Tow Review

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Wrong Turns and Righteous Fights: How Tow Humanizes the "Vehicular Resident"

Most Americans view their car as a symbol of freedom - the open road, the weekend getaway, the daily commute. But for Amanda Ogle, a car isn’t a luxury; it’s a life raft. Inspired by Danny Westneat’s searing Seattle Times exposé, Tow transforms a bureaucratic nightmare into a pulse-pounding survival story. It’s a film that chronicles one homeless woman’s 369-day grueling battle to reclaim her car from a $21,634 debt and asks a devastating question: In a country that prides itself on "pulling yourself up by your bootstraps," what happens when the system steals your boots and charges you a daily storage fee to get them back?

The film opens by establishing a staggering reality: between one and three million people in the United States - often called "vehicular residents" - live in their cars. We are then introduced to Amanda via an intimate close-up. She is sitting across from an animal shelter manager who can’t see past the missing line on her resume. Despite holding a valid vet tech license, the lack of a college degree is a "concern." Her response is as blunt as it is logical: “You need a degree to stick a thermometer up a dog’s ass?” It’s a sharp indictment of a system that prioritizes credentials over competence, leaving skilled workers like Amanda fighting for a living wage. Between these frustrating interviews, she retreats to a local coffee shop to charge her phone and scrub away the day’s grime in the bathroom.

A homeless resident of Seattle, Amanda has been living in her 1991 blue Toyota Camry for months. As her story unfolds, we learn that her situation is the aftermath of a car accident years prior, which spiraled into alcohol and substance abuse and cost her both her livelihood and custody of her daughter, Avery, who now lives with their father in Utah.

While interviewing at a luxury pet spa, a job that requires her to have wheels so she can pick up clients’ dogs, Amanda’s Camry is stolen. The thief takes it for a joyride before ditching it, leading it to be towed. When Amanda arrives at the lot, a low-angle shot lingers on their outside signage: “The Nice People in the Towing Business.” It feels like a promise of relief. But, it’s anything but. Not only is she hit with a $273 fine, but a daily storage surcharge means the meter is officially running. To Amanda, Seattle’s fee of $273 might as well be San Francisco’s logic-defying fee of $795! The amount is irrelevant—the bottom line is she’s broke!

In a modern-day mirror of the Italian Neorealist classic Bicycle Thieves, Amanda’s car and phone are far more than mere mechanical conveniences. They function as a vital lifeline: her vehicle is simultaneously a makeshift home and her only bridge to job stability, while both devices serve as the fragile tether keeping her connected to her daughter.

With one of these lifelines stolen and an unjust system conspiring to keep her entrenched in poverty, Amanda refuses to back down and decides to sue the towing company, sparking a desperate fight to reclaim her car. Her journey becomes a grueling cycle of one step forward, two steps back.

Upon taking temporary refuge in a church shelter, Amanda forms friendships with Nova, a pregnant mother-to-be (played by pop star Demi Lovato), and Denise, a recovering addict navigating the loss of her own daughter's custody. Together, the two women stand in her corner, helping Amanda manage her sobriety and the fragile, difficult bond she shares with Avery.

Seeking legal reinforcements, she accepts an offer from Kevin, a young lawyer specializing in "fighting corporate bullies." His commitment is personal; as he tells her, "You are the reason I went to law school.”

In true Erin Brockovich fashion, the duo gears up to go head-to-toe (pun intended) with the greedy, cold-blooded attorney representing the tow truck company. Amanda isn't backing down: “They thought I would break and go away. They ignored the wrong person!”

Empathy and Kindness in the Face of Social Injustice

The film explores empathy and kindness across a shifting spectrum: those who sympathize but must "tow the line" (another pun intended), those who offer support wholeheartedly, and those who utterly lack a moral compass.

Cliff, the dispatcher, serves as our entry point into this moral gray area. From our first introduction, compassion is visible in his eyes as Amanda makes a justifiable case that she shouldn’t be held responsible for tow fees on a stolen vehicle. He clearly wants to do the right thing, and at many points, we wonder if he will finally break the rules and simply release the vehicle. However, he’s paralyzed between his natural empathy and his obligation to uphold company policies, even when he fundamentally disagrees with them.

Then there is Barb, the manager of the church shelter. As a recovering addict herself, she possesses genuine empathy for those in her care, yet she maintains a rigid boundary: "There are rules and there are consequences." For Barb, compassion is a finite resource that ends where policy begins; the rules must be obeyed, or you are simply out.

A rare break occurs when Amanda submits paperwork to sue the tow company. Though the clerk initially informs her it will be months before she can see a judge, Amanda’s pleas finally break through. In a moment of institutional flexibility, the woman offers to do what she can to move the date up, eventually securing a hearing for the following week.

Amanda herself is portrayed as the moral heart of the story. Her capacity for understanding is most evident when she attempts to save a fellow shelter resident - a woman described as the "resident sociopath" - from eviction, despite the fact that the woman had just assaulted her.

In stark contrast stands the tow company’s attorney, who is portrayed as intensely ruthless. He is too immersed in his own wealth, leaving $50 service tips and relaxing in a sauna, to spare any empathy for a woman fighting to recover an outdated vehicle worth only a few hundred dollars. He weaponizes the legal system, skipping hearings to intentionally stall the process. Even when his clients are found in contempt of court, he remains determined to play hardball.

The continuing saga of endless paperwork, which Kevin notes "takes time", further delays Amanda’s victory. This highlights that old adage "someone else’s urgency is not our emergency," even when, as the film argues, it sometimes should be.

Through this display of systemic inequities, Tow examines the predatory nature of the American bureaucratic machine. It argues that the facade of legal fairness often conceals a system designed to exploit the unhoused by reducing their existence to a series of administrative burdens and crushing financial penalties. Kevin’s job is to fight a system that he acknowledges is "not right, but technically legal." He ultimately poses the film’s central, haunting question during one of many endless phone calls on Amanda’s behalf: “Have you ever heard of kindness?”

Perseverance and Human Resilience

In the face of systemic injustice, Amanda never wavers in her search for what is owed: her vehicle, returned without penalty. Every time she is knocked down, we see her rise to fight another day. However, her journey is as internal as it is external; she comes to realize that to win, she must not only face bureaucracy but also remain stable and sober.

After missing out on the job opportunity at the bougie pet spa, due to her lack of transport, Amanda’s resilience is on full display as she pivots to selling newspapers to make some money and keep her head above water.

Through an outstanding performance by recent Golden Globe winner and Oscar nominee Rose Byrne, we see the harrowing physical and mental toll this whole ordeal takes on Amanda. Yet, the film emphasizes that survival is a team sport. Her struggle becomes a catalyst for those around her, proving that thriving depends on the support of allies who find their own empowerment through her leadership. As Denise poignantly notes: “You are gonna get your car back, not just for you, for all of us.”

Fighting Judgement and Shame

Additionally, the film casts a light on the pervasive judgement placed on “people like you” - a phrase repeated multiple times throughout the narrative. We feel Amanda’s shame radiating through the screen, whether she is verbally acknowledging her role in her predicament or simply living it. Her desperation is so deep she cannot even be honest with her daughter about her reality.

In a moment of raw vulnerability, she tells Kevin, “Without my car, I’m a deadbeat,” to which he provides the film’s moral compass: “You just made a few wrong turns. Who hasn’t done that?” It is a powerful reminder of the film's underlying truth: “It takes guts to admit how bad things have gotten.”

Perhaps the film’s most poignant layer lies in its production design. The passage of time is felt in every frame, not just through the on-screen text marking the grueling 369 days, but in the recurring motif of a dog posing for holiday photos as the seasons slip away. Additionally, the fantastical costumes seen on screen were designed and crafted by Avery Ogle, the real-life daughter of Amanda. This collaboration transforms the film into a living bridge between their past struggle and their present healing.

Ultimately, Tow is more than a legal drama; it is a testament to a mother’s endurance. In a world that often demands people like Amanda go away, Tow exposes a machine designed to profit from misfortune through a narrative that refuses to look away, ensuring they are seen, heard, and finally, brought home. Tow doesn't just ask for our empathy; it demands our outrage and our kindness.