Max
Walker-Silverman has a way of making films that feel like they were
whispered to him by the land itself. His latest feature, Rebuilding,
unfolds with the kind of patience and emotional clarity that feels
deeply personal from the very first frame. It recalls the intimate human
studies of Nomadland and Aftersun, two films rooted in quiet grief and
tender observation. Like those stories, Rebuilding is not interested in
sweeping gestures. Instead, it pays attention to how people carry loss
in the smallest corners of their bodies and in the fragile rituals of
daily life. What emerges is a heartwarming story of renewal after
tragedy, told with such care that it becomes difficult not to feel
pulled into its rhythm of sorrow, slow healing, and soft hope.
At the
center of this gentle drama is Dusty, played with remarkable restraint
by Josh O’Connor. Dusty is a Colorado rancher whose entire world has
just gone up in flames. His family ranch, built by his grandparents, has
been reduced to ash. The bright blue barn is gone. The cattle are gone.
What remains is a man struggling to understand who he is without the
land that shaped him. O’Connor plays Dusty not as a broken man, but as
someone trying to make sense of the pieces still in his hands. He
carries himself with a slight stoop inside the tight quarters of his
FEMA assigned trailer, as if trying not to press too hard against the
thin ceiling of what his life has become. That physicality suggests more
about Dusty than any speech ever could. It is the kind of lived in
performance that never reaches for emotion. It simply exists, and that
is more than enough.
Dusty is newly divorced, though the film never
turns that dynamic into conflict. Ruby, played by Meghann Fahy, is
patient yet firm. She is frustrated by the ways Dusty failed to apply
himself when they were together, but her frustration is layered with
real affection. Ruby has moved on in some ways, but she still cares
about the father of her child. Their daughter Callie Rose, played by the
extraordinary newcomer Lily LaTorre, is the spark that keeps Dusty
tethered to the world he still has. She decorates his cramped trailer
with glow in the dark stars, a small gesture that carries enormous
emotional weight. Those stars suggest a new sky, a new beginning, even
if the walls around them feel temporary. LaTorre’s presence is striking.
She carries the story with a natural, unaffected charm that never feels
forced. Many films struggle to give young performers roles with real
emotional texture, but Walker-Silverman finds something special in her
and brings it to the surface with astonishing tenderness.
The early
sections of Rebuilding function almost like a meditation. Dusty tries to
keep everyone at arm’s length. He sees himself as different from the
others in the FEMA camp, as if he is only passing through. He believes
that this loss is temporary in a way that theirs is not. The film takes
its time in dismantling that illusion. Walker-Silverman often focuses on
simple daily actions. Dusty sweeps the floor of his trailer. He helps
with a community meal. He talks quietly with his ex-wife. He listens. He
struggles. He remembers. Slowly, the truth emerges. Loss is universal,
whether it arrives all at once in a wildfire or accumulates over years
of misplaced priorities and emotional distancing.
What gives
Rebuilding its emotional charge is how honestly it deals with the ache
of losing not just objects, but the memories contained within them.
There is a devastating moment when Dusty talks about how he keeps
remembering small things he lost in the fire, like his daughter’s
kindergarten art. He fears there are memories he will never recall again
because the objects that anchored them have vanished. O’Connor plays
this moment without a single dramatic flourish. His voice barely lifts.
His eyes do the heavy lifting, and the quiet panic buried inside them is
unforgettable. It is one of the most affecting monologues in recent
memory, and it speaks to something universal. Our possessions hold the
stories we forget we are carrying. When they disappear, a part of us
does too.
Walker-Silverman guides this story with a steady hand. His
visual world is warm, earthy, and grounded in natural light. The
cinematography by Alfonso Herrera Salcedo draws out the rugged beauty of
Colorado without romanticizing the devastation. The film opens on
scorched land, but it also pauses to appreciate sunsets, magic hour bike
rides, and small gestures between neighbors who are learning to rely on
one another. There are moments here that feel like pure cinema. Dusty
letting dirt fall between his fingers. Callie Rose picking flowers at
dusk. A quiet funeral. A communal meal that turns into something
meaningful without any manufactured sentiment. These scenes could easily
feel symbolic or overly crafted, but Walker-Silverman resists that
temptation. He observes. He listens. He trusts stillness.
Rebuilding
also offers a subtle critique of how government systems fail those who
need them most. The FEMA trailers provide shelter, but they are
temporary by design, and the clock is always ticking. The local library
keeps closing due to lack of funding, leaving people desperate for
internet access to complete endless forms. These details are woven into
the story with care, never pulling focus but reminding us of the fragile
institutions meant to hold people up when everything else collapses.
That fragility is part of what pushes this community together. They are
not bound by shared ideology or forced together by circumstance. They
choose to help one another. They choose to build something new out of
ash. In a time defined by isolation and political cruelty, that choice
feels quietly radical.
The film does stumble in its final act. After
two acts defined by subtlety and graceful restraint, the last portion of
the story leans into a more scripted and deliberate emotional release.
It is not entirely unearned, but it is less effective than the smaller
moments that precede it. The film’s delicate realism occasionally
strains under the weight of its own hopefulness. Yet even when it
reaches a little too far, the sincerity behind every choice remains
intact. As a viewer, it is hard to begrudge the film for wanting to
leave its characters in a place of genuine solace.
What makes
Rebuilding resonate long after the credits roll is not its plot, but its
spirit. This is a story about community, renewal, and the quiet bravery
of starting again after disaster. It shows how people who have nothing
left can still give each other everything. It shows how families can
mend in small ways, through shared meals, quiet conversations, and the
simple act of showing up. Above all, it shows how hope can grow in
unlikely soil.
Josh O’Connor delivers one of his finest performances
to date, proving once again that he thrives in quiet, contemplative
roles. LaTorre is a revelation. Fahy is wonderfully understated. Amy
Madigan gives the kind of warm, lived in performance that enriches the
entire film. Together, they form a small ensemble that makes this world
feel real and deeply loved.
Rebuilding is not a loud film. It does
not chase dramatic twists or sweeping reveals. Instead, it whispers
truths we rarely take the time to hear. It reminds us that healing is
slow. That grief is messy. That community is essential. That memory
lives in strange places. And that the simplest acts of care can become
lifelines.
It starts as a quiet whisper and ends as a warm embrace.
In a year defined by uncertainty and division, Rebuilding feels like
a gift.
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