‘The Line’ (2024) Review – A Brutal Examination Of Fraternity Culture

The Line is an unapologetically abrasive take on fraternity culture, unmasking the ugly rituals often shrouded under tradition and loyalty. Directed by Ethan Berger and co-written with Alex Russek, the film immerses us in a world where the bonds of brotherhood are founded on conformity, pressure, and degradation. From its first frames, The Line is relentless, forcing us to sit with discomfort—an experience not just unavoidable, but essential to its narrative.

At the core of the story is Alex Wolff’s portrayal of Tom, a sophomore who balances mediocre grades with a strong reputation in his fraternity, KNA (Kappa Nu Alpha)—a status largely rooted in his tendency to conform. Wolff infuses Tom with depth, capturing a young man caught between the toxic culture of KNA and his yearning for approval, acceptance, and possibly even power. He is both conflicted and complicit, and Wolff skillfully depicts this inner struggle, revealing glimpses of Tom’s conscience buried beneath layers of loyalty and self-preservation. Tom’s quiet introspection feels delicate, a fleeting spark of humanity amidst the otherwise harsh fraternity environment.

The fraternity president, Todd—played with charming menace by Lewis Pullman—has Tom pegged as his successor. Todd embodies the worst of KNA’s culture: he’s charismatic, manipulative, and cruel, distorting friendship into blind loyalty and toxic camaraderie. During pledge season, freshmen endure humiliating “rites of passage” under the guise of “earning” their spot in KNA. One pledge, Gettys (Austin Abrams), stands out as the handsome and arrogant recruit Todd favors, which sparks resentment in Tom’s roommate Mitch (Bo Mitchell). Mitch, unlike Gettys, is brash and unpopular but protected by his family’s wealth, creating a bitter tension that runs through the rest of the film, further exposing the fractures within this so-called brotherhood.

One of the film’s most effective qualities is its cultural realism. Tom’s Southern accent, his Florida roots, and the unspoken pressures of his social status deepen his inner conflict. He is well-liked, yet lacks the family connections many of his brothers enjoy, a reality that shapes his quiet desperation. Mitch, though disliked by his fraternity brothers, comes from a powerful family, a fact humorously underscored in an awkward dinner scene featuring John Malkovich and Denise Richards as his parents. The moment is both darkly comedic and uncomfortably real, emphasizing the power dynamics at play both inside and outside the fraternity house.

Berger’s unflinching approach to his feature debut is commendable. There’s no sugarcoating the behavior of these young men; the film doesn’t ask us to forgive or even fully understand them. Instead, it presents a raw depiction of toxic masculinity—a microcosm of unchecked power and entitlement. Tom is far from a tragic figure, but Wolff’s portrayal of his hesitation and self-doubt speaks volumes, as he navigates increasingly questionable decisions in an environment where accountability is nonexistent.

The film introduces a subplot with Annabelle (Halle Bailey), a student who brings a moral voice into Tom’s life. Annabelle’s role, though underdeveloped, briefly hints at an alternative path for Tom, one with empathy and genuine connection. But her presence is fleeting, underscoring the fraternity’s lack of room for moral introspection. While Bailey delivers a vibrant performance, Annabelle’s story feels stunted, as if to reinforce how insular and suffocating Tom’s fraternity life has become.

As the narrative builds toward disaster, Tom’s personal code—whatever sense of integrity he believed separated him from the others—begins to erode. Wolff’s portrayal of Tom’s descent is nuanced; the mumbling uncertainty, the internal conflict, and his attempts to rationalize his actions reflect the dangerous effects of groupthink and identity crisis among young men. It’s a portrayal that neither excuses nor sympathizes with Tom, but highlights how easily “good intentions” can mutate into toxic apathy.

The Line captures the banality of evil in disturbingly mundane terms. Horrible things happen here not out of malice, but with laughter and shocking detachment. This isn’t the grand, scheming evil of villains, but rather the evil born out of complacency and a profound disconnect from accountability. Berger doesn’t offer catharsis; the discomfort is the point, holding up a mirror to toxic fraternity culture and inviting viewers to confront the horror within.

Ultimately, The Line leaves an unmistakable impression. This isn’t a film that seeks to entertain or even be appreciated in a traditional sense. It challenges us to face a reality we might prefer to ignore, highlighting the dangers of blind loyalty and the emptiness that lurks beneath the concept of “brotherhood.” It’s a film that unsettles—and does so with remarkable precision.

The Line is currently playing in select theaters courtesy of Utopia.