1942: The United States has entered World War II, and as the Battle of the Atlantic rages, countless civilian ships pour into the UK laden with men and materiel. The convoys are lightly protected by armed military escorts, such as the destroyer USS Keeling, under first-time commander Ernest Krause (Tom Hanks). En route to Liverpool, Krause’s convoy enters ‘the Black Pit’: the middle stretch of the Atlantic Ocean where they will be out of range of air. There, the German U-boat wolfpacks are waiting …

Fuck. Yes.

Look, maybe it’s my rapidly advancing years talking. I’ve always had an appreciation for muscular, no-nonsense military thrillers, but recently I’ve come to enjoy them even more. I couldn’t tell you why without way too many billable hours on the psychiatrist’s couch. Or perhaps it’s just a natural process: you hit your mid-40s, your beard goes grey, your knees twinge, and you start looking for movies where Gregory Peck or Jimmy Stewart take on the might of the Axis military, or whatever the modern equivalent is. I recently sang the praises of Roland Emmerich’s Midway louder than pretty much anyone else who saw it, and I’m here to do the same for Greyhound.

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