By Jason Osiason

John Magaro is one of the best actors of his generation—anyone who’s seen Past Lives, his collaborations with Kelly Reichardt, or September 5 knows that already. And in Omaha, he delivers one of his most quietly devastating performances yet. He carries the film with a presence that is both deeply internal and heartbreakingly transparent, a man holding it together just enough to keep moving forward. But for all of Magaro’s brilliance, the film itself doesn’t quite match his depth. It’s a deeply felt story, but one that starts slipping into something too neat, too familiar, until the raw edges get smoothed over.

The film begins in silence just a father waking his kids in the middle of the night, telling them to pack a bag. No questions, no explanations. He loads them into the car and drives, heading west toward Nebraska with no clear destination. His son, Charlie, thinks it’s an adventure. His daughter, Ella, is old enough to know something is wrong. And it is. Their mother is gone. Their home is no longer theirs. And this road trip, which starts as something aimless and free, slowly begins to reveal itself as an act of quiet desperation.

Magaro’s performance is remarkable. He plays grief without leaning on big emotional outbursts, his sadness sitting just beneath the surface in the way he grips the steering wheel, the way he watches his kids in the rearview mirror, the way his voice catches on certain words. Molly Belle Wright is also fantastic as Ella, her frustration and fear simmering in every moment. She’s the emotional heart of the film, the one who sees her father not as a tragic figure but as a man making choices that don’t always make sense.

The film is gorgeously shot, leaning into that Reichardt-esque stillness, where open roads and muted colors say more than dialogue ever could. It’s full of moments that linger like silent breakfasts in roadside diners, the kids playing in gas station parking lots, a motel TV humming softly in the background. It’s in these details that Omaha feels its strongest, when it’s letting its characters just be. But as it moves into its final act, something shifts. What starts as raw and understated becomes something more deliberate, more overtly sentimental. It begins to explain itself too much, leaning into a PSA-like quality that feels at odds with the film’s earlier restraint.

There’s still a lot to admire here. Magaro alone makes it worth watching—but Omaha feels like it loses confidence in itself. It’s at its best when it sits in the unspoken, but it doesn’t quite trust the audience to feel it without being told. The result is a film that lingers, but not as deeply as it should. [B-]