It’s surprising just how under the radar David Fortune’s directorial debut, Color Book, has flown, especially given the buzz surrounding other new releases on the platform. The film, which Fortune spent years developing, is the culmination of his participation in Netflix-backed programs—Film Independent’s Amplifier Fellowship and Ghetto Film School—and AT&T’s Untold Stories. Two years after its 2024 Tribeca premiere, its arrival on Netflix has been remarkably quiet—which is a shame, because it’s a striking feature debut. Its patient, affecting style beautifully mirrors the father-son relationship at its emotional core, making for an Atlantan odyssey that deserves a place alongside the greats in the father-son feature canon. Equal parts heartbreaking and hopeful, Color Book also serves as a love letter to the city and its compassionate residents, elevating the journey into something truly special—and possibly one of the best films of the year. It’s a gem that deserves as much attention in Netflix’s summer lineup as Voicemails for Isabelle or Little Brother. But honestly? Color Book is in a league of its own.
Color Book follows Lucky (Will Catlett), a recently widowed father, and his 11-year-old son Mason (Jeremiah Daniels), who has Down syndrome and a passion for drawing, coloring, and baseball. Still reeling from fresh grief—the opening scene finds them at the funeral of Lucky’s wife and Mason’s mother, Tammy (Brandee Evans), releasing balloons into the sky (Mason keeps his)—Lucky decides to lift the weight of their loss by taking Mason to his first Atlanta Braves game. But when their car breaks down, the two are forced on an unexpected journey across Metro Atlanta. Lucky loves his son deeply, yet he struggles to bridge the emotional intimacy Mason once shared with his late mother. As he grapples with his own inner turmoil, Lucky must learn how to meet his son where he is—and find his own way back to connection.
Fortune immerses us immediately, illustrating Mason’s bond with his mother through beautiful montage and close-ups. The rest of the film, shot in wide frames and spaced compositions, contrasts that intimacy with Lucky’s emotional disconnect. It’s clear Lucky loves Mason and is patient—some of the sweetest scenes involve him teaching Mason how to pronounce words like “purple” and “waffles” while reading—but he’s searching for his “thing” with him. As the story progresses, Fortune draws the viewer closer, signifying their growing bond. All of it is beautifully highlighted by DP Nikolaus Summerer’s patient framing, which captures both the warmth and natural beauty of their Atlanta surroundings.
Color Book subtly wears its Atlanta love on its sleeve throughout, yet despite its small-scale scope, the film never grandstands. Instead, it showcases the city’s strength through its people. The ingenuity lies in the quiet humanity of the strangers and friends Lucky and Mason encounter along the way: all different, all caring, and all united in reflecting the spirit of Atlanta. Even a tense run-in with railroad authorities, who briefly conflict with Lucky, is tempered by their genuine concern for Mason’s safety—a reminder that, in this city, even obstacles come wrapped in compassion.
More notably, the film offers a sharp, understated exploration of Black masculinity. Lucky’s friends are men, and though the time shared with them amounts to mere minutes, those moments beautifully shatter expectations of stoicism. Each interaction becomes a somber deconstruction of masculinity, as they gently press Lucky about his emotional state and well-being during the heartache the two face. One remarkable scene finds Meech (Njema Williams)—a fellow father whose daughter, like Mason, has Down syndrome and plays with him—running into Lucky and Mason on the train. In their conversation, Meech asks how Lucky is holding up. When Lucky offers a quick, dismissive response, Meech asks again—giving Lucky the space to be honest with himself. It’s a small but profound gesture that cuts through pretense, and a testament to the film’s quiet power.
Picture Credit: Netflix
Fortune’s screenplay nails the visceral uncontrollability of grief, and his direction makes a simple adventure feel herculean. Lucky tries his best while in shock, stoic yet vulnerable, sometimes lashing out from impatience or pain—but all from a profound place of not knowing how to navigate raising a child alone. The gratifying catharsis is his change in real time, learning patience and understanding. Fortune balances a high-wire act: this isn’t a movie about parenting a child with Down syndrome, but about a single father and son navigating fresh grief together. Mason’s disability is never seen as a burden and the patience seen not only from him but from other characters they interact with along the way is simply magical, if not heart-tugging.
Will Catlett delivers possibly the most true-to-life, intuitive performance I’ve seen this year. He embodies fatherly tenderness and care—the kind every Black father should strive for—but also frustration and fear so viscerally moving it’s anxiety-inducing. In one scene where Mason gets off at the wrong stop, Catlett’s panic is terrifyingly real. I saw traces of my own late father in his loving demeanor, strong yet raw enough to show vulnerability. Newcomer Jeremiah Daniels, who has Down syndrome, is sublime, finding the right emotional cues with Catlett and making their father-son dynamic feel true. Together, they’re a powerful screen duo that carries the heart of the story with rich texture and light.
David Fortune’s Color Book is a significant film that deserves every bit of warmth coming its way. A Netflix-backed feature made on a moderately small budget yet expanded to a wide scope with a ginormous heart, it’s exactly the kind of project that demonstrates where the platform’s resources should be directed. It’s a fantastic, affecting debut anchored by stellar, best-of-the-year central performances, and it delivers a timely tale of connection unlike anything I’ve seen in recent memory. This isn’t just one of the best feature debuts—it’s one of 2026’s best films, period.
Netflix, please take note: fund more independent filmmakers with powerful, distinctive voices like this—and greenlight fewer bloated spectacles like The Gray Man and The Electric State.
