Rose Byrne has built her career playing characters you're not supposed to like. From the passive-aggressive boss's wife in "Bridesmaids" to the cosmically unglued mother in "If I Had Legs I'd Kick You," she specializes in haughty, difficult women who make audiences squirm. In "Tow," her latest indie venture, Byrne doubles down on this approach, playing Amanda Ogle, a homeless Seattle woman fighting bureaucracy to reclaim her impounded Toyota Camry. You won't like Amanda—that's the point. What matters is whether Byrne's abrasive charisma can carry a film that mistakes good intentions for good storytelling.
"Tow" opens with Amanda living out of her beat-up 1991 slate-blue Toyota Camry, complete with paisley pink kerchief, leather jacket, and the kind of snarling defiance that suggests someone who was punk in the '90s and never figured out how to age gracefully. When her car gets stolen and recovered, she discovers it's being held at Kaplan Towing for $273—pocket change to most, but an insurmountable sum for someone whose entire life fits in a Camry's backseat.
What follows is an elongated anecdote based on a true story, though as Variety critic Owen Gleiberman notes, "when you see the film you may think: Why couldn't they have just made this up?" Amanda spends an entire year navigating Seattle's homeless services, legal system, and bureaucratic maze, all in pursuit of a car that represents far more than transportation—it's her dignity, her independence, her only reliable relationship.
Director Stephanie Laing assembles a supporting cast that feels both authentic and slightly mismatched. Octavia Spencer brings "pitch-perfect compassionate ruthlessness" as Barbara, who oversees the homeless shelter. Dominic Sessa plays Kevin, the nonprofit lawyer described as a "saintly geek." The shelter's ecosystem includes Nova (Demi Lovato), Denise (Ariana DeBose), and a "resident sociopath" played by Lea DeLaria, who Gleiberman calls "riveting."
Byrne's Amanda emerges as a recovering alcoholic—seven months sober—whose first drink came at age 11, following childhood abuse. But rather than diving deep into her backstory, the film keeps Amanda's descent into homelessness deliberately vague. We understand she's been pushed over the edge by what Gleiberman identifies as "an impossible economy" combined with "her impossible personality."
This narrative choice reflects both the film's strength and its fundamental limitation. By refusing to make Amanda more palatable or provide easy explanations for her circumstances, "Tow" avoids the inspirational poverty porn that often plagues homeless narratives. Amanda remains difficult, abrasive, and occasionally infuriating throughout her year-long legal battle.
Byrne rises to this challenge with what Gleiberman describes as "acting alchemy." Her quick mind makes Amanda's insults and doomsday quips perversely entertaining. Even when Amanda represents herself in court and wins her case against Kaplan Towing, only to discover they've already sold her car at auction, Byrne maintains the character's punk defiance without descending into self-pity.
Yet for all of Byrne's committed performance, "Tow" struggles with its own scope and ambitions. The film wants to be both character study and social commentary, but it never quite reconciles these impulses. Amanda's single-minded focus on retrieving her car begins to feel repetitive, turning what could be a sharp critique of bureaucratic cruelty into what Gleiberman calls a "ragtag 'Candide' of city bureaucracy" that feels like "it's running in place."
Seattle provides more than just a backdrop for Amanda's odyssey—it represents the epicenter of America's housing crisis debates. The city has become a lightning rod in discussions over urban policy, mental health services, and economic inequality. Yet "Tow" sidesteps broader policy debates in favor of Amanda's intensely personal crusade.
This narrow focus becomes both the film's virtue and its limitation. By concentrating on one woman's bureaucratic nightmare, "Tow" avoids the temptation to offer easy solutions or political messaging. But it also raises questions about what the film ultimately wants to say beyond "the system is broken and people fall through the cracks."
- Runtime: 105 minutes, rated R
- Based on the true story of Amanda Ogle
- Directed by Stephanie Laing from a screenplay by Jonathan Keasey and Brant Noivin
- Byrne also serves as producer alongside Stephanie Lang and Brent Stiefel
For Byrne, "Tow" represents a calculated career pivot from the ensemble comedies that made her name toward grittier, more personal material. It's a move that echoes other comedy actors' transitions to prestige drama—think Adam Sandler in "Uncut Gems" or Will Ferrell in "Stranger Than Fiction." The difference is that Byrne has always excelled at playing characters on the edge; "Tow" simply pushes that edge toward genuine desperation.
The film's production reflects the kind of mid-budget independent filmmaking that has become increasingly rare. With Vertical and Roadside Attractions handling distribution, "Tow" represents the type of character-driven drama that once filled art house theaters but now struggles to find audiences amid streaming algorithms and franchise dominance.
Gleiberman's review captures the film's essential tension: "I just wish that the storyline built to something." "Tow" succeeds as a showcase for Byrne's range and a reminder that homelessness affects people across the spectrum of personality and circumstance. But it falls short as either compelling narrative or meaningful social commentary.
The film's final limitation may be its reluctance to examine whether Amanda's car obsession—treating the vehicle as both home and dignity—might be part of the problem rather than just a symbol of it. In a city where housing costs have skyrocketed and social services remain inadequate, Amanda's year-long fight for a 1991 Camry becomes both heroically stubborn and tragically misplaced.
"Tow" offers no easy answers, which is both honest and frustrating. Byrne delivers the committed performance the material demands, transforming what could have been a thankless role into a showcase for her particular brand of difficult charisma. Whether that's enough to sustain a feature film remains an open question—one that each viewer will have to answer for themselves.