‘Rebuilding’ Review: Josh O’Connor Leads a Subtle Drama About Loss and Starting Over
After losing his ranch to a wildfire, a struggling man rebuilds his life, reconnecting with his young daughter while navigating work, loss, and an uncertain future.
Like a 1970s country song translated into cinematic form, Rebuilding could easily pass for a John Prine or Townes Van Zandt lyric turned into a film: the story of a man who loses his ranch in a wildfire and is forced to start over from scratch, carrying the weight of a divorce, a daughter he rarely sees, and little in the way of job prospects. The film is as simple, modest, and austere as that premise suggests—and that’s precisely why it works so well.
The second feature from the director of A Love Song doesn’t aim to be a statement piece or an overtly political film, but in its quiet way, it inevitably becomes one. There’s no need to assign blame or manufacture villains—this is a humanist story centered on empathy, resilience, and the emotional rediscovery that can emerge from desperate circumstances—and choosing not to do so is, in itself, an ethical stance. The world that ignores climate change, and the limited systems of economic support for those who suffer its consequences, linger just outside the frame. The “issue film” is there for anyone who wants to see it.
At its core, Rebuilding is a story about fatherhood—or rather, about the possibility of reconnecting with a daughter in the wake of environmental catastrophe. The film—true to its commitment to keeping the worst horrors off-screen—begins after everything has already happened. Dusty (Josh O’Connor, delivering another excellent performance in what has been a remarkable run of roles) has lost his family home in rural Colorado, and the hundreds of acres he once lived on have been reduced to scorched earth.
He picks up whatever work he can and sleeps in his truck until he’s assigned a basic trailer, one he shares—at least in proximity—with others in similar circumstances. It’s only after securing something resembling a roof that his ex-wife Ruby (Meghann Fahy) allows him to reconnect with their nine-year-old daughter, Callie-Rose (Lily LaTorre), who lives with her grandmother Bess (recent Oscar winner Amy Madigan). From that tentative arrangement, Dusty is forced to confront a choice: chase a new life elsewhere—there’s the promise of ranch work in Montana—or stay and rebuild where he is, even if that means redefining everything.
In the makeshift trailer park where everyone has landed—scenes that inevitably recall Nomadland—Dusty finds himself among a varied and racially diverse group, including, somewhat conveniently, a widow (Kali Reis) and her slightly older daughter. What unfolds there is another kind of journey, one that begins in discomfort—he doesn’t feel like he belongs there, clinging instead to the myth of the solitary cowboy—and gradually shifts toward integration into a fragile but supportive community, one that sustains itself through shared meals, conversations, and simply being present for one another.
Rebuilding is constructed through small moments: Dusty helping his daughter with homework or searching for a place with internet access; the girl learning to ride a horse under the patient gaze of a neighbor; a communal meal that turns strangers into something closer to friends; a farewell letter; a few guitar notes drifting across a porch. Some of these scenes verge on the sentimental or feel a touch too epiphanic, but they’re minor stumbles. This is a film largely devoid of major dramatic incidents—aside from a brief conflict with banks that is quickly handled—and what dominates instead is the slow, almost predictable sense that its protagonist is, emotionally, moving toward a better place.
Perhaps that’s what ultimately gives the film its emotional pull: its emphasis on empathy and solidarity, on the idea that the other need not remain a stranger, and that nothing human falls outside the filmmaker’s gaze. It’s a philosophy that transcends both the personal and environmental drama underpinning the story. One of the camp’s residents, in fact, is someone who never speaks and is always seen at a distance—yet there’s no suspicion or fear attached to him. When the time comes, he will return kindness with kindness, offering hope where little seems to remain.
The unadorned cinematography by Alfonso Herrera Salcedo and the music by Jake Xerxes Fussell and James Elkington reinforce the film’s folk-ballad sensibility. O’Connor perfectly captures Dusty’s introspective, taciturn nature, a man who seems, almost unconsciously, to be looking for a way out of his own life. Fahy and Madigan, meanwhile, bring nuance to their roles as his ex-wife and former mother-in-law, women who quietly find ways to make him feel useful again—perhaps not for them, but for his young daughter, who is beginning to discover the world through him. And, though Dusty may not realize it, for a community that needs him just as much.
