There’s a long, sun-bleached tradition of American nightmares unfolding on the open road, and some places make madness feel like a natural reaction. The California desert—barren, buzzing, and silently unbalanced—is one of them. That’s precisely where A Desert, the feature debut from writer-director Joshua Erkman, plants its feet and dares you to follow. Threading the needle between neo-noir and horror, this is the kind of stylish film steeped in paralyzing anxiety that doesn’t just unfold over 103 minutes; it unravels.

Alex Clark (Kai Lennox, Green Room) is a photographer whose best work feels like a lifetime ago. Burnt out and desperate to reclaim his former glory, he retreats to the parched isolation of Joshua Tree in Yucca Valley. The distance between him and his wife Sam (Sarah Lind, Jakob’s Wife) extends beyond physical miles, and she haunts his phone calls more than his thoughts. As he wanders through decaying homes, rain-starved terrain, and abandoned warehouses, the line between escape and exile blurs.

Alone for the night in a roadside motel with more mildew than charm, Alex meets Renny (Zachary Ray Sherman) and Susie Q (Ashley B. Smith), a pair of eccentric drifters claiming to be siblings. They’re equal parts charming and dangerous, and something about their presence tilts the ground beneath Alex’s feet and ignites a slow-burning fuse. When Harold Palladino (David Yow) eventually enters the picture, the fragile threads connecting these unrelated characters intertwine with devastating, shocking consequences.

Lennox communicates volumes with his awkward stillness and soft voice without overplaying the artist-in-crisis angle. Instead of having a melodramatic breakdown, his coming apart is a quiet mix of desperation and denial. I also liked Yow as a disgraced ex-cop turned private eye whose deadpan delivery and thousand-yard stare suggest he’s seen way too much—and maybe caused a bit of it.

Lind does strong work in a role that mostly unfolds over the phone or through physicality—her frustration and care flickering through the static. But it’s Sherman who unforgettably electrifies the screen. His Renny is a manic, twitchy wildcard, radiating threat and hypnotic charisma in equal measure. Something primal in his character’s volatility triggers a visceral fight-or-flight response in viewers.

Erkman and co-screenwriter Bossi Baker play a cunning long game with tension. There is a calculated restraint in which this story builds, the slow, deliberate unease of escalating danger and tightening of the screws. While you can spot the influences of desert-set dread classics like The Hitcher or Lost Highway, Erkman’s version cruises on its own weird rhythm. Everything is slightly off and askew, from the too-blue skies to the too-long silences.

Thematically, A Desert digs into the lies we tell ourselves to stay upright. Alex is chasing an artistic resurrection and an illusion of freedom, but the film goes to the extreme to clarify that inspiration and self-awareness aren’t enough to save him. By questioning the myth of reinvention, the idea that isolation heals, it gets uncomfortably close to calling out how our curated lives distort what’s ugly underneath.

What isn’t ugly is Jay Keitel’s cinematography, capturing the harsh beauty of the high desert and then turning it into a prison. He shifts between wide, gorgeous shots of desolate desert hills and tight, shadow-drenched interiors that press in like a panic attack. One moment you’re dazzled at the stunning open sky; the next, you’re trapped in a bleak room with something—or someone—you definitely don’t trust.

Courtney and Hillary Andujar’s production design deepens the unease, making every space feel lived-in and possibly cursed. The contrast between dull motel rooms with uncertain stains and pristine wellness studios highlights California’s bizarre socioeconomic juxtapositions. Each location feels tangible, bearing the psychological imprints of those who’ve passed through.

Ty Segall’s score is a perfect fit: a woozy mix of fuzzed-out guitar, electro haze, and low-frequency dread. Shifting from meditative to discordant as circumstances deteriorate, an eerie blend of desert psychedelia, garage rock, and synth drone amplifies the film’s distorted energy. Segall’s known for turning chaos into music, and he does the same here. It’s more mood than melody, less about what’s happening and more about what’s about to happen. It doesn’t guide you—it stalks you.

If there’s a speed bump, it’s in the final act. After so much carefully calibrated tension, the climax starts to indulge in itself, layering on grime and cheap shock at the expense of coherence. Instead of landing a knockout, some of the thematic weight gets lost in the noise, and the surreal chaos undercuts the emotional truth the film seemed to be building toward. It doesn’t derail the experience, but the ending will likely divide audiences, alienating those who appreciated the intelligent psychological horror of the first two-thirds.

And yet, A Desert lingers long after you’re back in the safety of your home. For a debut feature, it demonstrates Erkman’s remarkable vision and confidence. While the finale may stumble under the weight of its ambitions, the journey there showcases a filmmaker with a distinctive perspective and technical skill, marking Erkman as a talent to watch closely. This is your road to drive if you’re into stories that start strange and end stranger. Just don’t expect a map.