In 1994, the world met Shareen Lightfoot (Sarita Choudhury) and Claire Mayakovsky (Erin McMurtry), a lesbian couple living in New York City. Shareen is Native and Claire is white — so of course, their beloved five-year-old daughter, Honey (Nelini Stamp), is Black. Claire’s mother, Mimi Mayakovsky (Laurie Carlos), is also Black. But why question it? This postracial paradise is what a family looks like, and is perhaps the most brilliantly understated element of Shu Lea Cheang’s surreal sci-fi cult classic and debut feature Fresh Kill, which is now celebrating its 30th anniversary with a brand new 4K restoration. The writer-director combo of Filipina American playwright Jessica Hagedorn and Taiwanese American video artist and filmmaker Cheang came together in a match-up that combined the electrifying spirit of live performance art with a brazen and colorful visual style.
Along with hacker Jiannbin (Abraham Lim) and poet Miguel (José Zúñiga), Shareen and Claire investigate and expose a conspiracy of poisoned fish and ocean life created and covered up by multinational conglomerate GX, whose logo looks suspiciously similar to that of General Electric. Tackling intersections of environmental racism, techno-feudalism, and corporatocracy, Fresh Kill is the tamest of Cheang’s oeuvre (which later incorporated elements of pornography and transhumanism) and the one that put her on the map. Stylistically, it’s a cyberactivist, queer ecofeminist Do The Right Thing for a neo-liberalized world, with a more biting and experimental narrative than the military-industrial critique of something like Richard Kelly’s Southland Tales. It’s often cited as influencing the rise of the phrase “hacktivism,” with Cheang coining it “a work of eco-cyber-noia.”
Fresh Kill is named for Staten Island’s now defunct Fresh Kills Landfill, the world’s largest from 1955 through its closing in 2001. But Cheang boldly refuses to provincialize, turning the lens on her own cultural background and heritage. Intercut throughout are shots of Orchid Island (also known as Lanyu), which Taiwan uses as a site for nuclear waste disposal, which the indigenous Tao community is still fighting to eliminate. A grim red swath dominates the upper third of the NYC skyline, as if it’s already been made noxious by the 17,000 tons of waste dumped at Fresh Kills daily, a statistic proclaimed by Mimi. In the talk-back at the European premiere of the restoration, Cheang stated that the looming red blur was created using an in-camera effect to do precisely just that.
Granted, Cheang’s masterpiece is not easily digestible. Dialogue is spoken in rhymes, riddles, and rhythmic beats driven by Hagedorn’s poetic impulse, where how and in what way something is said is just as important as what is said. Much of the cast is also made up of talented stage actors, bringing yet another level of theatricality to the work. Scenes are devoted to snapshots of and monologues from side characters — a security guard, a cello player, an unhoused woman named Mother Mary — and their lives just as important as those of the protagonists. In a particularly memorable early sequence, accordion playing is used as a proxy and outlet for an oncoming orgasm, a pile of the instruments laying in the corner of the central couple’s apartment. Viewers must embrace the performance art aspectand look beyond the words, as if Cheang is murmuring, surrender — words and syntax are being used to control you.

With wordplay, vocal distortion, and turn-to-cameras abound, the Fresh Kill world is bursting at the seams, threatening to break out of its own 35mm print. And in some ways, it does: viewers are placed directly into the cinematic world, with television ads by GX interrupting the narrative throughout. In a sort of subliminal messaging, various equivalencies flash across the screen — Power = Security, Security = Control, Greed = Green — yet the advertisements always end with the menacing tagline, “We Care.” In an art gallery, the words “postcolonial” and “postmodern” are dropped waywardly into the ambient dialogue, framing academe-speak as so brilliantly out of touch with reality on the ground (in the background, “NEO DEPRESSIONISM” is printed vertically on the wall in a hilarious twist on Neo-Expressionism).
Cheang and Hagedorn have no use for such lofty, haughty talk. Our heroes are garbage salvagers, service workers, and artists who have a far sharper understanding of responsibility, accountability, harm, and what to do about it all than the businessmen who frequent these highbrow, gatekept establishments. (Fittingly, in a real-life turn on “children are the future,” Nelini Stamp went on to become a pro-labor union activist involved in the Occupy Wall Street movement.)
Fresh Kill looks at buzzwords before they ever were buzzy and truly topical, appearing as a forward-thinking example of the ‘90s new queer cinema establishment. It’s beyond any search for queer acceptance (even as Shareen and Claire face discrimination from medical professionals), instead examining the entanglement of issues buried deep by capitalist greed and disguised by greenwashing. Today, directors everywhere seem to want to comment on environmental crises, technological dangers, and the violence of corporate greed — so it’s easy to look back on the piece and praise it as radical and ahead of its era. But these issues were always there, and Fresh Kill was right under our noses all this time. Maybe we just didn’t want to see it.