Press play to listen
There’s a moment early in Union County when Cody Parsons, played by Will Poulter with quiet, aching restraint, sits in a drug court session in rural Ohio, listening to a judge lay out the terms of his court-mandated rehabilitation program. He doesn’t look defiant. He doesn’t look relieved. He looks like a man who has run out of road and knows it. That expression, held just a beat longer than most actors would dare, tells you everything you need to know about what kind of film this is going to be. Honest. Patient. Unsparing. And quietly, powerfully hopeful.
Union County is the debut feature from Ohio-born filmmaker Adam Meeks, and it arrives as one of the most authentic portrayals of addiction and recovery that American cinema has produced in years. The film follows Cody Parsons as he embarks on the tenuous journey toward recovery amid the opioid epidemic in rural Ohio, joined in the program by his brother Jack, played by Noah Centineo. Provided with hope for the first time since their struggles began, and with the support of a tireless counselor, the brothers work toward a brighter, sober future.
What sets this film apart from other addiction dramas isn’t its plot. Meeks himself would probably admit the story arc is fairly familiar territory. What sets it apart is how it tells that story. The film casts Poulter and Centineo as two fictional characters amid the real-life participants of a court-sponsored drug rehabilitation program. It was filmed in a real drug court, and much of the supporting cast were non-actors who were working the program itself. The result is something you can feel in every scene: a lived-in texture, a specificity of place and person that no casting director could manufacture.
Meeks’ extended family lives in this part of Ohio, and the story developed from those close ties. His uncle introduced him to the drug court judge, who invited him to sit in on a meeting. That personal connection radiates through every frame. This isn’t a filmmaker parachuting into someone else’s crisis for dramatic effect. This is someone who grew up near this pain, who knows these roads and these faces, and who clearly felt a responsibility to get it right.
He does.
“It’s rare to see recovery portrayed with this level of honesty.”
Poulter, already one of the most reliably compelling actors of his generation, delivers what may be his finest work here. There are no big speeches, no cathartic breakdowns designed to win awards. His performance is built from smaller moments: a glance across a room, a hesitation before answering a question, the way his shoulders drop slightly when someone offers him something he doesn’t quite believe he deserves. The film finds power in small, daily victories, and honors perseverance over grand transformation. Poulter understands that completely, and plays it that way.
Centineo, often cast in lighter fare, earns his place here too. His Jack is a different kind of struggle from Cody’s, more volatile and more resistant, and the brothers’ dynamic gives the film much of its emotional texture. When they fight, it feels like a fight between two people who need each other and can’t quite admit it. When they support each other, it lands.
For readers of The Phoenix Spirit, people who know recovery not as a plot device but as a daily reality, this film will feel unusually close to home. It doesn’t romanticize sobriety or wrap it in a tidy bow. It shows the meetings, the slips, the grinding work of showing up again after you’ve fallen down. It shows the counselors and judges and community members who keep showing up too, not because it’s easy, but because they believe in the possibility of a person turning their life around.
Oscilloscope’s SVP of Acquisitions said upon acquiring the film, “It’s rare to see recovery portrayed with this level of honesty.” That’s not marketing talk. It’s accurate. Union County earned a standing ovation at Sundance and a 94% rating on Rotten Tomatoes, not because it’s a flashy film, but because it’s a true one.
At 87 minutes, it moves deliberately. Some viewers may find it slow. But those who have lived inside a recovery program, where progress is measured in days rather than dramatic turning points, will recognize that pace as exactly right. Recovery isn’t a montage. It’s a Tuesday morning when you don’t want to get out of bed, and you do it anyway.
Union County opens in theaters August 14.
