John Wilson, the celebrated documentarian known for his HBO series "How To With John Wilson," is poised to unveil a cinematic marvel at the 2026 Sundance Film Festival with his latest creation, "The History of Concrete." In a move that epitomizes his signature blend of the mundane and the profound, Wilson has taken a subject universally perceived as uninteresting—the ubiquitous gray composite forming our sidewalks, overpasses, and even the canvas for high-minded architectural statements—and transformed it into what promises to be the festival’s most unexpectedly entertaining and insightful offering. This audacious project, premiering on opening night of Sundance’s final Park City edition, isn’t just a film; it’s a testament to Wilson’s unique ability to excavate humor and deeper truths from the overlooked corners of our visual environment.
At its core, "The History of Concrete" operates on a deliciously ironic premise: who, in their right mind, would fund or even watch a film dedicated to concrete? Wilson, with his characteristic self-deprecating humor, cultivates the image of an utterly unqualified helmer, playfully feigning an obsessive interest in "something that occupies so much of your visual environment." Yet, this disarming approach is precisely what allows him to craft a free-associative, deeply human exploration that feels like both a loving homage to and a subtle parody of nonfiction filmmaking’s more earnest essayistic traditions. It’s a testament to his unique genius that he can make a Las Vegas concrete industry convention seem like a portal to understanding human aspirations and communal quirks, leaving audiences captivated rather than clamoring for more technical details about cement mixtures.
Wilson’s distinctive voice, delivered in his unmistakable nasal New York accent, immediately establishes the film’s intimate, confessional tone. He invites viewers into his world through a second-person narrative style, telling "you" what "you" are experiencing, even as the details are so exquisitely specific to his own life that they become universally relatable. Early in the film, he lays bare his anxieties, lamenting the conclusion of his acclaimed HBO series and the dwindling residual checks that accompanied it. This candid opening sets the stage for a journey driven not by a rigid academic pursuit of concrete’s past, but by a more personal, almost accidental quest for meaning and connection in a world that often feels disconnected. His "boredom" isn’t idleness but a fertile ground for "bemused curiosity," leading him to collect the absurdities and poignant vignettes that capture his idiosyncratic interest.
The film’s genesis is rooted in a period of creative and financial uncertainty for Wilson. With his HBO series concluded, he finds himself adrift, prompting a characteristic digression into an unlikely educational pursuit. During the 2023 Writers Guild strike, he enrolls in the only class offered: "How to Sell and Write a Hallmark Movie." It’s a move that immediately signals his playful subversion of conventional storytelling. Wilson has no intention of churning out formulaic made-for-TV romances; rather, he’s drawn to the inherent absurdity of dissecting the mechanics of "aspirational escapism." His subsequent trek to a dreary Canadian soundstage, where these saccharine dreams are spun from recycled props and predictable emotional beats, provides a sharp contrast to his own filmmaking ethos. Yet, with Wilson, every detour serves a purpose. He masterfully weaves the lessons learned from the Hallmark class back into his own narrative, subtly employing the very emotional tricks he ostensibly mocks, albeit within a framework that profoundly rejects their simplistic worldview. This self-awareness elevates his work beyond mere satire, demonstrating a sophisticated understanding of storytelling and audience engagement.
Central to Wilson’s artistic method is his constant chronicling of the world through the lens of his handheld Sony camera or, in a pinch, his iPhone. This device functions paradoxically: it acts as both an invitation for strangers to engage with him and a convenient social buffer, affording him an ironic distance that allows for nuanced observation, and later, the insertion of his signature sarcasm and judgment during the editing process. This approach places him firmly in the tradition of esteemed essay filmmakers such as Ross McElwee and Kirsten Johnson, who use the camera not merely to record but to actively comment on the world and to process their own life choices. Wilson embraces dead ends, exasperating detours, and unapologetic digressions, knowing that the more random these tangents appear, the more amusing and ultimately satisfying they become when he ingeniously finds a way to make them relevant to his overarching, albeit loosely defined, theme.
Does John Wilson genuinely care about concrete? The question itself almost misses the point. The subject serves as an ingenious pretext, a launchpad for his boundless curiosity and a license to engage with complete strangers, posing questions that most of us never think to ask. Take, for instance, his meticulous observation of New York City’s sidewalks, perpetually marred by countless chewing gum stains. "Gum is like the bird shit of people," he muses with a characteristic blend of the crude and the profound, noting the patterns of human behavior. This leads him on an unexpected quest to track down a dedicated individual whose mission is to blast these discarded wads off the otherwise pristine concrete. "That gum is busted," the man beams after each successful removal, a small, triumphant moment in the endless battle against urban detritus. This sequence, like many others, beautifully illustrates Wilson’s ability to answer questions we didn’t know we had, stitching together his brain’s eccentric tangents with a wry, insightful voice-over.
Wilson’s narrative threads often appear bewilderingly disparate at first glance, a testament to his free-associative genius. Consider his visit to Bellefontaine, Ohio, home to America’s oldest concrete street. What begins as an exploration of historical infrastructure quickly veers into the deeply personal and surreal. An interview with a local driving instructor leads him to a woman who, remarkably, keeps a framed swatch of her late husband’s skin on her wall. This, in turn, propels Wilson down another rabbit hole, as he seeks out the company specializing in preserving the tattoos of deceased loved ones. Each step, no matter how seemingly unrelated, adds another layer to his sprawling tapestry of human experience, demonstrating the interconnectedness of seemingly disparate lives and obsessions.
Throughout the film, Wilson playfully teases himself for his unconventional, seemingly unsophisticated directorial style. He jumps effortlessly from the iconic concrete hand- and footprints outside Hollywood’s famous Chinese Theatre to an entirely unreleased DMX Christmas album. In a particularly amusing segment, driven by the need to raise fresh funds for his meandering project—based on a bad joke about it being a "rockumentary"—he embarks on a quest for a working musician with a compelling personal tragedy. This leads him to Jack Macco, the lead singer of the obscure heavy metal band Nebulus, whom Wilson encounters offering free samples at his neighborhood liquor store. Elsewhere in Queens, Wilson observes the participants in guru Sri Chinmoy’s arduous 3,100-mile self-transcendence race, who tirelessly circle the same stretch of concrete for weeks on end. These disparate scenes, bound only by Wilson’s curious gaze and his narrative voice, reveal the extraordinary within the ordinary, the profound within the mundane.
The question of whether Wilson is a comedic genius or a brilliant buffoon lingers, yet it’s a false dichotomy. His work, particularly "The History of Concrete," resonates with the "deceptively naive" quality that a CalArts student once used to describe Agnès Varda’s films. Varda’s "The Gleaners and I," an intricate essay film, was often mistaken for being simple due to its intuitive flow and the profound insights it drew from overlooked subjects and marginalized lives. Wilson, in a similar vein, possesses a low-key sophistication. He understands, perhaps intuitively, that like Hallmark movie writers or sophisticated AI language models, the true art lies not just in the individual observations, but in the masterful way he circles back to and ultimately cements one or two solid ideas, allowing them to excuse the glorious cracks and frivolous detours of an otherwise boundless endeavor.
"The History of Concrete" is more than just a documentary about building material; it’s a profound meditation on human connection, the absurdity of modern life, and the enduring quest for meaning. Wilson’s empathetic gaze and intellectual playfulness invite audiences, particularly those drawn to nuanced storytelling and unique perspectives, to see the world anew. He celebrates curiosity, champions observation, and reminds us that even in the most seemingly uninteresting subjects, there lies a rich tapestry of human stories waiting to be uncovered. His film ultimately becomes a powerful metaphor for finding "the cement that binds the stuff you like"—a compelling journey of discovery that transforms the overlooked grayness of our surroundings into a vibrant, surprising landscape of shared humanity.
