Old School. Biblically Independent.
By Dustin Rowles | Film | March 28, 2025
Ever watch one of those videos where candy is mass-produced in a factory? You know precisely what will happen, but like a rudimentary Rube Goldberg machine, there’s still something oddly satisfying about watching a bunch of ingredients go in and a candy bar or lollipop pop out the other end. It’s not something you’d revisit, but it’s neat to watch everything snap into place in the moment.
That’s The Life List. It’s a Netflix movie. That’s not quite a compliment, but it’s not a dig, either. It’s just a Netflix movie: algorithm-friendly high-concept, generically attractive young leads, and one recognizable name to hold it all together. In this case, Connie Britton, America’s Mom, brings warmth and a dash of gravitas to the thing.
The film stars Sofia Carson, best known for Disney’s The Descendants movies. I’ve also seen her in two other Netflix originals — Purple Hearts and Carry-On — and still had to check IMDb to figure out where I knew her from. She’s like the Hallmark Channel version of Krysten Ritter. Not a dig, but also not a compliment.
Here, she plays Alex, a twentysomething who’s adrift. Her mom (Britton) dies, and in her will, she promises Alex an undisclosed inheritance, but only if she completes a list of goals she wrote as a 13-year-old. The list includes things like “Read Moby Dick,” “Learn to play Clair de Lune,” “Be a teacher,” and, of course, the big one: “Find true love.”
Conveniently, Brad (Kyle Allen) — the lawyer handling her mom’s estate — is about her age, Netflix handsome, and charming in that very specific Netflix Original way — sort of Glen Powell, except that he tops out about here. Alex has a year to complete the list, and from there, the marble drops into the game board. We sit back and watch it roll.
It’s formulaic, but not without its charms. After completing each item, Alex receives a DVD of her mom offering congratulations from beyond the grave, and even the most jaded viewer might find themselves getting a little misty. It’s Connie Britton, damnit. Credit to the director Adam Brooks — who also wrote one of my favorite rom-coms, Definitely, Maybe — for not drowning the movie in sentimentality. (He co-wrote the script with newcomer Lori Nelson Spielman.)
There’s not a whole lot to it, and it overstays its welcome by about 15 minutes, but it’s pleasantly watchable, occasionally moving, and goes down easy. That’s neither a compliment nor a dig.
