Union County (2026)

 

On the surface, Union County sounds like a predictable melodrama. It’s a somber tale about opioids in Ohio, and it’s got two big stars surrounded by non-actors. You might not know the geography, but you’ll recognize the indie issues movie recipe. After all, Sing Sing did it just last year.

True though that is, Union County stubbornly resists sentimentalizing its subject matter. Quiet, haunting, and hopeful, Adam Meeks’ drama is sanded-down and unpretentious, channeling the spirit of the program and people it portrays.

Cody (Will Poulter) gets assigned to Adult Recovery Court as part of his sentence for a drug charge. Jobless and living out of his car, Cody has almost nothing, but his foster brother Jack (Noah Centineo), also in the program, extends him a lifeline. But addiction calls to both men, threatening the work they’ve undertaken to change.

Union County opens slowly, and that’s intentional. The shots are long, the camera tight on Poulter’s face as he stares out windows in search of life. The film bludgeons you with the monotony of rural drives and cutting lumber. When something occasions to happen, like a bonfire in the woods, we get flashes of life, but Cody remains muted, withholding everything from us. It’s not that nothing happens so much as it feels like that—for us as well as Cody.

And Poulter sells it beautifully. Union County excels when the camera fixes on a silent Poulter’s sad eyes. Until the final third, we have no idea what’s behind those eyes nor what he’s chasing or running from, but his aloofness is persuasive. Despite the marathon of close-ups, I felt too distant from Cody to empathize with him early on, but when he finally chooses to speak, everything makes sense. You grow close to Cody so that, by the end, you feel with and for him.

Several others’ strong contributions prop up Poulter’s performance. Centineo takes second billing, and he excels at portraying jittery electricity that addiction’s dulled but never vanquished entirely. Although he looks distractingly like Mark Ruffalo, he’s also borderline unrecognizable under his wild beard, basketball shorts, and polar bear physique. Elise Kibler plays Anna, a love interest of sorts, and she nails the part: she’s warm and generous but also guarded and concerned. Despite having only a few scenes, I knew and understood her quickly, and I applaud the script for writing Anna so multi-dimensionally.

This praise says nothing of the rest of the cast, though, and they deserve acclaim as well. Most of the people Cody meets are actual members of the Adult Recovery Court’s program, and that realism adds depth to the synthetic story centering it. In particular, Annette Deao is incredible in her role as a counselor, at once being direct, compassionate, and patient. I’ve seen movies where the non-actors’ lack of presence undercut the film’s polish, but Union County isn’t one of them. Whether they’re offering frank testimony in court or reflecting during a basement share-out, they implicitly endorse the urgency behind Cody’s story.

In its weakest moments, Union County slips away from its tight character study; especially in the first act, circumstances rule the roost rather than the people. The film has a ton it wants to say, and it’s great stuff, but I wish they’d found an extra character beat or two for Cody in the first half. I can point to so many later own—his awkward pencil grip, the way he doesn’t lean toward Anna, an alternate approach to downing dessert—but ultimately, I can buy that his first half numbness blots out who he is. It’s a heavy movie when Centineo’s off-screen, and that’s okay, but a flourish here and there wouldn’t hurt.

Still, what Union County does is remarkable. Instead of staging a drama, the film drops us into this world, driving us around the same rounds and sitting in on the same AA meetings. Without ever forfeiting its cinematic polish—seriously, this thing’s shot beautifully—it lets you observe this incredible program at work and meet those doing it for real. So many people struggling with addiction lack infrastructure and support, and the film makes a moving case for the Adult Recovery Court model. No, they don’t have all the answers, but they teach structure, accountability, and compassion to people who need someone to pick up the phone, someone to wait on the porch, someone to say, “I know you fucked up, and that’s not good, but here’s your next step”.

Union County works because it never shies away from the struggles but always—always—believes in the program and people so doggedly that you do too. Union County is what an issues movie should be, and these tears mark how I should feel when a good one ends.

 

Meeks, Poulter, and company have made a good one. 

 

Watched via the Sundance Film Festival's Online Screening