Directed with quiet care by Trần Anh Hùng, The Taste of Things is like ASMR for home cooks who imbue their food with attention and love. Long stretches of the film abandon any traditional narrative, and instead focus on the detail and craft required to make a singular French meal. It is one of the great food movies, not unlike Big Night, because its characters bring an authenticity to their craft that can alienate others. Still, Hùng’s film is not an ensemble comedy, but a historical romance where the two leads prefer cooking – not dialogue or even physical intimacy – to communicate how they feel. There is an eventual plot, one that avoid histrionics and still has depth of feeling, that resolves in a way that honors the sensibilities of its uncommon protagonists. It is a joy to behold.
Set near the Loire Valley near the end of the 19th century, Hùng devotes the first 45 minutes of his film to the assembly of a single meal. This is a period before plumbing or modern refrigeration, so the attention to detail means we see food preparation techniques that are mostly abandoned, or are only reserved for restaurants with more than one Michelin star. Eugénie (Juliette Binoche) and Dodin (Benoît Magimel) are absolutely absorbed in their task, and their attention to detail means the extended shots of cooking are never tedious. Hùng does nothing to sensationalize this sequence, not even adding music, so the only soundtrack is the clanging of pots, or birds chirping in the distance. We learn that Dodin is a great gourmet and Eugénie is his head cook. For over 20 years, they have made great meals together, not necessarily the fanciest, but a marriage of ingredients and techniques that tastes great, while also telling a story through the dishes.
Unspoken trust and respect between Eugénie and Dodin has led to a unique affection, so after the meal, it comes as a little bit of a surprise that they sometimes share a bed. Dodin wants to marry her and yet Eugénie keeps declining, perhaps because she worries about how boundaries between them would change. Still, in a slow-burn scene of romantic declaration, Dodin constructs a meal for Eugénie that is so thoughtful – informed by emotion and history that only they understand – that she has no choice but to agree. In this sense, The Taste of Things can be erotic, despite the film never depicting much physical contact. After all, what is sexier than using your knowledge of another person’s pleasure so that, finally, they succumb to their senses?
The tension between personal and professional is consistent throughout the film, and adds rich romantic subtext to every scene. Eugénie and Dodin use the formal and informal “you” pronouns throughout the film, another way to signal that their admiration is total, and difficult to understand as an outsider. For the most part, the film declines to describe this relationship, and instead realizes that what is left unspoken is a better way for the audience to get invested in its longevity.
Subplots and supporting characters add to the film’s overall milieu, yet exist in service of the lead characters. In that first meal, we meet Pauline (Bonnie Chagneau-Ravoire), the young niece of Eugénie’s assistant, and from the get-go she has a preternatural understanding of flavor. Eugénie and Dodin discuss making her an apprentice, and her development as a cook – along with her inability to understand adult situations – creates a gentle kind of tension because she is so innocent and without guile that we only want the best for her. That is not to say the kitchen and country house where most of the film unfolds is an impossible idyll of great food. Dodin has visitors from the outside world, mostly friends who nearly share his palate, but an expected visit from a prince’s servant leads to an intriguing development. The prince requests an audience Dodin cannot refuse. He is deeply pretentious, the kind of man who thinks the best ingredients are always the most expensive, and he presents a meal for Dodin that is as decadent as it is vulgar. It is here we learn Dodin does not quite suffer fools, and has little patience for those who cannot match the purity of his culinary pursuits.
Purity and taste, two things that take years to cultivate, is how Hùng introduces a tragic element into his film. There is a concealed sickness in The Taste of Things, one that we see early on but takes time to fully reveal, and it leads to a third act where the pleasure of food is no solace for loss. Cinematographer Jonathan Ricquebourg opts for more dramatic lighting, a stark contrast to the sun-kissed beauty of the early scenes, and this is where the silence is more languid than comforting, so it can have devastating consequences. Throughout the film, Binoche and Magimel don’t appear to be acting, and yet there is performance behind every whisk or sip. What is also intriguing is how both actors were once married for about five years, so there is an additional dimension to their familiarity and chemistry. All the actors, including the girl who plays Pauline, are deferential to the leads in such a way to suggest that the film – its premise, its alchemy of characters – are unique. Most films aspire to entertain their audiences, or absorb them. This is the rare film that offers more than that: it is the kind worth savoring.
Photo courtesy of IFC Films
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