“Hopefully it will make for a good story”, Noa (Edgar-Jones) tells best friend Mollie (Gibbs), as she psychs herself up for another first date full of awkward small talk, casual misogyny and ick-inducing sartorial choices. It’s a required approach in the world of modern dating, where fearing for your safety feels as common as falling in love, and sometimes all you can hope for is an awful experience that makes for an entertaining anecdote. That’s certainly what Noa gets when she falls for smooth-talking, self-deprecating, non-social-media-using surgeon Steve (Stan), finding herself — to use Mollie’s word — “dickmatised” into going on a surprise weekend trip with him after only a couple of dates, and finding out what he really means when he says: “I don’t eat animals”.
Fresh is a film of two halves, built around a rug-pull for the ages (and an exceedingly gratifying delayed title sequence). The first act swiftly and effectively establishes Noa and Steve’s connection, developed through brilliantly naturalistic chemistry and improvised banter between the two leads. Then, in a bold move reminiscent of Amy Dunne’s ‘cool girl’ monologue reveal in Gone Girl, the film shows its hand, spiralling into more gory, pulpy territory.
It walks the line between unimaginable horror and knowing comedy with ease, much of which is achieved through Stan and Edgar-Jones’ wholehearted commitment to both the tenderness and theatrics needed to buy in to all aspects of the plot. Stan in particular is having a ball, unleashing the kind of unhinged energy we’ve seen most recently from him in Pam & Tommy, and Edgar-Jones manages to make Noa’s reaction to an extraordinary situation completely believable, giving her enough edge and dimension to evolve the character way beyond a simple scream queen.
Even before the big reveal, extreme close-ups on gnashing teeth and superbly edited meat montages evoke a sense of sticky nausea.
Mimi Cave’s impressive first-time feature direction is also crucial to striking that genre-spanning tone, weaving in operatic, fantastical sequences with blunt cuts and scoreless action; her camera starts out fairly static, but shots swooping overhead and upside-down sneak in as Noa becomes more disoriented. Even before the big reveal, extreme close-ups on gnashing teeth, superbly edited meat montages and the increased volume of gulps and chews evoke a sense of sticky nausea, and the soundtrack’s consistent stream of ’80s bangers, poppy tunes and more classic instrumentals only enhances the emotional rollercoaster.
It’s not perfect; a device involving Noa talking through a wall is clunky and unnecessary, Mollie feels underdeveloped and tropey at times, and it could be argued that the change of pace half an hour in is risky, and results in a loss of tension. The script’s ‘independent woman’ moments and dating-related cynicism can be a little on-the-nose as well, as is the allegory around the ownership and objectification of female bodies. But if you don’t take that element too seriously, and allow yourself to get swept along in the heightened absurdity of it all, Fresh is an eye-widening, stomach-churning, violent delight.
