Highlighted by Nicole Holofcener, the Sundance Episodic Series Refuse to Judge How We Live in 2026

Life has a way of upending expectations, even the ones over a year in the making. The 2026 Sundance Film Festival marked the last in Park City, Utah, its home since 1981 (a decade before it was even renamed after its co-founder’s iconic cowboy). With any ending comes nostalgia, and the remembrances have poured in since the year began, from those attending their last screening at the Library to anyone who felt the magic of indie film manifested in a post-premiere snowstorm.

And yet so much of the film community’s focus has been wrenched out of the past into an urgent present and uncertain future. The horrific killing, attacks, and raids in Minneapolis rightfully overshadowed a weekend intended for buzzy discoveries and bidding wars. Instead, guests prioritized what was going on outside of Park City, wearing ICE Out pins and protesting on Main St. Within, festival-focused chatter couldn’t avoid speculating on the future: What would and wouldn’t change next year, when Sundance takes over Boulder, CO? What should and shouldn’t? What needs to be done to preserve the former and avoid the latter?

But the movies, while you’re with them, always live in the now, and Sundance’s annual slate of Episodic series — those lucky TV shows that get to be seen on the big screen — proved especially attuned to the present. It’s not that titles like “Worried,” “Freelance,” and “Soft Boil” deal directly with federally commissioned attack squads or the global rise in authoritarianism. It’s that they focus on people who are clearly going through it — in the big and small picture, as part of a group or acutely within their own heads. However they’re managing to get out of bed, put one foot in front of the other, and carry on not just surviving but living, well, that’s just fine. Great even. No judgement here.

Take “Murder 101.” Directed by Stacey Lee and produced by Jon Watts, the three-part documentary series (inspired by the iHeart Media podcast of the same name) chronicles a high school sociology class trying to crack a local cold case. Back in 2018, when Elizabethton, TN teacher Alex Campbell first assigned his students to track down a ’70s era serial killer, they did exactly that: identifying a suspect with damning ties to what’s colloquially referred to as “the Redhead Murders.”

In 2025, Campbell continued the investigation with a new class — and Lee’s cameras. Kids comb case files, contact local authorities, and even interview a victim, all of which expose each young detective to disturbing images, ideas, and theories. In our current academic climate (let’s call it “sensitive”), the course’s mere existence is staggering. It’s easy to imagine how some parents could react to their child spending a semester studying the brutal deaths of up to 14 women.

But for better and a little bit for worse, “Murder 101” doesn’t waste time on outsiders’ misunderstandings. Instead, it accepts the state of things and makes the most of it. As a documentary, episodes are balanced between the class’ progress in the case and their general takeaways from their “project-based learning” experience. Campbell, as a teacher, isn’t focused on answers. He sees the whole board. When discussing media reports that reduce victims to a statistic, he points out the problematic practice while emphasizing their humanity. And the students are here for it. When posed with an either/or scenario, they reject labeling the presumed killer as any one thing: He’s not pure evil, and he’s not just like everyone else. He’s “both” and then some.

“Some people think this class is about murderers,” Campbell says. “But at the end of the day, it’s really about helping people and figuring out what skills you can bring — sociology and others — to help you do it.”

In other words, our culture’s true crime obsession may feel inescapable, even in your hometown, but that same obsession can be wielded to inspire healthier media habits while working toward a better, more compassionate worldview.

Hannah Metcalf and Christian Lee in ‘Murder 101’Courtesy of Alex Pritz / Sundance Institute

The friends in “Freelance” are similarly making the best of a bad situation. Facing down a gig economy as they try to launch their careers, five content creators share a house in Columbus, OH, where they hope to “beat the algorithm” with a steady output of quality content. Their crew includes a rapper, a fashion influencer, a streamer, a personal trainer, and a filmmaker, all of whom are dedicated to their own individual projects, and the latter of whom, Lance (Spence Moore II) leads the team of upstarts on their first real job: shooting a wedding video.

Hijinks and disappointment ensue, but “Freelance” refuses to be bothered. The Turner Brothers’ comedy, bursting with onscreen graphics and colorful personalities, is here for a good time, no matter what, and while the 41-minute pilot could benefit from stronger emotional threads and tighter scripting, a laugh-forward sitcom is a thing to be treasured — at Sundance, in this climate, and when there’s every reason, onscreen and off, to go dark.

The same could be said for “Soft Boil,” a classic Sundance comedy in that it’s set in Los Angeles, follows an aspiring actor, and focuses (at first, at least) on a pair of catastrophic relationships. Lulu (Camille Wormser) is introduced via audition tape — recorded by her soon-to-be ex-boyfriend — before running out to be interviewed for a part-time nannying position. The sit-down goes about as well as can be expected — Lulu, as her name implies, is a bit off — but for lack of stronger competition, she’s put in charge of two well-off adolescents for a few nights each week.

Exhausted by her 30-minute interview, Lulu bails on plans with her friends and goes home early, only to be surprised by an extra body when she tries to join her boyfriend in the shower. “Soft Boil” doesn’t break the mold in its 23-minute pilot, but it has two things working for it: 1) Wormser, whose goofy voices and exaggerated expressions lend Lulu an endearing cartoonish quality well-suited for an off-kilter comedy like this one, and 2) the series’ steadfast commitment to never acknowledge Lulu’s strangeness.

While introducing herself to some dude in a bar, Lulu shifts the pitch of her voice, mumbles normal requests, and shouts what others may never have the courage say out loud — all while working her way toward asking the bewildered man (“Broad City’s” John Gemberling) about asphyxiation, so they can go have sex in the bathroom. This is who she is, that is what she wants, these are just the cards she’s been dealt, and she’s not going to feel ashamed to play them. Lulu’s eccentric confidence — or, better put, her confidence in her own eccentricity — carves out a space for her in an episode that’s otherwise fairly plain, all without a whiff of judgement.

She won’t hide, unlike the subjects of the Episodic section’s other nonfiction entry, “The Oligarch and the Art Dealer.” Co-created by Christoph Jörg and Andreas Dalsgaard (who also directs), the three-part documentary examines what one New York Times reporter calls the “trial of the century.” On one side, there’s Yves Bouvier, an art dealer who claims a former buyer has destroyed him, professionally and personally. On the other, of course, is the former buyer: Dmitry Rybolovlev, a Russian oligarch and billionaire many times over. He says Bouvier conned him for almost two decades: buying art for one price, charging Rybolovlev a much higher price, and then pocketing the difference.

Rybolovlev, as you can expect, isn’t about to sit down for an interview. (His lawyer, however, sure does, and without mincing words.) But Bouvier offers himself up to the documentarians, at first saying he wants to “restore the truth,” before adding a more personal mission statement: “I want to make him pay, smash his face, punish him, so he’s thrown into prison, not me.”

“The Oligarch and the Art Dealer” is a fascinating dive inside a super-sketchy and highly profitable industry. Much of the first episode is dominated by talking heads, but it doesn’t matter when Jörg and Dalsgaard find such colorful characters to unpack the decades-long scandal. Still, despite the innate desire to find out what happens, even more curious is a subtle shift in expectations.

These days, it’s easy to cast the uber rich as soulless villains (the truth is convenient like that), and Rybolovlev didn’t exactly come into his fortune cleanly. But the series shows more suspicion toward the art dealer than the oligarch — perhaps because he’s the person sitting in front of them, perhaps because he really did pull off a billion-dollar con, or perhaps because there’s just something compulsive about a self-professed risk-taker who refuses to back down, even when it’s obvious he should, which may include participating in this very documentary.

‘The Oligarch and the Art Dealer’Courtesy of Andreas Dalsgaard / Sundance Institute

Profiting from a billionaire’s insatiable greed is how Bouvier chose to make his way in life, and no matter the framing (which, to be fair, is more focused on building tension than picking sides), it’s hard to blame him. That’s just how it is in 2026: No one is going to feel sorry for one of the richest men on the planet when he loses one of his many billions of dollars, and watching “The Oligarch and the Art Dealer” valiantly attempt to stage a fair fight only adds to the roiling emotions (and entertainment value).

Pulling it all together (and saving the best for last), there’s “Worried.” Adapted from Alexandra Tanner’s 2024 novel, “Worry,” and directed by Nicole Holofcener, the pilot follows Jules (Gideon Adlon) and Poppy (Rachel Kaly), adrift, twenty-something, Jewish sisters who cling to each other for support as the world collapses around them. Or that’s what it feels like, at least. Jules has a job writing horoscopes that requires very little mental bandwidth. Her parents pay for her apartment in a Brooklyn brownstone, and her biggest inconvenience seems to be that her sister has decided to live there, too — in the spare bedroom that’s not even in use.

Without dismissing the relatable anxiety of a permanent houseguest suddenly appearing in your foyer, that’s only the top-level concern in “Worried.” The genocide in Gaza, social media brainrot, and America’s criminal healthcare industry are just a handful of recurring topics Jules and Poppy are clearly concerned about on the regular. Poppy shows up with fresh hives, but refuses to procure an epipen because of the expense (ostensibly). Jules knows the Instagram influencers filling her feed are full of shit, but their pristine makeup and toned bodies still make her feel bad about herself. No matter where they turn, there’s a big, scary issue staring them right in the face.

And yet, “Worried” is hysterical, from start to finish. “You’re literally facilitating a genocide if you buy that [Sodastream],” Poppy tells Jules at a sidewalk sale. “You’re watching porn in my living room?” Jules shouts at her sister, who replies, “It’s not porn! It’s 9/11 footage!” While making up her latest horoscope, Jules stops and says, “Fuck me, that’s ‘The Lion King.'”

Co-written by Tanner and Lesley Arfin (who previously wrote for “Love,” “Brooklyn Nine-Nine,” and “Girls”), “Worried” is a polished pilot built from endearing, sharp performances (Kaly is particularly dialed in to Poppy’s energy — a wild-child on the edge), warm, pointed direction (Holofcener fans will be thrilled), and deep, persistent empathy. On the page, there are signs of entitlement everywhere: A free Brooklyn apartment? An easy job? A free Brooklyn apartment in a brownstone?! (You can flag it twice because both sisters get to live there. And because it’s freaking huge.)

But onscreen, you’re so drawn in by Jules’ overt anxiety and Poppy’s internalized angst that it’s impossible to feel anything but affection. Their apartment only offers the slightest refuge from outside forces, and their real home is each other, which — as any siblings know — isn’t always an easy fit. Whatever joy they can find, whatever peace they can hold onto, well, I’d like to be around to see it.

It’s 2026, and the world may feel like it’s falling apart with shocking speed. If the only hope you can cling to sounds as bleak as Poppy’s closing sentiment — “Personally, I think our best 9/11s are still ahead of us” — hey, no judgement here. Take it, whatever you can, and live.