Some movies are time capsules. Others are trash bins with calendars stapled to the lid. Far from Home is firmly in the latter category — a dirt-smudged relic of 1989 that smells like sunbaked vinyl and disappointment. It’s a movie that wants to be a thriller, acts like a coming-of-age tale, and ultimately ends up as a slow-motion creepfest with all the charm of a soggy corn dog at a gas station diner.
This one stars Drew Barrymore — fresh-faced, wide-eyed, and just coming off the wreckage of her childhood stardom and rehab headlines. She plays Joleen Cox (yes, that’s her actual name), a 14-year-old girl stranded in a desolate Nevada town with her screenwriter father after their car breaks down. If that sounds like the setup for a hard-hitting drama or even a halfway suspenseful thriller, you’re giving this film too much credit. Because what unfolds is 90 minutes of weirdly paced, morally confused nonsense, where everyone leers at the underage protagonist like they’re auditioning for a spot on the FBI’s watchlist.
Nevada Noir With No Bite
You’d think a thriller set in a dusty ghost town could conjure up some atmosphere. You’d be wrong. The filmmakers clearly had about 12 bucks and a coupon for a used motel to work with. The setting isn’t haunting — it’s just sad. There’s a trailer park, a gas station, and a mechanic who looks like he eats bacon with his bare hands and hasn’t smiled since Nixon resigned.
Enter the locals. The cast is a parade of weirdos, including a brooding teenage gas station attendant named Jimmy (played by Matt Frewer lookalike Anthony Rapp, before he got good), and a drifter boy named Pinky — the kind of character who was probably written as “edgy” but comes across more like a backup dancer from a Whitesnake video who wandered into the wrong script.
And then there’s the father, played by Matt Frewer — Max Headroom himself — who is there just long enough to set up Drew’s abandonment and then vanish with all the charisma of a motel Gideon Bible. He phones in his performance so hard it could qualify as a collect call.
The Plot: A Case Study in Missed Marks
So what’s the mystery here? A string of murders starts happening. People die. Suspects look suspicious. Barrymore stares meaningfully into space. That’s about it. There’s no real tension, no clever misdirection, just a slow and inevitable march toward a reveal that lands with the impact of a damp sponge on a hardwood floor.
The killer is as obvious as a punchline in a fart joke, and the big twist doesn’t so much surprise as it does mildly annoy. It’s like the filmmakers thought if they kept everything quiet and vague, we’d confuse that with “mood.” Spoiler: we don’t. We confuse it with “did the editor fall asleep in the bay?”
Drew Barrymore: Bright Spot in a Dim Film
Let’s talk about the only real asset the film has: Drew Barrymore. She’s actually quite good here, considering the dumpster fire of a script she’s saddled with. Her performance has nuance — she conveys both teenage vulnerability and the toughened edge of a kid who’s already seen too much of life’s backhand. Her eyes are expressive, her timing is sharp, and in a better movie, she might’ve walked away with critical acclaim.
But Far from Home isn’t interested in her talent. It’s interested in exploiting her presence, sticking her in a swimsuit, and constructing scene after scene that feel… off. Creepy. Voyeuristic in a way that makes you want to scrub your eyeballs with steel wool. Whoever thought it was a good idea to shoot a 14-year-old like a centerfold deserves a long, silent conversation with an ethics committee.
Directionless Direction and a Title That Says Nothing
Let’s talk about the title — Far from Home. It’s the cinematic equivalent of white bread. It tells you nothing, promises less, and delivers even less than that. It sounds like a Hallmark Channel Thanksgiving movie, not a murder-tinged psychological whatever-this-is. If you’re going to make a movie this morally murky and tonally awkward, at least give it a title with some teeth. Desert Blood. Gaslighted in Gallup. 14 and Trapped With Creeps. Something. Anything.
The director, Meiert Avis — who mostly did music videos before this — treats every scene like it’s an audition for a better film. The tone meanders, the pacing drags, and the cinematography is flatter than a Nevada parking lot. When you can’t even make the desert look atmospheric, it’s time to reconsider your career.
Supporting Cast of Misfits and Misfires
Everyone else in the film seems like they’re acting in different movies. The motel owner seems lifted from a rejected Psycho reboot. The sheriff shows up just long enough to wave a badge and disappear. And every teenage boy who interacts with Joleen seems one smirk away from a restraining order. These characters aren’t developed; they’re cardboard cutouts wearing bad wigs and greasy smirks.
It’s hard to tell if the film is trying to be a thriller, a character study, or some kind of desert fairy tale — but it fails at all three. Worse, it wastes Drew Barrymore in a role that could’ve showcased her chops instead of using her as eye candy in a way that now feels queasy, even by late-’80s standards.
Final Verdict: Send This One Far From View
Far from Home isn’t just a bad movie. It’s a case study in how not to handle a coming-of-age thriller. It has no bite, no edge, and no respect for the talent it wastes. Drew Barrymore is the lone star shining through this haze of cinematic tumbleweeds, and even she can’t rescue this one from oblivion.
It’s one of those films you find in the bargain bin, watch out of morbid curiosity, and then immediately regret — like eating gas station sushi or texting your ex at 2 a.m.
Save yourself the trouble. If you’re far from home, grab a book or stare at a cactus. You’ll get more entertainment and less secondhand embarrassment.
