Wasteman

David Johnson, come get your bafta

Wasteman - Someone who is utterly useless, has done nothing at all with their life, and has made little to no contribution to society.

“shut up u wasteman”

If you’ve spent any time on TikTok, there’s a high chance you would have stumbled upon prisontok, a community of users who post videos from their prison cells on what one would assume to be smuggled in phones. This chaotic ecosystem of videos usually includes inmates posting their makeshift meal recipes (the kettle really is the most versatile kitchen appliance), partying, and openly taking drugs. The comments section is always the same chorus: “How did you get this phone?” “They’re having more fun in there than I am out here.”

And while these videos are obviously against prison rules, they have given the public a look inside the British prison system, and to nobody’s surprise, it’s a mess. Knife and drug-related crime continue to rise across England, prison violence remains uncontrollable, and chronic overcrowding, staffing shortages, and crumbling infrastructure make meaningful rehabilitation almost impossible. However, one does not need to read the Parliamentary report to figure out that the justice system is in crisis, for a 10-second TikTok video is all the proof you need.

It’s precisely this voyeuristic window into prison life that inspired director Cal McMau to make Wasteman. Set inside a British prison, the film follows Taylor (David Johnson), a soft-spoken, fearful inmate who, after serving over a decade, finally has a chance at release if he can maintain good behaviour. He survives his sentence by working as the go-to barber for the prison’s top drug dealer, a position that grants him just enough safety to self-medicate his regret. Paralysed by the guilt of his crime, Taylor drifts through the system unseen and unthreatening, that is, until a new cellmate, Dee (Tom Blyth), crashes into his life.

David Johnson as Taylor

If you thought David Johnson was good in The Long Walk, you’re in for a treat watching this. He delivers one of my most memorable performances of the year as Taylor, grounding the character in a deep despair that never goes full melodrama. His physical acting is what’s truly impressive; you’re constantly aware that this is a man trying to take up as little space as possible. Johnson proves yet again why he is one of the most exciting actors of the moment. Tom Blythe’s performance as Dee is the opposite, but equally impressive. The character is as charming as he is terrifying, with Blyth playing him with a sort of electric unpredictability. The two create an extreme push-and-pull dynamic that feels very real. One of the most compelling layers of Wasteman is its portrait of masculinity. Dee’s presence forces Taylor out of emotional hiding, and the two characters create an almost brotherly but manipulative relationship. The friendship is built more on necessity rather than trust, and while they share deep, meaningful moments, you’re still on the edge of your seat waiting for it to inevitably fall apart.

Blyth and Johnson should be on the same level as the likes of Timothée Chalamet and Paul Mescal, and I hope this film sets them up for more projects in the future that allow them to shine. I also appreciate the two doing a smaller, much riskier film after their success in big box office hits (Alien, The Long Walk, The Hunger Games).

The film’s visual language is built on claustrophobia. Cinematographer Lorenzo Levrini frames the setting through tight, off-centre compositions that trap the characters in what feels like another cell. The camera often lingers too long, creating the same discomfort for the viewer as shown on screen. And when McMau switches to vertical footage, it’s intentionally disorienting. He wastes no time plunging us into the suffocating violence, opening with phone-shot footage directly echoing the TikToks that inspired the film. I find it incredibly engaging when the filmmaking style itself acts as a critique; the viewer, like the social media spectator, becomes complicit in consuming prison life as entertainment. Often forgetting there is a real life person behind that screen.

Tom Blyth as Dee

There is a real nuance to Wasteman that risks being overlooked if you don’t consider the social and cultural contexts shaping the characters’ lives long before they enter prison. On the surface, the film operates as a thriller populated by morally grey characters. But beneath that is a far more complex story about class, marginalisation, and the structural forces that funnel certain people into the criminal justice system long before they ever commit a crime. Watching it at TIFF, I couldn’t help but feel that some members of the audience weren’t accessing the film’s full emotional depth. And, to be fair, I wouldn’t expect a Canadian film festival crowd to instinctively grasp the ins and outs of British working-class life, but without that context, some choices may read as simply reckless or violent, rather than as the survival tactics of people with very few viable alternatives. The film becomes richer when you can extend a bit of grace to these characters, recognising the systems and circumstances that set them up for failure. Wasteman doesn’t want you to excuse these men, but understanding where they come from opens up the film into something more than just a thriller.

That understanding also becomes essential once the film shifts inward, showing how those same social forces take on a new shape inside the prison walls. McMau shows us the products of a system that runs on dehumanising its inmates and then feigns surprise at the violence it’s created. These incarcerated men form fragile, volatile friendships that exist within the narrow emotional bandwidth allowed to them. You see how the prison system actively reshapes what masculinity is supposed to be. Selfhood, friendship, and trust seem warped, and what’s left is only an instinct to survive.

“No man is a waste” - David Johnson at my TIFF screening

Thank you for reading!

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