A summer night around a dinner table becomes the launchpad for a murder mystery in Kids Like Me, as 12-year-old Oliver enthusiastically assigns character roles to friends and family with the confidence of a seasoned director. “You’re the jealous mistress, you’re the corrupt cop…” he declares, transforming an ordinary gathering into a sprawling whodunit powered entirely by imagination. In that instant, directors Cynthia Lowen and Jon Cohrs reveal exactly what makes their documentary so affecting: it’s not simply about disability, but about the exhilarating act of creation and the communities that rally around it.
Set in Montague, Massachusetts, Kids Like Me follows Oliver Odwazny-Beebe, who has a rare genetic condition (intentionally not identified in the film), as he embarks on the ambitious task of making his own murder mystery film with the help of his close-knit community. The premise alone is instantly charming, but what makes the documentary resonate is its refusal to flatten Oliver into a symbol of inspiration. Instead, Lowen and Cohrs present him as exactly what he is: funny, stubborn, charismatic, imaginative, occasionally frustrating, deeply vulnerable, and unmistakably 12 years old.
That honesty is where the film finds its greatest strength.
So many documentaries about disability fall into the trap of sanding down complexity in favour of uplift. Kids Like Me actively resists that impulse. Oliver is celebrated, absolutely, but the film also makes space for the more difficult emotions simmering within his family dynamic – particularly in relation to his seven-year-old sister, Willa. One of the documentary’s most quietly devastating scenes unfolds during a candid family conversation in which Oliver asks Willa if she’s embarrassed by him. She admits that sometimes she is. His parents acknowledge how brave both the question and the answer are. Oliver, in turn, recognises that he struggles to control his anger.
It’s an extraordinary exchange not because it’s dramatic, but because it feels so painfully real. The scene captures something many documentaries avoid: love and exhaustion existing simultaneously. Sibling resentment doesn’t negate affection. Frustration doesn’t erase empathy. By allowing these truths to coexist, Kids Like Me becomes far more affecting than a conventional crowd-pleaser.
The documentary is at its most infectious when immersed in Oliver’s creative process. Watching him construct his mystery story, direct scenes, and enthusiastically guide his cast carries an undeniable joy. His passion for storytelling becomes the film’s engine, and the directors smartly allow those moments of invention to breathe rather than constantly contextualising them through medical explanations or sentimentality. Oliver’s condition is never hidden, but neither is it treated as the defining narrative hook. The film understands that his imagination is just as central to who he is as the devices he uses to navigate the world.
Lowen and Cohrs’ close relationship with the family grants the documentary an intimacy that never feels exploitative. The camera captures ordinary domestic rhythms alongside moments of vulnerability, making the household feel lived-in rather than curated for an audience. There’s a looseness to the filmmaking that mirrors the warmth of the community rallying around Oliver’s project.
What lingers after Kids Like Me ends isn’t just Oliver’s determination or talent, but the film’s insistence on allowing disabled people – and the families around them – to exist in full emotional complexity. It’s a documentary about support systems, creativity, and the messy realities of growing up, all wrapped inside the framework of a charming homemade whodunit.
Most importantly, it understands that being seen fully is far more meaningful than being idealised.
THREE AND A HALF STARS (OUT OF FIVE)
Kids Like Me is screening as part of this year’s Tribeca Film Festival, running between June 3rd and 14th, 2026. For more information on the festival, head to the official site here.
