‘Toxic’ Review: Unstinting Lithuanian Teen Drama Follows Catwalk Dreams In a Concrete Nightmare (2024)

The mean girls of your average Hollywood teen movie wouldn’t last a morning in the ruthless adolescent playground of “Toxic,” where economic exploitation and unforgiving body image standards rule the bullies and their prey alike. Set in an industrial Lithuanian town where even the asphalt has seen better days, Saulė Bliuvaitė‘s impressively tough-minded debut feature is uncompromising in its depiction of the punishment and self-abuse endured by girls enrolled at a fly-by-night modeling academy — where the vague promise of an escape to pretty much anywhere is enough to motivate frightening extremes of disordered eating and body modification. Sobering but not without glimmers of tenderness and humor as female friendship takes root in a hopeless place, this Locarno competition entry can expect a healthy festival run, with interest from edgier arthouse distributors.

“Toxic” promises something severe from its opening shot, as 13-year-old Marija (Vesta Matulytė) stands alone, tensely quivering in a bathing suit, in a high school changing room while her classmates verbally attack her — picking most cruelly on the limp she’s had from birth. The high angle of DP Vytautas Katkus’ camera has the effect of pinning this already vulnerable figure like a specimen in a petri dish, though Bliuvaitė won’t always favor such forensic detachment. The film’s alternation between chilly composure and kinetic movement roughly corresponds with Marija’s wavering sense of self, while occasional segues into the heightened, languid mise-en-scène of music videos feel reflective of a future she and her peers have imagined for themselves.

Marija is new to this unnamed town, a dead-end assortment of graveled lots, concrete blocks and prefab houses, where her flighty mom has sent her to live with her unassuming florist grandmother. Friendless and bored, she has few social options but to confront her tormentors in the hope of making their grade. After one brutal brawl over a stolen pair of jeans, she finally finds an ally in small, spiky blonde hellion Kristina (Ieva Rupeikaitė), who can acknowledge what the other, appearance-fixated bullies are loath to admit about Marija: She’s tall and physically striking, in a way that can open doors for working-class girls without obvious prospects. Inner beauty counts for little in this scene, but a simple observation that she’s pretty is about as warm a gesture as Marija has ever known.

Kristina is already enrolled at a local modeling school, the squat gray premises of which belie their claims of sending successful graduates to catwalks in Paris and Tokyo. Given her disability, Marija hasn’t ever considered modeling, but in an effort to stay close to her new sort-of-friend, she follows suit — only to swiftly be singled out as an especially promising candidate. The education on offer, such as it is, is a soul-sapping routine of endless walking instruction and daily body measuring, with gold stars for weight loss. This priority is so all-consuming that even the already reed-like Kristina seeks dangerous extra credit, dumping her dinners outside her bedroom window, and procuring a black-market tapeworm to further hollow out her insides.

It’s an unnerving reminder of the punishing physical standards to which young women are still held, even as body positivity has superficially taken hold in popular culture. Marija’s rising social stock as a potential supermodel gets the two girls increased attention from older local boys, though they’re unprepared for the intricacies of sex as currency — while Kristina naively attempts to barter her body for money, as the modeling school’s financial demands predictably and extortionately spiral.

Bliuvaitė’s script doesn’t go deep into the corrupt specifics of an industry everyone already knows is rotten. She’s more interested in the fraught, complex relationship between two girls who become emotionally dependent on each other, even as they stoke each other’s most damaging insecurities — leading the audience to consider for themselves whether a possibly toxic friendship is better than none. An extraordinary pair of performances by the two leads (Matulytė achingly recessive and physically tranquil, Rupeikaitė a pinwheel of belligerent, fretful energy) gradually suggest two halves of one more collected being. It’s hard not to be moved as Marija and Kristina’s regard for each other evolves from a kind of conditional mutual exploitation into something more candid and wounded: no sparkly friendship bracelets here, just fragile, hard-earned care.