Last summer, in the middle of The Bear’s fourth season, Will Poulter strolled into the show’s eponymous Chicago restaurant and placed the kitchen staff’s jaws on the floor with his handsomeness. This wasn’t exactly a new reaction for the tall British actor—over the last few years, his cool, blue eyes, angular frame, and disarming accent have made him used to being looked at. No matter the supporting role, when he walks into a room, the energy changes. But in Union County, writer-director Adam Meeks’ assured feature debut, Poulter tries a disappearing act. As recovering drug addict Cody Parsons, he trudges into a courthouse with a scraggy beard, unkempt hair, and slumped shoulders, sanding down his vibrant sheen into a pale matte. Nobody around him turns their head, let alone loosens their jaw.
The stripped-down look is a bid to blend in. Adapted from Meeks’ eponymous 2020 short film, Union County follows Cody through the first phase of a rural Ohio county-mandated drug court program (a more promising rehabilitation than short-term jail-sentencing) in the midst of the opioid epidemic. He works toward sobriety with his foster brother Jack (Noah Centineo, another handsome star scruffing up his face), struggling to regain control over heroin and alcohol with a supportive counselor, regular drug tests, and court check-ins in front of a judge. But unlike most movies about addiction, Meeks furnishes the pair’s journey with non-professional actors—a community of real addicts in recovery along with a local judge, merging fiction and documentary to achieve a more potent, authentic portrayal of people on society’s periphery, striving for sobriety and a new purpose.
Such filmmaking decisions can lead to accusations of exploitation—a kind of queasiness built around the idea that the real people of Bellefontaine, Ohio, will look like props, stripped of the same humanity and dignity as the professional actors attempting to become them. But Meeks mostly acquits those charges through his generosity and keen interest in the program’s process. He begins with testimony from recovering addicts and later documents group meetings where they can share their histories, tendencies, and encouragement. Meeks, a Brooklyn-based NYU film student from Columbus who spent most of his upbringing throughout central Ohio, saw the impact of the opioid crisis first-hand and has continued what he calls a “collaborative creative practice” within the community, becoming friends with program participants and court employees. The care and attention, visible in the tapestry of faces and voices, also seeps through depictions of the county’s environment, a bleak collage of empty roads and gray, bucolic vistas that only emphasize how vital human connection is to making daily progress.
Even with a dense backdrop and textured surroundings, Union County sits on the shoulders of Cody, and the movie succeeds largely because of Poulter’s still, shy performance as a young man quietly reckoning with life on the ropes. Instead of leaning into the histrionic hallmarks of the genre, Poulter opts for something more inward. Used to depicting this crisis (albeit on the other side as a pharmaceutical rep in Dopesick), he looks both weary and susceptible, eager to restart but burdened with guilt and regret. Meeks keeps the camera close to him, homing in on his microreactions and the indignities of living inside his car or unexpectedly crashing at his sister’s home where he’s unwelcome. On several occasions, Meeks observes his protagonist’s decision-making playout from the backseat, surveilling Cody (and sometimes Jack) as he pulls into dangerous, hidden places and weighs choices that will impact his future. How did he get here? How did his brother fall down the same path? Who has he hurt? Meeks slowly parcels out context and information, but it doesn’t feel withholding. He’s preventing judgment by staying present.
In some ways, that’s the point of Union County, a portrait of incremental progress shining light on the individuals, friends, and family members impacted by a disease that takes real time and energy and understanding to conquer. As Cody begins growing within the program and finds enrichment from success stories, Meeks is careful to portray a linear path towards redemption. In the most affecting scene, Cody makes a phone call to his program counselor during a spell of doubt and helplessness. The beauty of what unfolds—a mostly quiet exchange and latent understanding of momentary temptation—lies in the counselor’s small, present gestures, a willingness to sit in silence, to get through the moment without abandonment. “It’s not anyone’s fault,” she tells him. It’s a calm reassurance—the kind of heroic, potent compassion that can turn around someone’s entire trajectory and get them to tomorrow.
Union County premiered at the 2026 Sundance Film Festival.