The Taste of Things
The Taste of Things is lovingly prepared but a little staid; it's beautiful to look at, but removed from a deeper emotionality
Tràn Anh Hùng’s latest opens with an almost wordless 40-minute meal preparation. In the kitchen of his long-established restaurant, Dodin Bouffant (Benoît Magimel) wanders between his dedicated staff (led by Eugénie, a radiant Juliette Binoche) and the upper crust who seek out his excellently prepared traditional cuisine. A deep kinship is clear between Eugénie and Dodin, but when their connected 20-year-history later unfolds in dialogue, Eugénie’s past and present desire for independence collide with the immutable limits of one’s time on earth.
The restaurant is isolated from the social and technological upheaval of 1880s France; time is registered only from the outside, mainly in the form of a pompous visitor for whom Dodin must prepare his pot-au-feu: rustic, honest, wholesome, and – as the film progresses – the purest and simplest expression of love.
The Taste of Things is the third of its titles; in French, the title translates literally to ‘The Passion of Dodin Bouffant’, and it previously played as The Pot-au-Feu. While titles in translation are not always exactly recreated, the renaming seems to demonstrate the same ambivalence that hampers the film itself. For all its lovingly prepared food and romance as slow simmering as a well-prepared strew, The Taste of Things remains staid – beautiful to look at, but removed from a deeper emotionality. While every frame is shot with adoration for the unhurried process, the result – blissful as it may be – is undercharged. It remains a gorgeous entry into the food-as-love canon with a sweet but slight aftertaste.
Released 14 Feb by Picturehouse; certificate 12A