Sundance 2026: Josephine, Union County, The Musical | Festivals & Awards

One of the impacts of COVID on the Sundance Film Festival was the reduction of the influential U.S. Dramatic Competition program from sometimes as many as 16 before the pandemic to 10-12 since. (It’s 10 this year.) These tighter programs not only gave Sundance its first Best Picture win in “CODA,” there have been recent standouts like “Passing,” “All Dirt Roads Taste of Salt,” “Good One,” “A Real Pain,” and “Sorry, Baby.” (Although it’s worth noting that none of those won—Grand Jury taste and the consensus when these films descend from the mountains often don’t align.) It gets one thinking which films from this relatively tiny program will have that kind of impact. For my half of the program (Robert Daniels is handling the other five), there’s only one, and it’s the best film of Sundance so far.

Beth de Araújo’s “Josephine” is a devastating drama about a girl navigating trauma and fear at far too young an age. It is impressive both in form and content as De Araújo not only guides her remarkable cast to moving performances but wraps them in filmmaking that supports and elevates them. It is a film that not only understands that parents are imperfect but that everyone, even children, will someday learn that it’s okay to live a life with a little bit of fear. We can’t put our children or ourselves in bubbles, and we don’t have the right answer to every question. This is such a powerful piece of filmmaking that it stands alongside all of the excellent films in the intro to this dispatch and even surpasses a few.

Damien (Channing Tatum, doing his best work since “Foxcatcher”) is going jogging to Golden Gate Park one morning with his eight-year-old daughter Josephine (the phenomenal newcomer Mason Reeves). She runs ahead and he doesn’t realize that she’s taken a different fork in the path, leaving her alone for a few minutes. She spots a woman (Syra McCarthy) entering a public bathroom, only to see her followed by a man (Philip Ettinger), who then pulls her from the facility, beats her, and rapes her, as Josephine watches from behind a tree. Warning to anyone with such a trigger: This is graphic, horrible stuff, made even more unsettling because we know a child is watching.

Naturally, one of Josephine’s first responses is confusion. She knows something is very wrong, but she doesn’t even know what sex is at this age, much less rape. Reeves is breathtakingly good in these scenes when it feels like Josephine’s world has literally cracked open, and De Araújo supports her inner journey with an unforgettable choice: Placing the rapist, who we learn is named Greg, in the same physical space as Josephine, as if he is literally haunting her, a true monster under her bed or in her closet. As Greta Zozula’s confident camera glides through the room, Greg might just be sitting in the corner or standing behind a curtain. He is always there, always threatening.

The threat becomes realer as Damien and Jo’s mother Claire (Gemma Chan) debate what to do to help Josephine, especially as she starts to lash out at school and get increasingly terrified that Greg will find her. After the victim decides not to testify, the authorities need Josephine to do so to put this monster away. But is that good for her? Where do justice and protecting this child intersect?

There are also complex questions about how to help Josephine heal. Damien and Claire too quickly brush aside therapy, but dad insists on a self-defense approach, signing Jo up for martial arts. Claire wants to talk to Josephine about how life isn’t fair or safe; Damien wants to make sure she can protect herself. Both are right; both are wrong. Both have their hearts in the right place, but De Araújo allows us to realize that they’re imperfect too. Although it’s worth noting that De Araújo stays almost entirely locked into Jo’s POV, sometimes literally shooting from it, which means this never not her story.

De Araújo uses enough self-aware formal choices that it might push out some viewers, but it’s a reminder to this critic of how much form can support content. Instead of putting emotional monologues or fraught conversations into her script, she pushes up the volume on an intense score by Miles Ross (arguably a notch or two too much, but the mix could be dialed back before release) or comes up with a way to amplify the emotional journey through her visual choices. There are some images in “Josephine” that are hard to watch, but it also contains some ambitious, graceful, humanist filmmaking, a true merging of storytelling and the visual medium of film. After all, sometimes words aren’t enough.

Will Poulter and Noah Centineo appear in Union County by Adam Meeks, an official selection of the 2026 Sundance Film Festival. Courtesy of Sundance Institute | photo by Stefan Weinberger.

There is also a dearth of dialogue in Adam Meeks’ tender “Union County,” although more to a fault sometimes. Whatever issues I may have with this heartfelt drama about addiction and recovery in Ohio, one can’t deny its good intentions. Meeks shot the film with the help of the actual Adult Recovery Project and opens his drama with real participants in said program doing their court-mandated testimonials about their work and recovery. At times, “Union County” has a bit of a “Nomadland” vibe, incorporating fictional characters into a very real world. It is no criticism of the work of the performers here to say that the actual people who have been through these struggles are more riveting, even in 30-second bursts. I wanted to know more about almost every one of them, but, of course, one shouldn’t criticize a movie for not being a documentary on the same subject, even if Meeks opens that door.

Instead of making a doc, Meeks tells the story of Cody Parsons (a powerful Will Poulter), who is on his road to recovery. There is no space at either of the men’s homes, so he’s living in his car, but he gets a job working at a factory with his brother Jack (Noah Centineo), also an addict. As is the case with a lot of people in recovery, their lives are simple by design: work, home, court. Don’t mess around. Don’t make mistakes.

Of course, mistakes are made, but never in a way that feels exploitative or sensational. If anything, “Union County” can almost feel too subdued, as if Meeks was so careful to not do something that might be perceived by the people he clearly grew to love and admire in Union County as exploitative. That’s admirable, but it makes for a drama that can feel a bit pulseless at times, so delicate that it comes apart in your hands.

Having said that, the compassion is contagious. It helps that Poulter and Meeks are clearly on the same page with the young actor doing easily the best dramatic work of his career. The low-key approach means that Poulter doesn’t get any big monologues, forced to convey much of his pain and anxiety through body language. It’s a great performance in a movie that seeks to turn the thousands of people battling drug addiction in this country into more than just statistics.

Cody is an ordinary guy in an ordinary part of the world who just wants to live an ordinary life. Addiction is the cruelty that makes being ordinary so difficult. While “Union County” might not add enough new to the conversation to make it really standout, it does remind us of the humanity that should really be all that matters.

Wil Brill and Rob Lowe appear in The Musical by Giselle Bonilla, an official selection of the 2026 Sundance Film Festival. Courtesy of Sundance Institute | photo by Tu Do.

One of the biggest disappointments of Sundance 2026 has been Giselle Bonilla’s “The Musical,” a bitter comedy that has one idea and doesn’t even explore that well. Said idea is that spite is as powerful a motivator as any emotion, but it’s embedded in the story of a middle school teacher who is genuinely a pretty awful human being, someone impossible to root for. No one would argue that a film has to have a likable protagonist—look at “Marty Supreme” for an example of how to make a good movie about an asshole—but there needs to be something to hold onto, something relatable or even funny enough to keep the proceedings entertaining. Spending time with Doug Leibowitz (Will Brill) is so toxic that you start to root for him to fail in his quest to destroy his enemy.

Doug’s target is Principal Brady (Rob Lowe), a smooth-talking soundbite machine who is obsessed with getting his middle school a Blue Ribbon of Academic Excellence. Such a citation requires absolutely no controversy, of course, which leads to drama teacher Doug’s plan to get his kids to perform in a truly offensive musical about 9/11. Why does Doug want to destroy Brady’s dreams? The hunky principal stole his semi-girlfriend Abigail (Gillian Jacobs), although that relationship was so brief that no one else in the school knew about it. Yes, “The Musical” is about a man who seeks vengeance because a brief work relationship didn’t work out. Well, that and he clearly hates his life in this small town and wishes he was writing plays on Broadways. Did I mention he’s kind of obnoxious?

It might not be as damaging that Doug is such an uninteresting jerk if Bonilla took the time to develop the characters around him. Lowe has little to do, Jacobs gets a depressing non-part, and even the kids are barely developed beyond one personality trait. Instead, we spend all our time with this Travis Bickle of the middle school scene.

Maybe worst of all, almost none of “The Musical” is actually funny. The play that Doug writes is so broadly awful that it’s baffling, and Bonilla telegraphs the big reveal—that it’s about 9/11—in the opening credits. It gets one thinking of the better version of this film in which the offensive play is actually good or even has a single memorable song. It only adds to the insult that not only is Doug a truly horrible teacher, he’s a worse playwright.

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