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” sets a somber tone from the very first scene, as 13-year-old Marija (Vesta Matulytė) stands alone, trembling nervously in a bathing suit in a high school locker room while her classmates verbally abuse her, mercilessly targeting the limp she has had since birth. The high camera angle used by DP Vytautas Katkus creates a sense of isolation, making her appear like a specimen under a microscope. However, Bliuvaitė doesn’t always maintain this detached perspective. The film shifts between a cool, objective gaze and dynamic camerawork, mirroring Marija’s fluctuating sense of self. Occasional transitions to the stylized aesthetic of music videos reflect the aspirations she and her peers have for their futures.

Marija is new to this nameless town, a desolate landscape of gravel, concrete, and prefabricated houses, where her unpredictable mother has sent her to live with her unassuming grandmother, a florist. Feeling isolated and bored, Marija has little choice but to confront her tormentors, hoping to gain their acceptance. After a brutal fight over a stolen pair of jeans, she finds an unexpected ally in Kristina (Ieva Rupeikaitė), a small, spiky blonde girl who defies the typical norms of the group. Kristina recognizes what the other, appearance-obsessed bullies refuse to acknowledge about Marija: She is tall and strikingly beautiful, a quality that can open doors for working-class girls with limited opportunities. In this harsh environment, inner beauty holds little value, but a simple compliment about her looks is the warmest gesture Marija has ever received.

Kristina is already enrolled at a local modeling school, its dreary gray exterior belies its claims of sending successful graduates to fashion shows in Paris and Tokyo. Marija, with her disability, has never considered modeling, but in an attempt to stay close to her new friend, she joins the school. However, she quickly becomes recognized as a particularly promising candidate. The education, if it can be called that, is a soul-crushing routine of endless walking drills and daily body measurements, with rewards given for weight loss. This obsession with weight is so consuming that even the already thin Kristina seeks dangerous ways to lose more weight, secretly discarding her meals and procuring a tapeworm from the black market to further shrink her body.

It’s a stark reminder of the relentless physical standards that young women are still held to, even as body positivity gains superficial acceptance in mainstream culture. Marija’s rising social status as a potential supermodel attracts increased attention from older boys in the town, but neither girl is prepared for the complexities of sex as a form of currency. While Kristina naively attempts to exchange her body for money, the modeling school’s financial demands escalate, predictably and exorbitantly.

Bliuvaitė’s script doesn’t delve deeply into the specific corruption of an industry that is already well-known for its dark side. She is more interested in exploring the complicated and fraught relationship between two girls who become emotionally dependent on each other, even as they exacerbate each other’s most damaging insecurities. This forces the audience to contemplate for themselves whether a potentially toxic friendship is preferable to none at all. The remarkable performances of the two leads (Matulytė, achingly reserved and physically calm, and Rupeikaitė, a whirlwind of defiant, anxious energy) gradually suggest two halves of a more complete being. It’s impossible not to be moved as Marija and Kristina’s feelings for each other evolve from a kind of conditional, mutually beneficial exploitation to something more genuine and fragile: not the typical sparkly friendship bracelets, but rather a delicate and hard-won connection.