make the world a better place. Subtly, the actor lets both possibilities flicker across his face. Then Pete shoots the Major. “For Ray.”

The final image is of Pete walking down an empty, rainy road, his victory hollow. And this is where the film leaves you with questions.

For me, I can interpret this in two ways. The first: in his own words, Pete had always been walking—through poverty, loneliness, hardship. Meeting Garraty gave him the first real connection of his whole life. That bond meant more than any prize, more than his dreams of changing the world. The second: the opposite. That connection finally broke his spirit. Garraty was the first person Pete truly cared for, and losing him shattered something inside. His dream of making the world better dies with Garraty, and now he just keeps walking, because, well… don’t we all, even when we’re finally out of hope and optimism?

I could even argue that the walk itself might have been symbolic—a projection of Pete’s inner life, his endless struggle through hardship. His desire for a friend who matched his selflessness. The empty road, the sudden lack of soldiers or tanks at the end—it almost felt like a world conjured by him. But ultimately, the more credible message is this: the connections we make are the most important part of the walk. The Long Walk is life itself, and it’s the people beside us who give it meaning and shape us—for better, or for worse.

I went in expecting “just okay.” What I got was a film full of brutal realism, emotional intelligence, and humanity in the smallest, starkest moments.

Not bad for a film I almost skipped.