Josephine Review – Channing Tatum is a slam dunk in the shattering drama of lost innocence | Sundance 2026

COsephine, the titular character of Péth de Araujo’s stunning second film, is eight years old. Played by equally accomplished newcomer Mason Reeves, Josephine loves to play soccer with her father, Damien (a formidable Channing Tatum), with whom she grows close—the film’s crisp, almost wordless opening minutes, which shift seamlessly from Josephine’s perspective to a third-party co-conspirator, as she jogs with the duo through San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park, quickly convey a tender, playful bond: a supportive, sexy father and an innocent child.

That’s all we know about Josephine—all we really need to know—before witnessing the incident that tore apart her youth. After Josephine runs past her father in the park, she alone witnesses the brutal rape of a runner by a man wearing a distinctive aqua polo shirt. To audible shock to viewers at the film’s Sundance premiere, de Araujo rejected the deletion that has now become de rigueur in films about sexual assault, and how much post-MeToo cinema — Promising Young Woman, Women Speak Up, last year’s standout Sundance film Sorry, Baby — has skipped or deleted the actual assault, de-emphasized the violence and allowed viewers to fill in the blanks.

Not here. We witness everything Josephine witnesses from her position behind a tree – the screaming, the struggling, every horrific step of rape – as well as Josephine herself; Cinematographer Greta Zozolla captures the crime and the child’s angelic face, shaded with fear and curiosity, in an equally natural light. The astonishing sequence drives home a necessary point: What’s Beyond Adult Horror is downright baffling to a child’s developing mind — counterintuitively wrong, yes, but also wonderful and strange. To understand Josephine’s confusion and anger, and why she begins to act erratically and aggressively, you have to know exactly what kind of horror she is replaying in her head, as she tries to understand.

That’s certainly a lot of setup for a highly sensitive film — Sundance’s standout drama to date — that’s mostly about the aftermath, with a solid Gemma Chan and a career-best Tatum as the well-meaning but ill-equipped parents. But the severity of the incident is crucial, because it underscores the inadequacy of every adult’s response. She is ignored by the police who immediately respond to Damien’s 911 call, putting her in the cop car with the battered victim (Sierra McCarthy) and allowing her to see the arrested perpetrator (Philip Ettinger); The camera’s probing gaze—at the woman’s scraped knee, at the man’s almost defiant expression—suggests burning memories. Her mother, gentle and willowy, attempts vague platitudes, distractions, and psychotherapy (which is inexplicably dropped before any sessions). Her father, a self-described “physical guy,” takes her to self-defense classes. She does not explain to Josephine, who does not know what sex is, what she saw.

De Araújo has a keen ear for the aphorisms and comebacks that parents use to defend themselves — “It would never happen to you, ever,” Damian responds unhelpfully when Josephine asks if it would happen to her. She manages a difficult balance between drawing the responses of frustrated adults, and sticking closely to Josephine, who sees the man from the garden in her room at night, especially after she is called as a trial witness.

This balance falters at times, especially in the final third of the film. The wordless sequences of Miles Ross’s music, pulsing with Josephine’s unprocessed emotions, lose their potency over time. Chan isn’t given many remarks beyond concern, which range from mild to snide; The brief moments that nod to her personal experience with the subject, such as the car ride in which she asks Josephine if she’s ever been raped, are subtle to the point of underplaying them. But overall, de Arajo manages to guide the bruised family through near-terror to a gritty final courtroom scene. There is a chilling but thankfully restrained horror in Josephine’s inner retreat, as her budding rage simmers in increasingly erratic and disturbing ways.

It’s a feat that wouldn’t be possible without Reeves – a rare natural, able to hold his own and disappear into himself – and especially Tatum, whose easygoing naturalness still feels somehow undervalued and who is simply stunning as a father out of his depth. As a movie star, Tatum embodies a certain brand of familiar, aspirational American masculinity, a charming, everyday man. It’s a pleasure, then, to see him play one of the most fascinating father figures in recent memory, a father whose good and bad parenting instincts often coexist in the same sentence, whose self-confidence and convictions collapse in inverse relationship with his daughter’s, and who must reckon with his own limits and fears. There is a beguiling if flawed heart to Damien – from another actor of his stature, the late-stage scene in which he finally explodes on Josephine might seem grave and distant. But Tatum was able to force the viewer into extreme confusion and pain.

It’s an instantly memorable performance in a haunting film, and one that I carried with me in the hours after watching it. And that’s perhaps the best I can say about this wonderful feature – for its viewers, as for its meticulously rendered subject matter, the unease remains.