The Menu - a movie I recommend, but did not enjoy

It's an acquired taste

The Menu is a movie I did not much enjoy but one which I will conditionally recommend based on the simple fact that it is an original piece of fiction and never once bored me. That on its own makes it a better time investment than standard fair for anyone who is tired of endless formulaic sequels and remakes.

I disliked The Menu for two main reasons: its pretentious anti-audience message and its general poor execution.

At its heart, it is a message film, a large metaphor for the producers of the movie and their relationship with the audience and with the corporate structure of Hollywood itself. On its surface, it is about a high-pretense celebrity chef and his customers, but behind each character is a caricature of art patronage of various kinds.

First, there is the “foodie,” a fanatic devotee of the chef who knows every facet of the chef’s style and every nuance of pretentious dining and yet is totally unable to cook anything for himself.

He brings with him a literal prostitute who represents the unpretentious, uninterested segment drawn into the art sphere by chance. The chef proclaims that she is “one of them,” letting the audience know that the artist considers himself a prostitute for subjecting himself to the whims of the audience.

There is the rich patron who doesn’t really pay attention to any of the food, and his wife, who suffers his infidelity for similar reasons – they are more interested in the trappings of status than any real connection with the art or artists.

There is the washed-up celebrity and his privileged assistant, who care only for how the art can be spun or used for clout and who have no thankfulness for their own unearned position.

A group of arrogant young businessmen represent the executive patron, and they feel they own the art because their boss owns the restaurant and try repeatedly to make the chef create what they want.

In the center sits the food critic, chomping at the bit to tear apart every dish and egged on by a sycophantic junior critic whose copies her unrelenting, overbearing negativity and over-analysis of everything. He is more interested in the criticism than the artistic medium itself, an easy metaphor to extend to YouTube.

Of course, there is also the chef, the suffering auteur who is exhausted by fanatics and executives and has lost all joy for the art, now viewing all his effort as purely performative and without any real heart. Attached to him are his devoted apprentices who live in his shadow with no hope of escaping upward. One even is shown to be disillusioned with his emulation of the great chef and his unenviable life, and wants to… Well, read on.

Now, the twist for all this (spoilers) occurs fairly early is that the chef’s great menu and multi-course meal involves everyone on the island dying or committing suicide (like the aforementioned sous-chef). The great final piece is a room full of flaming, explosive smores, a disgusting, low-brow dessert with no artistic merit, which kills everyone except the prostitute, who is allowed to escape because she demands the chef make a hamburger, an unpretentious meal whose experience is simple, good flavor and now grand surprises or gestures only for the initiated connoisseur. The chef rediscovers joy for a moment, making something for someone who does not idolize him but instead just wants something they enjoy.

Now, if all that sounds interesting to you, it was to me as well. Call me wicked, but the theme resonated with me as an artist. You can find an anecdote about this called “The PC Garden” in my book Afterglow: Generation Y, detailing the hilarious pretentiousness of people who want to be seen as cultured. My old teacher, Robert Strizich, was right when he said the emperor had no clothes, but I was right when I said it didn’t matter. Everyone who pretends to “get” incompressible art couched within impenetrable layers of context to avoid being the one who was “uncultured.” I lament that audiences want slop, but my lamentations do not change them, nor have I affected the other extreme, which is various critics overanalyzing pop media, searching for depth that isn’t there, and they wouldn’t understand if they found it.

I don’t want to overindulge such cynicisms, because that would lead me to hating the market or becoming hostile to my own audience. The Menu is a lament that comes off as a litany of disconnected complaints of a privileged, entitled minority – Hollywood itself. One need not be an artist to pick up on the fact that the filmmakers hate the people who give them money.

Now, the greater problem is not the themes but the poor execution.

The acting is good in most places (especially the chef, Ralph Fiennes, and I even am coming to understand the love for Anya Taylor-Joy). The film is well photographed, with a distinct style and visual flair from director Mark Mylod and cinematographer Peter Demming. The score by Colin Stetson fits it perfectly, enhanced by excellent solo violin performances. The sets look great. The food looks amazing.

But nothing really mixes to make a harmonious whole.

The dialogue is melodramatic and obvious. The themes are not treated with any subtlety whatsoever. The movie is billed as a black comedy and horror, and it is never funny or scary. It really feels like the movie was shot first and the genres decided on after the fact.

The Menu is a mean-spirited movie that fails in many ways, but it still succeeds in enough ways to be an experience that I do not regret. Despite my feeling that I was being hammered over the head with the theme, I gathered that many people missed the core of the message and thought it was an “eat the rich” propaganda film.`

If you watched it, I’d love to hear your opinion.

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