By PAYTON McCARTY-SIMAS

Starring Lili Reinhart, Lola Tung and Victoria Pedretti
Directed by Meredith Alloway
Written by Lily Houghton Meredith Alloway
IFC/Shudder

When we’re first introduced to Pumpkin (Lola Tung), the new-girl lead of Meredith Alloway’s pop-witchy debut feature, FORBIDDEN FRUITS, she’s holding a sample tray of knockoff Auntie Anne’s pretzel bites. Anyone who’s ever been to a mall can practically smell them through the screen: a blast of pure sugar, thick dough and hot grease. This suburban staple is overwhelmingly sweet and full of delicious, comfortingly familiar empty calories. As you get older, it’s likely you can’t eat this kind of high-calorie food court snack anymore; those yummy bombs of gluten and fat sit heavy in your stomach, and their one-note flavor no longer satisfies. But as a tween, they’re heavenly. Arguing about the merits of Auntie Anne’s, then, is a little beside the point. I doubt you could find someone who hates a cinnamon sugar pretzel. Really, you either like ‘em or you don’t. But at one point, I bet you probably did.

FORBIDDEN FRUITS is like that, too. This movie is, in essence, a Y2K mall-stalgic rerun of The Craft and Mean Girls, pure and simple, with dashes of catty confections like  Jawbreakers and The Devil Wears Prada thrown in. It’s produced by Jennifer’s Body scribe Diablo Cody, and Alloway has cloned her signature style of wittily ratatat, long-acrylic-nails-on-a-keyboard dialogue with eerie, devotional precision. For younger viewers looking for more of this kind of film (fans of Scream Queens, for example), FORBIDDEN FRUITS will likely be a light, gossipy sugar rush. Older viewers nostalgic for this particular flavor of Teavana tea will almost certainly feel the same way.

On a technical level, this movie is admittedly in need of, like, a major makeover. Unlike the glittery Claire ’s-a-like charm bracelets its protagonists take as their talismans, FORBIDDEN FRUITS certainly isn’t pretty to look at, even on the unabashedly kitschy terms it openly embraces. While the props and costumes shine like the rhinestones the characters drop like acid, the shooting style is bizarrely perfunctory for such a surface-loving genre. The color grading is the same grey sludge that’s vexed audiences for years, a fact made more actively infuriating by the lovingly pastel teen-girl source material being drawn upon here. 

Its plotting is similarly paper-thin, its twists as obviously, blaringly signposted as the path from Sephora to Forever 21 on a mall directory. YOU ARE HERE: A Free People clone at a mall in Texas. Three young, fabulously dressed women, all named after fruits, run it like a private kingdom, using witchcraft to keep their (fr)enemies in line and their hair looking fabulous. Pumpkin, their latest She’s All That-style project, ingratiates herself with the resident queen bee, Apple (a note-perfectly bitchy Lili Reinhart), only to sew drama in the coven. Spells are cast, Olive Gardens are visited, butterfly clips are traded, gossip and one-liners are hurled – and blood is eventually spilled. On Wednesdays, we secretly fuck guys in sporting goods changing rooms. You get it.

If this stock plot appeals, you’ll have a lot of fun with FORBIDDEN FRUITS. If it doesn’t, skip it. Highlights include Victoria Pedretti as Cherry, the Bubbles to Apple’s Blossom, who brings more soul to her sweet, simple Southern belle with a troubled past than she has to. Alexandra Shipp is game as Fig, the ambitious one who just wants to go to grad school and maybe even text her love interest in words instead of the emojis Apple mandates for all boy-related interaction. The soundtrack is appropriately bitchin’. Most of the jokes land with a pleasantly chummy wink. As a witch movie (a subject I’ve personally spent years investigating), there’s not a lot going on here. “Our magic isn’t some WitchTok ripoff fluffy bunny bullshit,” Cherry tells Pumpkin during her initiation ceremony. It is. But it’s still a pleasure to see women playing in this particular teen-girl-black-comedy garden. As Apple puts it, “Women who don’t have a garden won’t grow. What did that one bitch say? ‘A room of one’s own’?”

See FORBIDDEN FRUITS in limited theaters beginning March 27.

“What were they thinking?”

This is the question on everyone’s mind of “The Bachelorette’s” producers, ABC, Hulu and the Disney legal team.

On Thursday, ABC announced that the heavily promoted new season of “The Bachelorette,” scheduled to premiere Sunday, would not be moving forward “at this time.” Why not? Well, the Bachelorette in question, “The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives” star Taylor Frankie Paul, was the subject of a second domestic assault investigation as a damning video from her first, in which she pleaded guilty to aggravated assault, made the rounds courtesy of TMZ. Filming for Season 5 of “Mormon Wives,” which Paul executive produces, was also abruptly halted.

The disturbing video is hard to watch. Not so much because Paul puts on-again, off-again partner Dakota Mortensen into a headlock and then pelts him with metal bar stools — sadly, this is a scene that would not be out of place on many reality shows — but because a small child is in the room. After one of the stools bounces toward the camera, Paul’s then-5-year-old daughter Indy begins crying and Mortensen later says “help your child.” Even as the child cries “Mommy,” Paul continues on her rampage. When Mortensen belatedly attempts to help Indy, Paul screams at him to “get away from my child.”

And while “Bachelorette” producers and Disney lawyers may not have seen the video, which was introduced in the 2023 court case, the police report makes it clear that Indy was injured during the incident, noting a “goose egg” on the child’s head. Paul was charged with aggravated assault, child abuse and domestic violence in the presence of a child. Paul, who said she had been drinking before the incident, pleaded guilty to one count of aggravated assault, a third-degree felony. The other charges were dismissed and Paul, who was put on probation, submitted a plea of abeyance. In August 2026, a court will review the assault charge and, if Paul complies with the terms of her probation, could lessen it to a misdemeanor.

Should a new criminal charge be made after the current investigation, all bets are off.

So was it the emergence of the video or the possibility of a felony conviction that caused ABC to put this season of “The Bachelorette” on ice? Does the reason matter?

ABC knew that Paul had been charged in a domestic violence incident that led to the injury of her child and somehow thought she would make an excellent Bachelorette anyway.

What were they thinking?

They were thinking that audiences like messy “authenticity,” and it doesn’t get any more authentically messy than 31-year-old Paul, who climbed to social media fame by founding MomTok, a TikTok community of married Mormon women dancing, joking and pushing against the traditions and restrictions of their faith. Pretty and profane, funny and frank, Paul amassed a large following. After Paul discussed the “soft swinging” she and her husband engaged in with other Mormon couples, the group went viral and led to the creation of “The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives,” the first episode of which was titled “The First Book of Taylor.”

Chronicling the fallout from the “soft-swinging” scandal, the first season built on Paul’s frank discussions of her chaotic life; it was Hulu’s most-watched unscripted season premiere of 2024. The subsequent three seasons, in which the MomTokers deal with the pressures of fame, their romantic relationships and all manner of internal “Mean Girls” drama, have continued to grow the show’s audience even as ratings for “The Bachelor” franchise flagged.

To the algorithm, or a numbers cruncher, the hopes that Paul could bring some of the “Mormon Wives” magic to “The Bachelorette” might make sense.

Except Paul isn’t magic; she waves her red flags high and proud, and the good folks at ABC, Hulu and Disney charged at them with the oblivious desperation of so many trapped, maddened bulls. (It usually does not end well for the bulls either.)

The “soft swinging” led to her divorce from first husband, Tate Paul, with whom she has two children, including Indy. As chronicled on “Mormon Wives,” she began her turbulent relationship with Mortensen, with whom she shares a young son, Ever. Her 2023 arrest was a storyline — she called it one of the rock bottoms of her life, though in a recently resurfaced TikTok video, she brags about throwing things and being arrested — and in Season 4 she was found in bed with Mortensen, with whom she had allegedly broken up, on the morning she was supposed to fly to L.A. to film “The Bachelorette.” (She caught a later flight.) The season finale ended with the possibility that Paul might be pregnant.

Reality cross-pollination has become so increasingly popular — ABC’s “Dancing With the Stars” couldn’t live without it, and Peacock’s hit show “The Traitors” is built on it — that there seems to be little thought given to the apples-versus-oranges fact that not every reality show is the same. “Bachelorette” producers not only ignored the misgivings voiced by their own fans, many of whom did not think Paul would be approaching the show as a truly single woman searching for love, they reportedly extended her many freedoms denied other participants, including unmonitored use of her phone during filming.

They clearly wanted the ratings miracle that Paul’s unvarnished wildness had lent “Mormon Wives.”

Casting for maximum drama is a driving force in many reality shows. Even if one accepts that perfectly reasonable people are happy to live in a bubble with strangers for months in hopes of achieving love, fame or a cash prize, someone inevitably is cast to bring the crazy, er, conversation-sparking personality. And like all of television, reality is facing splintered and waning audiences so the decibel level of that conversation-sparking is often dialed way up.

Hence the ascendancy of Taylor Frankie Paul, queen of MomTok and “Mormon Wives,” a woman known for her lack of filter and habit of putting it all out there. For the purposes of our entertainment.

There is, of course, no point in mentioning the many past, and often show-derailing, scandals of the genre — the suicides, the racism, the sexual assault, homophobia, bullying, pedophilia, infidelity and just general ghastliness that has arisen from the popularity of people sharing their “real” lives. Audiences connect with these shows, the messier the better.

But, as it turns out, some messes are too big to leverage even for forgiving eyeballs of reality fans.

“The Bachelor” franchise should have known better. It’s been around for almost a quarter-century and has suffered its fair share of scandals during those years. But drafting a woman who was convicted of assault in an incident that harmed her own child, well, “The Bachelorette” knew it was playing with fire.

Clearly they hoped she would rekindle the dying embers of the show.

Instead, she burnt it down.

In the hot, dry climate of Northwest Nevada, a mother drops off her daughter in town, urging her not to come home anytime soon. Cleo (Elsie Fisher) looks away as her mom gives her an unearned dressing-down, cruelly reminding her that she is not above her surroundings. She waits until her mother has already driven away before she responds with futile adolescent anger.

Cleo is effectively on her own for the rest of the film, with her mother never once appearing. Even when Cleo goes missing later in the film, the audience is never formally introduced to her mother. Instead, first-time director Fergus Campbell drops us directly into Cleo’s world — no parents, no rules and every authority figure is obscured, like the unintelligible adults in Peanuts cartoons. From the film’s hand-painted opening title sequence to the occasional intrusion of illustrations throughout the story, Sparks is the kind of microbudget indie that film festivals were made to showcase. Every frame is crafted with care and love for the cinematic form.

When a book on Jean-Luc Godard pops out of a cigarette machine, Cleo knows where she wants to go. She immediately disappears into the fantasy of 1960s Paris, a place she sees as the birth of a truer form of cinema, outside of American conventions. Luckily for her, she’s soon introduced to “The Crop,” a group of rebellious teenagers who believe the local reservoir is a time portal. The group’s de facto leader, Antoine (Charlie Foster), is just as enamored of Paris in the 1960s, despite knowing nothing of the French New Wave. Once he meets Cleo, he’s instantly obsessed with her, driving a wedge between him and his best friend and secret lover, Max (Denny Mcauliffe).

The rest of the group is much more chill, fascinated by the idea of time travel but content where they are. The original “Crop” includes the emotional Antoine, brutally honest Max, goofy Trip (Simon Downes Toney), laid back Kane (Thomas Deen Baker) and soft-spoken Casazza (Julia D’Angelo). Then there’s Odette (Madison Hu), who is secretly in love with Cleo, but mostly keeps it to herself. It’s Odette who introduces Cleo to “The Crop” and sets the story into motion.

With its queer love triangle and multiple scenes of “Crop” boys hooking up with each other, Sparks feels like a modern successor to the early films of Gregg Araki. Nowhere and Totally F***ed Up easily come to mind as we watch the kids party in the empty parking lot they call home, supplied with beer acquired with fake IDs. Similar to more recent indies like Kate Beecroft’s East of Wall and Luke Gilford’s National Anthem, Sparks blends classical rural imagery with a more ethnically and socially diverse worldview. Watching these films has been exciting, as they breathe new life into American independent cinema.

Campbell’s script has both stylized and naturalistic dialogue, giving us a group of teens who feel painfully real in their inconsistency. When Cleo goes missing, it’s unclear whether she actually time-traveled or is simply having a mental health crisis. It could go either way.

Foster gives a star-making performance as Antoine, an idealistic faux beatnik who can’t seem to accept that the object of his affection is just as clueless as he is. Fisher, who broke out in Bo Burnham’s directorial debut Eighth Grade, is the heart of Sparks, once again playing a girl who is struggling more than she lets on. Like many young women, she puts on a brave face, hoping her confidence will take her wherever she needs to go.

At a slim 76 minutes, Sparks pulls you in tight and never lets go, every frame bursting with teen angst and longing. It’s the kind of film that inspires young people to tell small, meaningful stories outside of the Hollywood machine. This critic hopes Sparks is seen by every teenager who needs it. Fergus Campbell has made something very special; I can’t wait to see what he does next.