The A.V. Club
For its first 45 or so minutes, The Harvest plays like a creaky, made-for-TV domestic drama, until a barely foreshadowed twist turns the film into a lurid (though still creaky) adolescent-wish-fulfillment potboiler of the V.C. Andrews variety. Its imagery is symbolic house fires, secret medical procedures, hidden children, and all sorts of things that should sustain interest on their own, but will struggle to keep viewers’ attention from drifting elsewhere—namely, to the wallpaper and the sweaters.