From Hostage Standoffs to Heartbeats: A Conversation with ‘Dead Man’s Wire’ Writer Austin Kolodney

There is a particular electricity that runs through Dead Man’s Wire, the kind that feels lifted straight out of a forgotten reel of 1970s news footage and reassembled into something ferociously alive. Watching the film feels like standing in the middle of a media circus with cameras flashing, police radios crackling, and a man at the center of it all daring the system to blink first. It is a film that hums with anxiety, swagger, and a strange, disarming warmth.

Based on the astonishing true story of Tony Kiritsis, a man who wired a shotgun to himself and his mortgage broker and turned a financial grievance into a nationally televised standoff, Dead Man’s Wire should by all accounts be bleak. Instead, under Gus Van Sant’s playful direction, Austin Kolodney’s masterful writing and powered by Bill Skarsgård’s manic vulnerability, it becomes something far more complex. It is funny without being flippant. It is tense without being cruel. And beneath the absurdity is a deep curiosity about power, class, spectacle, and the human need to be seen.

What makes the film linger is not just its audacity, but its empathy. It refuses to flatten its characters into folklore. It treats Tony and his hostage Richard not as symbols, but as people caught inside a system that has already decided their worth. The film understands the seduction of spectacle and the danger of cheering for a man who has quite literally lost his mind. It also understands why, sometimes, we do.

That balancing act comes from the page. Writer Austin Kolodney approaches the story not as a sensational headline, but as a volatile emotional chamber. His script moves like a pressure cooker, pulling influence from Dog Day Afternoon, Uncut Gems, and Fargo, while grounding its chaos in lived experience, personal anxiety, and an acute awareness of class imbalance.

Dead Man’s Wire feels both nostalgic and painfully current. It is a reminder that capitalism has always been ruthless, that the media has always loved a spectacle, and that when the system fails people long enough, someone eventually snaps and the cameras roll.

In an era of Luigi Mangione, the film reminds us that before there was a Luigi, there was Tony Kiritsis.

I spoke with Austin Kolodney about writing inside chaos, building empathy for impossible characters, and learning how to keep a film alive long after the final draft.

Rahul Menon: Dead Man’s Wire walks a sharp line between tension, empathy, and dark humor. In my review I wrote about how the film manages to feel gripping yet unexpectedly compassionate. When you first sat down to write this story, what emotional anchors felt essential in shaping Tony and Richard?

Austin Kolodney: Emotional anchor is such a great term. Yes, for as outlandish and extreme their situation was, my aim was to ground Tony and Richard in a way that we, the audience, hopefully have the capacity to emotionally identify with both despite their drastically different backgrounds and personalities. One of the scenes that carry the most weight for me was towards the third act, when they share a quieter moment discussing their respective upbringings. In that moment, it was important to me to ground both men in a way that empathy is earned on either side of the aisle, or end of the shotgun, if you will. Neither Tony nor Richard asked to be born into their respective families or class. And if we can have audiences come out of the theater with a surprise sense of empathy or understanding for the party, they least expected to when going in, then I am a happy camper and writer.

Rahul: You have talked about wanting the film to feel like a pressure cooker in the tradition of Dog Day Afternoon and Uncut Gems. What were the craft challenges of building a story set largely in one confined space while still keeping it alive, cinematic, and unpredictable?

Austin: I have worn my North Stars on my sleeve, and the three scripts most studied when writing Dead Man’s Wire were certainly Dog Day Afternoon, Uncut Gems, and Fargo. Clearly lofty, aspirational goals, but why not swing for the fences. Dog Day inspired the structure and skeleton of the piece. The blueprint, if you will. How to dive right into the meat and potatoes, have the crime start and the gun drawn by the opening couple of pages. Pierson and Lumet developed a strong rhythm when popping in and out of the bank, to the surrounding police and onlookers. The real Tony calling into Fred Heckman’s station provided a great device to build out the world and allow for us to not feel too claustrophobic or stagnant within Tony’s apartment.

And to the notion of unpredictability, that certainly rang true to Howard Ratner and the real-life Tony Kiritsis. So, tapping into that Uncut Gems, constantly upping the ante, raising the stakes, putting it all on the line nature was something that made sense for the character of Tony. And hopefully keeps things kinetic emotionally despite being geographically contained. Lastly, popping out to the real city of Indianapolis helped the ensemble breathe, and lent itself to the Fargo, darkly comedic small-town sensibility that the Coens do so well. Indiana’s police force and their media in 1977 being unaccustomed to this kind of action helped add both levity and further cultural intrigue that builds the world out.

Rahul: The film resonates strongly with present day conversations about class and the feeling that economic systems are stacked against the average person. When you were writing, did you sense the themes would land with such timeliness or did the growing real-world parallels catch you off guard?

Austin: When writing this in 2020, I was at a place where my savings was drained, I had difficulty getting on Unemployment as a 1099 freelancer, the film industry was shut down, and I was simultaneously learning of all these big corporations and billionaires raking in incredible gains. But the notion of socioeconomic inequality was at the forefront of my brain prior to 2020, and unfortunately it is a systemic issue that I know will persist. So, while it was born out of a particularly financially strenuous chapter, I did know the core themes that resonated in 1977 and again in 2020 would likely have legs for decades to come.

What makes Dead Man’s Wire so potent is that it never treats its chaos as empty spectacle. It understands that rage is born somewhere. It understands that desperation has a history. Kolodney’s script does not just trap its characters inside an apartment. It traps them inside a system that has already decided how disposable they are. And once the cameras turn on, that system is more than happy to sell their suffering back to us as entertainment.

Rahul: One thing I loved is the surprising warmth that creeps through the absurdity. Colman Domingo’s radio host is a great example. You have an eye for characters who feel odd yet deeply human. How do you approach crafting side characters who enrich the story without stealing focus from the central conflict?

Austin: The real Fred Heckman was essential to de-escalating the situation through non-violent means. Colman Domingo expressing interest in working with Gus, and our subsequent tailoring the role to his voice, and crafting the sultry toned, zen like poet and DJ Fred Temple, added another layer of warmth and soul to a bone chilling crime. I must credit the collaboration with Gus and Colman and our further borrowing from DJ William Rosko Mercer in the crafting of the Temple character.

His allowing Tony to feel heard is an oddly intimate and sweet thread within our story that I am very proud of. Same goes for Myha’la’s portrayal of fictionalized reporter Linda Page and Cary Elwes’ performance as the real Officer Mike Grable. They each have varying respect and disdain for Tony, but it was important to shade those perspectives with just cause in order to enrich the world with a rightfully sliding scale of support and objection to Tony’s violent means.

Rahul: You had access to an enormous amount of archival material through the Indianapolis researchers. What was the moment in your research when you said to yourself, this is the movie, this is the angle that lets me understand Tony and Richard as people rather than folklore figures?

Austin: I am so grateful for Alan Berry and Mark Enochs. The labor they put towards meticulously assembling and organizing their master research file made it possible for me to digest such a huge event from so many decades ago. It was listening to the full Fred Heckman radio recordings that allowed me to peer into Tony as a character, and Richard’s recorded police debriefing that allowed me to peer into his. And their vocal cadences. And their perspective on the world and the events.

Rahul: This was your first produced feature, and it ended up being directed by none other than Gus Van Sant. You mentioned watching his process closely and absorbing his tonal instincts. What is one lesson you saw on set that you plan to carry forward when you direct your own features?

Austin: I saw a director that was unflappable. No matter what curveball was thrown his way, and in the chaos of film production there will be many, he never appeared flustered or stressed. He calmly assessed the situation and decisively moved forward with an alternate, sometimes better plan. Calm, decisive, yet ultimately playful. He loves filmmaking and filmmakers, and there is a joy in his eyes when he sees magic being made.

There is something deeply fitting about Dead Man’s Wire finding its home with Gus Van Sant. A filmmaker who understands outsiders, loners, and the strange poetry of American desperation. Under his direction, Kolodney’s script becomes a living organism. One that breathes, sweats, laughs, and occasionally stares directly into the absurd heart of the American dream.

Rahul: Speaking of watching your words come alive, the cast is a powerhouse. Was there a moment on set when you felt that uncanny sense of recognition, the moment where you thought, this is exactly what I heard in my head when I wrote it?

Austin: I tried not to hover around video village the first few days, as I was off at a coffee or juice shop working on production revisions for later in the week. But when I did come to set and hung out by an elevator as the stairwell scene was being filmed, I first heard Bill and Dacre perform on camera. They reached the bottom of the stairs and entered the elevator to head up and film another take. As the doors were closing, I saw them both in these iconic costumes, and Dacre in particular hunching his head down as Bill adjusted the wire around his neck. The look in their eyes is something I will never forget. The same eyes as Tony and Richard. It is all in the eyes.

Rahul: I was struck by how the film builds empathy for both men. You never allow the audience to fully side with one or the other. How did you maintain that balance on the page, especially with a story built on raw grievance and desperation?

Austin: Thank you, Rahul. This was always the goal. I suspect many going into the film will naturally gravitate towards Tony, his charisma and grievances, real or perceived, against a broken socioeconomic system. That said, there certainly are a few illuminating moments between Tony and Richard as they navigate this situation and even find common ground.

Rahul: You have a background in comedy and sketch work, and that sly comedic instinct shows in the film’s timing and character beats. How did your comedy experience help shape tension and pacing in a film that could easily have played as a straight thriller?

Austin: I hope so. Not for me to say really. Laughter is contagious, I have found. So, when this plays to full, packed theaters, there tends to be a lot of laughs. It is really great to hear.

Dead Man’s Wire understands something essential about cinema. That tension and laughter are not opposites. They feed each other. The more dangerous the situation becomes, the more absurd it feels. And the more absurd it feels, the harder we cling to the people trapped inside it. Kolodney’s script never lets us off the hook. It invites us to laugh, then asks us why we are laughing at all.

Rahul: Your year at the Los Angeles Zoo has been described as an odd but surprisingly formative chapter in your career. Did anything from that time, whether the people you met or the rhythm of the job, quietly make its way into your writing voice or habits?

Austin: Yes, it was incredibly formative. Watching the sun rise, working with my hands, learning about exotic animals. But it was the human element. My coworkers whom I cleaned with, shared breakfast with, and learned from. I was even able to bring my old coworker Larry Valencia to our premiere at The Grove. He had a good time, and I felt more comfortable around strangers at the afterparty by having a buddy by my side who was in the trenches with me. I love the LA Zoo.

Rahul: You have said that being on set in any capacity has taught you something every single time. For writers who feel stuck or discouraged, what is one piece of advice that goes beyond the usual write every day mantra, something practical that helped you stay in the game when things were difficult?

Austin: Go live life. Put food on the table. Say yes to that last-minute invitation. Take public transit. Be a magpie. Love your fellow man, listen to them, hear how they talk and how they feel. There is inspiration all around us. The world reveals itself to those who travel by foot. Werner Herzog.

Rahul: Your next project may be your directorial one, Josephine The Blanket, which sounds wild and ambitious in the best way. What is drawing you toward a story that blends personal emotion with a surreal premise, and how does it connect to the themes you keep returning to as a writer?

Austin: I am too novice a writer to be able to point to one theme that is a thread amongst all of my work. But regarding Josephine The Blanket, I aspire to explore the notion of familial trauma and the journey towards self-acceptance. As a young kid, I had the crazy notion that it would be easier to be a blanket than a person. But I never told anyone. Then one day, in my twenties, I heard a young girl from a completely different background than me express the same desire. And it floored me. Something so oddly specific and absurd as becoming a blanket could have the potential to be universal and shared. Perhaps there is universality in absurd specificity. And I aim to explore that with Josephine The Blanket and hopefully take audiences on a wild, enjoyable journey that ultimately leads somewhere emotionally impactful.

What Kolodney keeps circling back to is not spectacle, but feeling. Whether it is a man wired to a shotgun or a child who wants to become a blanket, his work is fascinated by the ways we try to escape ourselves. Dead Man’s Wire is not about a crime. It is about a man who ran out of options and chose the most public one possible.

Rahul: You have mentioned that empathy should weigh heavy on a writer’s shoulders. Was there a specific moment in Dead Man’s Wire where that responsibility felt especially present while you were writing?

Austin: It was the balance of both Tony and Richard’s perspective. Knowing full well that if either man were alive today, they most likely would not want to sit in a theater and relive this harrowing ordeal. So, while neither man was in the room with me while typing away, something William Goldman wisely advises us to avoid when writing based on true story scripts, I did strive to put onto the page my honest, fair, and objective interpretation to the best of my ability. Imposing my own voice onto this event that I was not present for is no laughing matter, and I made an effort to find as much empathy and understanding for both of these men while writing.

Rahul: Looking at your journey so far, what has been the most formative creative challenge, whether it was a specific scene, a full script, or a moment of doubt? What did that experience teach you about your process and about the kind of storyteller you want to become?

Austin: This is a big question. The journey with this script as a whole is probably the biggest event in my life thus far. I am still processing, as we head into opening weekend, what it all means and what I continue to take away from the experience. I am relieved the movie is no longer mine, or even Gus Van Sant’s. It now belongs to the audience.

Rahul: Every writer has films and filmmakers who sit quietly in the bloodstream. Which movies or screenwriters do you return to for energy, clarity, or courage, and what is it about their work that continues to light up your own creative instincts?

Austin: William Goldman, Elia Kazan, Werner Herzog, Quentin Tarantino, William Friedkin, and Sidney Lumet have all written books on filmmaking or their autobiographies. I have learned a great deal from reading those. I also really enjoyed Sharon Waxman’s Rebels on the Backlot and consistently read Soderbergh’s Soderblog every year. I have two Paul Thomas Anderson posters in my home. These are all some of my North Stars.

Rahul: If you could speak to your younger self at the moment you first considered writing as a real path, what is one piece of wisdom you would offer that might have eased the fear, strengthened the discipline, or amplified the joy?

Austin: I would leave him up to his own devices. Let him learn from all the mistakes I had to make. You learn from your losses almost more than your victories. Drink more water and exercise daily. Spend less money at the bar. Simple stuff like that. My younger self will likely ignore it anyway. He is stubborn.

Rahul: For a lighter note, is there a scene in Dead Man’s Wire that was simply pure fun to write, the kind of moment where you thought, I cannot wait to see an actor perform this?

Austin: I loved seeing the final press conference come to life.

Dead Man’s Wire in theaters now. Please support independent cinema. In Gus We Trust!

Dead Man’s Wire is not just a thrilling true crime story. It is a mirror. It reflects a society that turns injustice into entertainment and desperation into spectacle. It asks us why we cheer for men who break under pressure and why we only listen when someone finally snaps loud enough for the cameras to hear.

Austin Kolodney’s script understands that chaos is never born in a vacuum. It is cultivated. It is ignored. It is televised. And when it finally explodes, we sit back with popcorn and call it content.

In Tony Kiritsis, the film finds not a hero, but a man who was pushed too far in a system that never planned to catch him. In Kolodney, it finds a writer unafraid to look at that chaos and ask the uncomfortable questions.

Dead Man’s Wire is funny. It is tense. It is deeply human. And like the best films of the 1970s that inspired it, it refuses to let us walk away without thinking about the world that made it possible.