There's a kind of silence that only comes after decades. It doesn't demand attention. It earns it—one still, knowing glance at a time. That's the silence Angus MacLachlan deals in, and A Little Prayer seems soaked in it.
Music Box Films just dropped the official trailer for A Little Prayer, a small, Southern-set drama that's been sitting quietly since its Sundance premiere in 2023—where it drew a respectful nod from critics and currently holds a 93% on Rotten Tomatoes. Now, two years later, it's finally getting a theatrical run, starting August 29, 2025.
Better late than never.
This isn't a movie that needs bells or whistles. No slick camera moves. No ironic needle drops. No viral-ready monologues that scream, “Put me on TikTok.” Just a man, his family, and the thousand unspoken things they don't say to each other.
David Strathairn—who, frankly, should be getting more of these roles—plays Bill, a patriarch in the best and worst sense. A Southern business owner, veteran, father, and stubborn moral compass, Bill is the type of man who knows how to run a factory but not a conversation. He's old-school, for better and worse.
His son (Will Pullen) is slipping—professionally, emotionally, morally. His daughter (Anna Camp) has come home with bruises, visible and not. And his daughter-in-law Tammy (Jane Levy, quietly magnetic) has become the unlikely anchor of the household. When Bill suspects his son of cheating, he doesn't erupt. He simmers. And the film, judging from the trailer, lets that simmering stretch across every frame.
Let's be clear: this isn't flashy. And that's exactly why it works.
Angus MacLachlan—whose writing credits include Junebug and the underseen Goodbye to All That—has always been more interested in small truths than grand statements. And this film, with its lived-in Carolina drawl and muted palette, looks like an extension of that same ethic. You don't watch his characters to be impressed. You watch them to understand yourself—slowly, awkwardly, maybe even uncomfortably.
The trailer teases one of those rare stories that doesn't treat morality like a checklist. There are no villains, no saviors—just flawed people trying, and often failing, to do the right thing. The casting helps. Celia Weston brings the steel. Dascha Polanco adds tension. But it's Strathairn who holds the line. He doesn't raise his voice, but you listen.
And isn't that the point?
We've had a decade of screaming cinema—overacted, overedited, oversold. Films that confuse “loud” with “profound.” This one doesn't play that game. It takes its time. It asks you to lean in.
And if you don't?
Well… your loss.
