The Menu, by Mark Mylod
Criticizing the critics on consumption
I have a thing for food in films. The flare, the pizzazz, and the theatre of the culinary world mirror that of cinema so closely, and when the two disciplines are paired on screen I find myself routinely transfixed in a mouth-watering way. In many ways, food and film are not so different - there are stars, red carpet events, and, of course, “-bros” that permeate both worlds. There is a reason that half of Netflix’s catalog feels like cooking shows, and it’s because food makes great entertainment. I have already discussed one of my favorite food films of all time, Juzo Itami’s Tampopo, a real love-letter to the art. Itami takes an incredibly optimistic approach, walking us through a traditional western hero’s journey through the lens of a ramen shop. Just like film, though, there is a dark side of the culinary art world as well. A pessimistic look at how the culture creates monsters that feed on themselves into eternity. How exactly can a film about food be scary? Look no further than Mark Mylod’s The Menu.
Amuse Bouche
The Menu flashes open to a dreary look at the leading odd couple, Tyler (Nicholas Hoult) and Margot (Anya Taylor-Joy). It is evident from the moment they appear on-screen that something is off - there is no natural chemistry, and the awkward, leg-bouncing energy that Tyler exudes is entirely cooled off by the stern-faced Margot, cigarette already-in-mouth. The pair is on their way to an exclusive dinner at “Hawthorne”, an island-bound restaurant reserved for the most exclusive of exclusive guests. Movie stars, finance executives and culinary critics at the top of their game can barely get a seat at the $850-per-person venture, but Tyler, a hobbyist foodie, has managed to do it. There is one problem: he is bringing with him an uninvited guest in Margot. The film gives us a playful first act, concealing some of its more sinister underbelly behind a cast of eclectic diners, but quickly rushes us into Hawthorne for the meal, served by the ringleader of it all, Julian Slowik (Ralph Fiennes).
As with Chef Slowik’s meal, we will start light here - Hawthorne diners are treated to a compressed and pickled cucumber melon with milk snow and charred lace - and discuss the participants of this fateful dinner, and how they might play into the larger plot yet to be revealed. We have Dave, Bryce, and Soren, three “finance bros” that have nothing better to blow their chump change on. Beside them is washed-up movie star George Diaz, joined by his assistant/mistress Felicity Lynn, dining to better get in character for an upcoming foodie film. Two of Hawthorne’s wealthy regulars, Richard and Anne Leibrandt, are in attendance for the third time that year, seated beside Slowik’s own alcoholic mother, Linda. In the center of the room is renowned food critic Lillian Bloom, joined by her editor (and aspirational critic himself) Ted. And finally, in the back, Tyler and Margot.
It is clear from the get-go that this congregation is one of not-so-subtle intentionality by Chef Slowik. Every part of his world is influenced by those in attendance, for better or worse, and he owes it to them to make a good meal, right? His check is paid by the diners, his work is reviewed by the diners, and without the careful analysis of his diners, he would be one of a million other chefs. All of this fame and celebrity that comes from Hawthorne, the exclusivity of the private island retreat, it is all owed to his diners. The tone shifts into slight obscurity, however, as the film’s first main course is served. Named “The Island”, it is a collection of raw materials collected from around Hawthorne’s locale, plated delicately almost more for show than for tell. Tyler begins to cry as he looks at the dish: “It’s just so beautiful.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket to take a picture of the food, smirking as he jokes that “it’s almost too beautiful to eat.”
The Mess
Food, as it is made abundantly clear in The Menu, is an art. There are artists, art critics, art enthusiasts, and art collectors - all still true in the culinary world. And with art comes the great question of value, or more specifically, if that value is really in the eye of the beholder. Perhaps uniquely, however, food can be consumed, both metaphorically and literally, in a way that art can never be. There is an objective human enjoyment that comes from eating, a chemical response that goes beyond the neural network above it all. Flavor profiles, textures and smells create visceral reactions that are not possible with any other art form, and Chef Slowik dotes heavily upon each detail as if it were a matter of life and death. Well, when we get to Hawthorne’s third course, it really is.
Titled “The Mess”, we watch a grand display of setup involving tarps and napkins, before the spotlight is turned onto Chef Slowik’s sous chef, Jeremy Louden (Adam Aalderks). A long dialogue begins about Jeremy’s aspirations as a young chef, his goals that he personally expressed to Slowik in a handwritten letter. He dreams, more than anything, of being the best - but he, unlike Chef Slowik, is one of many.
CHEF SLOWIK: “Jeremy is talented. He’s good. He’s very good. But he’s not great. He will never be great. He desperately wants my job, my prestige. My talent. He aspires to greatness, but he will never achieve it. Correct, Jeremy?”
JEREMY: “Yes, Chef.”
In a horrifying inflection point, Jeremy pulls a gun from his apron and shoots himself in the head, killing him instantly. The diners recoil in horror as blood is spattered across the tarps that are quickly rolled up by the army of line cooks. At last, Slowik’s true motive is beginning to come into view, even if just as a sliver for now. This entire dinner, the whole act of being a celebrity chef of his nature, is just a measuring contest. It is a rat race to the top that ends, always, in self-destruction - Jeremy is just the literal example of that. This art that Chef Slowik has dedicated his life to is permanently under the magnifying glass, and the beholder’s eye that is perpetually judging him is one of both subjectivity and privilege. The rich and wealthy, many of whom are culinarily uneducated entirely, hold Slowik’s life in their firm grasp, ready to toss him aside as soon as he stumbles. We treat art criticism in the same way, almost universally - film, music, and literature are over-discussed to the point of exhaustion, taking away every last ounce of subjective reaction at times. Slowik, and to a larger degree the entire creative industry, knows this. They know that the art they make is not really for consumption - it’s almost too beautiful to eat. We would rather take our photos, make our comments and reviews and add it to one of a hundred lists, than to just experience it.
Savory Accompaniments
The evening continues to unfold with great (and bloody) fanfare, peeling back layers upon layers of metaphor as Slowik unleashes his non-specific revenge on the diners. There are a lot of places that this film goes that I think work incredibly well, but won’t tangent in an extended way into here - Tyler’s performance as “guest chef”, the entire story of Slowik’s mother, and the fifth course “Man’s Folly” all provide bizarrely comedic horror. For me, though, the crux of The Menu lies in the evening’s “supplemental course”, the bread service. The diners, at least those that remain alive, are served a plate of toppings for bread - olive oil, vinegar, creams and pickles in individual compartments are plated with incredible care. There is one noticeable absence on the plate: bread. Chef Slowik gives the diners a small history lesson about the importance of bread throughout human civilization, especially among the poor, but insists that this dish is a “play” on tradition. In reality, it is a joke, and he knows it - he is serving his consumers increasingly ridiculous plates, watching as they eat it up. Lillian and Ted break into minutiae about a “broken emulsion” while complimenting the “playfulness” of the whole affair. Tyler is awestruck at the “genius” of the dish, but his date is unimpressed - as she should be!
It is a challenge to walk through the symbolism of the bread service without being a part of the very joke here - I am sitting here, analyzing a film that is explicitly laughing at the overanalysis of art - but there is some level of overarching profundity that I do think is present. It goes without saying that every piece of art, and especially film, is overdiscussed and criticized in forums that entirely miss the purpose of enjoyment. Food, like film, is meant to be enjoyed. Sure, there is enjoyment in analysis and technique, there is a human need for mastery that satisfies some of the same chemical deficiencies that happiness does, but that is far from how we consume in real life. We take art in, we chew on it, we spit it out and make our comments about what we thought - original or not, everyone has to have a take. This film itself is rife with critical reviews on Letterboxd, discussing how it “misses the mark” on some things while “triumphing” in others. A small sampling plate, if you will:
“The Menu isn’t nearly as inventive or exciting as I hoped for.”
“Completely flaccid alleged satire.”
“Vibrantly vicious, gloriously gripping, absurdly amusing evisceration of the elite.”
“Obviously terrible, absurdly underdeveloped nonsense.”
And, my favorite:
“As exquisite as it is intangible.”
What?? This is a positive review, but I promise this film is entirely tangible - you are watching it! Listen, I’m not here to bring an end to any sort of critical film analysis - I am a part of the problem. But there comes a point with all art that we lose sight of enjoyment, we completely forget to just… enjoy it. Chef Slowik gives his elite crowd the very joke they are in on, toppings to a meal that doesn’t exist, and they treat it with the exact same unwavering eye as everything else. The film itself is no different - this is a film of extreme shock, frequent laughter, and genuinely good acting performances, that is drowned in a sea of film school talk about how it is too intelligent for its own good. Again, I will never say that we can’t criticize art, that is part of the purpose of our culture, but The Menu challenges us to at least stop, take a bite, and see how it really tastes first.
To-Go, Please
The bread service is far from the final course we see at Hawthorne, but it is the turning point that sends the story tumbling into its eventual volcanic conclusion. This is a story about class warfare, about art criticism, and about the tortured minds of creators, but you already knew that. So many films slip these metaphors into challenging visuals and barren scripts, left for only the most keen-eyed to notice, but The Menu takes another approach by serving it on a plate for all to see. I think this is what causes the humongous spectrum of reception that the film holds, and I understand why that is - once we start trying to calculate how deep irony goes it will always feel like we are adding another layer by simply talking about it.
This is a film that I deeply enjoy, but it is one that has left more complicated feelings than many of my recent favorites - I am the joke of The Menu, but I still enjoy it. I think, in some way, Chef Slowik’s diners are the same. It is a complicated balance between enjoyment of the game and enjoyment of the results, but that is sort of the point. The questions that this film bring up, however much “evisceration” or “nonsense” they might convey, are more there to chew on than swallow. We are supposed to know, early on, the point of the film, and still watch in horror. It is rare that a film can succeed in this manner, by giving away it’s purpose so early in the script, but that’s what makes it work here. By getting buy-in from viewers, by letting them walk themselves into the jokes, the film succeeds. It can feel underdeveloped, it can feel absurd at times, but there is something above it all, a real enjoyment that is unshakeable, that permeates the entire film. Food is about eating, and with The Menu, the bites all taste good. There are garnishes, plating techniques and pairings that can raise question upon question in ivory towers, but for me, it’s not about that. There are no academic conclusions here, just open-ended journeys. This film provides something better than any revolutionary technique or mastery of craft - food for thought.