Arty Dyer

Arty Dyer’s “Marching Powder” (2025) isn’t your typical crime drama—it’s a gritty, darkly comic ride through the underbelly of a city that never really sleeps, just tosses and turns. The story follows Robbie, a small-time hustler with way more ambition than common sense, who finds himself tangled up in a bizarre smuggling scheme after a chance encounter at a rundown nightclub. One bad decision leads to another, and suddenly Robbie’s juggling corrupt cops, unpredictable drug lords, and his own rapidly spiraling paranoia. The film doesn’t hold your hand or preach—it just throws you into the chaos and lets you sink or swim. The dialogue snaps with wit, and the characters are all a little off-kilter, as if everyone’s dealing with their own private storm. There’s a pulse of absurdity running through the whole thing, like a fever dream you can’t quite shake. Robbie’s desperate attempts to stay afloat get messier with every scene, and honestly, you start to wonder if he’s the unluckiest guy alive or just the dumbest. There’s no glamorizing the drug trade here—just cold, sometimes hilarious, reality. The cinematography’s raw, drenched in neon and rain, pulling you straight into the grime and glitter. By the end, nothing’s tied up with a neat bow. It’s chaotic, weirdly funny, and totally unpredictable. “Marching Powder” isn’t interested in redemption arcs or moral lessons. It’s more like a late-night confession from someone who’s seen too much and can’t stop talking.