The Medicine — When Music Becomes Healing
In the opening moments of The Medicine (2024), director Sarah Dienaar captures a quiet but profound image: Leonie Bos walking alone through a forest landscape in the Netherlands. The bare trees stretch upward, the ground covered in autumn leaves, and Leonie pauses in silence as if in communion with her surroundings. It is an image that feels raw and unfiltered, a reminder that nature is not simply a backdrop for life but an active participant in it. This is where the documentary begins — an invitation to understand how Leonie’s music and her life are inseparably bound to nature, family, grief, and ultimately healing.
​
Sarah Dienaar’s film is more than a biographical portrait; it is a work of poetic observation. From the very first shots, it establishes its rhythm through contrasts: silence and song, stillness and movement, fragility and strength. The film’s title, The Medicine, proves not to be metaphorical hyperbole but a lived truth that Leonie embodies. Through the film’s forty minutes, music transforms from a profession into a salvation, and finally into a shared cure.
Leonie’s story, as presented in the film, carries an almost mythic arc. We learn about her deep love for her stepson, seen through intimate home videos that give the film an emotional heartbeat. These private moments — messy, affectionate, real — stand in contrast to her recollections of loss. During her time on The Voice of Holland, Leonie’s journey was cut short not only by elimination but by the devastating loss of her mother. The juxtaposition is brutal: ambition and grief colliding at a formative moment.
​
​
What could have been the end of her path became instead a painful reset. Sarah Dienaar allows Leonie to recount these memories without melodrama, relying on her voiceovers and candid interviews to express the complexity of that period. There is no forced narrative arc; the story flows naturally, as though we are sitting with Leonie in conversation.
This is where Sarah Dienaar’s role as director deserves emphasis. It takes more than a camera to shape such a vulnerable narrative; it takes patience, trust, and a sense of timing. The placement of Leonie’s reflections alongside carefully chosen archival footage shows remarkable restraint. Sarah Dienaar does not impose herself on the story. Instead, she guides the viewer with subtlety, letting Leonie’s words and music dictate the rhythm.
​
The seamlessness of this structure — past and present, personal and universal — speaks to the director’s skill. Reviewers on IMDb have already noted how the film’s “smooth flow” and “intimacy” set it apart from many music documentaries. These observations are accurate: Sarah Dienaar never reduces Leonie to a subject to be analyzed. She is, at every point, a human being allowed to breathe on screen.
​
Some of the film’s most compelling sequences take place inside the recording studio. Here, we witness Leonie’s transformation. As she begins to sing, something shifts: the grief, the doubt, and the hesitation melt away, replaced by confidence and presence. The music expands her, allowing her to grow into something larger than herself.
This metamorphosis is not presented with dramatic lighting or cinematic tricks. Instead, the camera observes quietly, capturing the sincerity of the moment. The effect is powerful. We see an artist who becomes “giant,” as if the studio itself cannot contain her. It is in these scenes that The Medicine fully lives up to its name, showing music not just as art but as therapy, ritual, and rebirth.
​
​
Sarah Dienaar broadens the scope by including Leonie’s workshops. These sessions show the ripple effect of her music on others. Attendees arrive tense, distracted, or unsure. Through voice, sound, and guided exercises, Leonie brings them to a place of openness and relaxation. The transformation is visible. People smile, breathe deeper, and reconnect with themselves.
Here the film demonstrates how Leonie’s journey is not only personal but communal. She is not simply healing herself through music; she is creating a shared medicine. Watching these workshops, one cannot help but feel the authenticity of her approach. There is no performance, no showmanship — just a quiet offering of what has already saved her.
Throughout the documentary, the themes of family and nature remain constant. Leonie’s love for her stepson is presented as a stabilizing force, a reminder that her art is never separate from her personal life. Scenes of forests, rivers, concerts and fields reinforce the connection between the external world and her internal state.
​
The body itself becomes an instrument, not only in performance but in healing. Leonie’s connection with breath and voice is mirrored by the physical presence of others in her workshops. The body is no longer simply a vessel — it becomes a medium of medicine.
It is important to underscore that all of this would not resonate without the meticulous work of the director. Sarah Dienaar has achieved something rare: she has made a music documentary that is both intimate and expansive, both personal and universal. The careful pacing, the integration of Leonie’s personal footage, the use of nature as a silent companion — these choices elevate the film beyond biography into something closer to visual poetry.
​
The final sequences, underscored by Leonie’s song “Coming Back Home,” leave us with a sense of closure and renewal. The lyrics — “I am finally coming back home” — carry both literal and metaphorical weight. Home is not just a place; it is a state of acceptance, healing, and self-recognition.
​
The Medicine is not a film about fame, charts, or industry accolades. It is about resilience, love, and the redemptive power of art. Through its 39 minutes, it reminds us that music is not merely entertainment — it is survival, it is therapy, and it is communion.
Share!