In an ultra-modern detached house sat incongruously in the heart of the Welsh mountains, Cadi (Annes Elwy) has been hired to cater a very special dinner party. Politician Gwyn and his wife Glenda (Julian Lewis Jones and Nia Roberts) are looking to make a killing by schmoozing a family friend into allowing exploratory drilling on her farmland, as they have on their estate. They will soon discover, however, that it’s not just oil they’ve unleashed in their quest for profit. Directed by Lee Haven Jones, The Feast is a savoury blend of folk horror and classic ‘cabin in the woods’ slasher (albeit with more fibreglass and underfloor heating than the latter usually affords its guests).
The film’s first two thirds are a tantalising slow burn as each character’s dubious motivations and darker proclivities come to light. Middle class anxieties are neatly skewered as our hosts treat Cadi with the dismissive disdain or leering entitlement familiar to anyone in the service industry (a commentary which becomes doubly significant as we uncover more about Cadi’s true nature).
Elwy, for her part, initially plays Cadi with a wide-eyed waifishness that primes us to view her as quarry. This is supported by hypersensitive sound design that deftly aligns our discomfort with Cadi’s. Slicing fruit, shaving legs, skinning rabbits (shot by Gwyn, as he will not hesitate to tell you); all are fleshily amplified, every domestic ritual posing a potential threat. However, as Cadi begins to demonstrate otherworldly capabilities, Elwy’s performance is infused with a taciturn menace that calls into question who truly holds the power here.
Your enjoyment of The Feast may well depend on whether you need your dinner guests to be good company. Every performance is solid; in particular Nia Roberts plays Glenda with a brisk, icy courtesy that beautifully gives way to sporadic attacks of conscience. Sion Alun Davies also deserves special mention as lycra-clad fitness fanatic Gweirydd, whose clinically creepy presence recalls Michael Pitt as Paul in Micheal Haneke’s Funny Games.
But if you’re looking for characters in whose survival you are invested, that may well be off the menu. As the hosts’ true intentions are revealed with each course, it is difficult to find a sympathetic character in the bunch, which some might understandably find hard to stomach. Personally, I think there’s much to be gained from viewing The Feast as an entry into a particular kind of revenge sub genre à la I Spit on Your Grave, in this case with a more subtextual environmentalist edge. You will doubtless have a better time if you go in expecting righteous vengeance than redemption.
Some flaws are harder to overlook. The film’s division into ‘chapters’ seems forced, an attempt to underline the film’s folkloric influences that comes across as a lack of confidence in its own product. Guto’s (Stefan Cennydd) only apparent 'sin' is addiction, nowhere near equivalent to the vices displayed by the rest of his family, and the dialogue establishing it has a ‘very special episode’ tone that comes off as ham-fisted. Consequently, his ultimate fate is not so much cathartic as just plain cruel.
The special effects are at their most effective when used sparingly, as in the earthy imprints Cadi tracks mysteriously across the house. The sequences that truly make you wince are largely bloodless and/or conveyed through suggestion; what Cadi does with a shard of broken wine bottle made me crumple in my seat, while another scene involving a kebab skewer will have you sympathetically clutching your ear. The gore ratchets up considerably in the third act, but the execution falls flat on some of the more overtly grisly stunts; blood doesn’t always gush convincingly, shotgun wounds don’t inflict nearly the level of damage they should, and these set pieces wind up slightly limp. After such a masterful building of tension, the climax falls over itself a little in its eagerness to get to the end.
These are small complaints, however. Overall The Feast is well worth a viewing, an intriguing contemporary take on the horror genre’s old recipes; or, if you prefer, a rare medium, well done.