David Farnor | On 21, Nov 2022

Director: Lee Haven Jones
Cast: Nina Roberts
Certificate: 18

When a film references food in the title, you know you’re either going to walk out hungry or never wanting to eat again. The Feast, Lee Haven Jones’ confident debut feature, is the latter – a nerve-grating last supper that leaves your teeth on edge.

The film lays its table out patiently and slowly, whisking us away into the Welsh countryside for a fancy dinner that’s designed to impress the guest of honour: Mair (Lisa Palfrey), the childhood friend of host Glenda (Nia Roberts). She’s being paired up with Euros (Rhodri Meilir), the business partner of Glenda’s husband, Gwyn (Julian Lewis).

What soon becomes apparent is that none of our diners have an appetite for doing the right thing. One of their sons, Gweirydd (Siôn Alun Davies – brilliant creepy), is training for a marathon but mostly so he can run away from the horrendous things he’s done in the very recent past, while the other, Guto (Steffan Cennydd), is only there after an intervention due to his substance abuse. Glenda is no better, so concerned with appearances and things being how she wants them, while Gwyn is a political type with more interest in his own will than that of the democratic people.

The one uninvited guest to their soirée is Cadi (Annes Elwy), who is brought in at the last minute by Glenda to help prepare the food and serve it – because the lady of the house loves having guests but can’t bear the thought of working hard to host them. We immediately know that something’s not quite right about her, and the fun of the film lies in waiting to find out what exactly it is.

There’s no surprise that it will involve graphic consequences – The Feast isn’t a film of surprising twists, but rather a slow-burn wait for a revelation experienced by the characters. It’s the kind of bomb-under-the-table suspense that Hitchcock would appreciate – and that, like the maestro’s best, doesn’t make things any less shocking or suspenseful.

Things lurch between darkly grotesque comedy and extremely nasty violence – vegetarians, and probably everyone else too, will find several scenes very distressing – and while the tone of the gradual descent into chaos sometimes feels uneven, Lee Haven Jones’ pacing and visuals are finely sliced and served with precision. Right down to the house, which is a modern, minimalist labyrinth of cool greys, there’s a sense that this family is intruding on their surroundings – the lush, vividly colourful countryside outside their windows is warmer than any human life we see indoors, while even the glossy reflections that separate them are more likely to refract their own material concerns in on them, rather than embrace the natural world on display.

Throughout, the camera creeps down the narrow corridors like a predator in the wild, moving as silently as the enigmatic Cadi. Annes Elwy plays her with an almost impassive, unspoken judgement, which can range from a sly smirk to a childish giggle when she tries on Glenda’s earrings in private – a moment that almost feels like a younger cousin of Jonathan Glazer’s Under the Skin. That the threat in this family’s midst comes in the form of the help – someone they overlook with the same privilege and entitlement they show towards the environment – only adds a spicy edge to this tale of just desserts.

The decision to present everything in Welsh, complete with chapter titles and old childhood songs, introduces a distinctive, chilling note of folklore to its pastoral horror, but there’s a universal moral on the menu that makes this unique swirl of ingredients a wickedly timely concoction.

 

This review was originally published during the 2021 London Film Festival.

Add to Watchlist