Wasteman: Who We’ve Left Behind
by Jasmine Edwards
Shot over the course of only 18 days, Wasteman (2026) is an adrenaline rush that never subsides. It is a pressure cooker of a film. There is a consistent, thrumming tension in even the stillest moments thanks to a searing script by Hunter Andrews and Eoin Doran. Yet what is unexpected of a political crime thriller of this caliber is the trust and intimacy apparent throughout. From a set filled with former incarcerated men and actors alike to scenes performed in claustrophobically close quarters, director Cal McMau takes care of everyone involved. He gave them all the means to create as close to a documentary as a fictional genre film can get, with nonstop momentum that doesn’t end even after the credits roll.
David Jonsson and Tom Blyth deliver engaging performances as Taylor and Dee, two cellmates who end up on a frenzied collision course mere weeks before Taylor’s early parole. Tension rises and falls as each actor joins this balancing act. Jonsson and Blyth push and pull, give and take in an electric, understated theatricality borne from the British stage. Alongside actors Corin Silva as Gaz and Alex Hassell as Paul, Taylor and Dee depict the classic struggle of old versus new as power dynamics shift in one of the most strained atmospheres in the world.
But there is a seamless transition between the mundane and the monstrous. Wasteman moves through static and stationary moments to ultraviolent assaults without sensationalizing. There is no Hollywood shine to mask this jarringly authentic account of prison life. In fact, according to Jonsson during a Q&A at Laemmle Theater in Glendale, California on April 9, 2026, most scenes were finished on the first or second take due to both time constraints and an effort not to let the actors overthink. The result is a realistic and raw depiction of the system, which challenges audience members’ preconceived notions of what happens “inside” and who really calls the shots.
Clearly, that is McMau’s intention. Working closely with UK charity Switchback, McMau blended reformed inmates into a film shot on location in a decommissioned prison just two hours outside of London. Their lived experiences informed Jonsson and Blyth’s performances just like any expert in their field providing information and adjustments on set. McMau didn’t relegate these men to advisers, however; he used them to recreate actual videos filmed and posted by incarcerated individuals in England. The “fake” videos were then interspersed with Wasteman’s scripted scenes in order to add or subtract tension, used almost musically in a mark of excellent editing and film composition. Such a commitment to the brutal, honest truth is refreshing in a sometimes sanitized, constantly glamorized industry.
There is nothing vain about Wasteman. Every incident of onscreen violence is that much more visceral and upsetting because the audience is fully immersed in modern prison existence—essentially enduring it alongside these characters. Every hit reverberates from the screen into the audience, which is a testament of superb, harmonious stuntwork, camerawork, and direction. Everything is fully integrated into a focused story that demands to be seen and heard while it veers toward a car crash of a climax and a morally ambiguous ending.
What is unique about Wasteman is not the concept, but the approach. There are other prison films that deliver similar messages about what needs to be done regarding reform and early intervention. But audiences can often dismiss them as purely fictional thinkpieces. During Wasteman, especially if seen in a packed theater, nobody can look away, step away, or remove themselves from the situation. It’s near suffocating. This film forces viewers to confront the system as well as the men within it. We are at Wasteman’s mercy, not even as tourists, but as people complicit in each nuanced choice made by the real men we have left behind.