On the surface, Forbidden Fruits plays like The Craft filtered through Mean Girls, but beneath its genre scaffolding is a sharply observed character study about the seductive pull of what we’re told to resist.
From its opening sequence—a grotesque act of desire spiraling into violence—the film establishes its thesis with startling clarity. What initially reads as shock value reveals itself as something more deliberate: a controlled introduction to the film’s central fixation on lust, power, and consequence.
Anna Drubich’s score is a defining strength. With rare exception, it moves in lockstep with the film’s tonal shifts, elevating even its quieter moments with a sense of unease. There is a brief misalignment early on, where the score pushes ahead of the narrative, but it quickly corrects course, becoming one of the film’s most cohesive elements.
Written by Lily Houghton and Meredith Alloway, the script is deceptively sharp. Its dialogue is punchy, self-aware, and often darkly funny, but what distinguishes it is its structural intent. Rather than leaning solely on genre mechanics, the film prioritizes character interiority, allowing familiar archetypes to evolve into something more psychologically textured. It operates within recognizable frameworks, yet consistently pushes beyond them.
Alloway’s direction reflects that same control. Her handling of tone—balancing dark comedy, horror, and psychological thriller—never feels accidental. Instead, it unfolds with precision, gradually revealing the film’s underlying tension. By the third act, what once seemed like stylistic flourish resolves into something more deliberate, reframing earlier moments with a sharper sense of purpose.
Visually and tonally, the film places a surprising emphasis on style and presentation. Fashion and aesthetic choices are not incidental; they actively shape the film’s identity, reinforcing its themes of image, power, and manipulation. It’s a subtle but essential layer that many directors would overlook, and here it becomes integral to the film’s voice.
The performances operate within familiar territory but manage to transcend imitation. While the core ensemble initially recalls archetypes from Mean Girls, each actor introduces enough nuance to complicate those parallels. Victoria Pedretti, in particular, brings unexpected emotional weight, grounding her character in moments of vulnerability that cut through the film’s stylization. Lili Reinhart’s Apple, while clearly modeled on the “queen bee” archetype, is reimagined as something more calculating and self-aware—a figure defined less by social dominance and more by psychological control.
Even when the film leans into recognizable influences, it does so with intention. These are not hollow recreations, but reinterpretations that use familiarity as a foundation rather than a limitation.
Ultimately, Forbidden Fruits is more than a genre exercise. What presents itself as a stylized, darkly comedic riff on familiar tropes reveals a more deliberate exploration of desire and self-destruction. It understands that the true danger is not the forbidden itself, but the inevitability of our attraction to it—and the quiet willingness to follow it to its end.