‘Union County’ Review: Will Poulter Stars in a Sensitive Docudrama About Community Recovery

An addict’s rock bottom may be the most dramatic part of their journey, but it’s bookended by a series of small decisions, both on the way down and back up. These are harder to dramatize than violent crashouts and tearful repentance, but writer/director Adam Meeks accepts the challenge in his debut feature, “Union County.” Expanding on his 2020 short film of the same name, Meeks makes a quiet but risky choice by crafting a narrative where the tension revolves around a character not doing something.

Produced in cooperation with a court-mandated drug rehabilitation program in Union County, Ohio, and featuring personal stories from people who have passed through its doors, “Union County” doesn’t completely bypass addiction-drama clichés. But its detailed, humanistic approach successfully creates a realistic world that supports its muted storytelling. In “Union County,” characters relapse and crash cars and strain relationships with loved ones to their breaking points. But these events unfold with minimal theatrics — the film’s most shocking development takes place entirely off-screen — as Meeks chooses instead to focus on their aftermath, bathing it in the cool blue light of early morning.

Stick-and-poke tattoos tell their own tales, as do cigarettes dangling from shaky hands at Narcotics Anonymous meetings. A bedroom in a sober living house has a collection of paper ephemera taped to one wall, each revealing the personality of someone who, however briefly, called this room home. Meeks and cinematographer Stefan Weinberger pay special attention to the region’s natural beauty, repeating a single shot of a car bobbing over a two-lane highway amid vibrant green hills. The shot takes on a new emotional resonance when it recurs late in the film, showcasing Meeks’ ability to convey profound meaning through visuals alone. 

Star Will Poulter is also understated, spending much of the film listening as nonprofessional actors tell real stories about their experiences with substance abuse in Union County. It’s not unusual for young men from this part of the world to be reserved, but Cody Parsons (Poulter) is especially so: At support-group meetings, he declines to share much beyond his first name, and his conversations with his brother Jack (Noah Centineo) are heavy with unspoken subtext. Cody and Jack’s sister Katrina (Emily Meade) is barely mentioned until Cody relapses and breaks into her house to pass out on her couch. 

As the story unfolds and his recovery continues, Cody begins to reveal things about himself, piece by hesitant piece. This is encouraged by program counselor Annette (Annette Deao, playing herself) and by Kim (Sylvie Mix), a new friend and potential love interest for Cody, who’s also in long-term recovery. Through them, we learn that Cody blames himself for both his and his brother’s substance issues — he was the one who introduced Jack to heroin, after all — and that he believes he doesn’t really deserve redemption as a result. 

Poulter’s slow-burning performance benefits the film in a couple of ways. First, it prevents the fictional storyline in “Union County” from overwhelming its compelling first-person narratives, which unfold in a series of monologues filmed in static long shots. This is consistent with the film’s community-based values and helps ground it in lived reality. It also increases the impact when Cody’s turbulent emotions break through his stoic exterior, tears overflowing, his face turning red as he struggles to face himself without the comfort of a needle in his arm. 

Conversely, one area where Meeks’ restraint doesn’t pay off is in his assiduous avoidance of the political context around Cody, Jack, and the program. Located just northwest of Columbus, Union County (population 69,356) voted for Donald Trump by 32 points in 2024. To be clear, this does not disqualify the people in the film — real or fictional — from help. But despite what are clearly good intentions on the part of Meeks and his crew, they seem largely unaware of, or disinterested in, the conservative narratives embedded in “Union County” that merit addressing.

The influence of evangelical culture hovers over every passionate personal testimony, for example, and while court officials are kind as they mete out punishments and reward good behavior, they’re still part of a carceral system that preaches individual solutions to societal problems. Yes, addiction crosses political, class, and ethnic lines. But who we consider criminals and why, and how we treat them as a result, are issues impossible to remove from their political context, as Meeks attempts to do here.

“Union County” is a docudrama, not a documentary, and Meeks is under no obligation to show us the larger mechanisms at work around his characters. But “Union County” believes that the type of program highlighted in this film is an unequivocal good, while making minimal inquiries into its philosophy and methods. Maybe it is all virtuous and necessary and the best thing for people who are trying to break the hold that substances have over their lives. The nonprofessionals in the film certainly believe so. But without larger context, it’s difficult for the nonprofessionals in the audience to know for sure. Telling the truth means revealing the full picture about a place and the people who live there. And in this way, “Union County” gets lost in the details. 

Grade: B

“Union County” premiered at the 2026 Sundance Film Festival. It is currently seeking U.S. distribution.

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