I must admit that I had no expectations whatsoever when I decided to go to the screening of Vietnamese filmmaker Trần Anh Hùng’s latest film this spring, in Cannes. Despite a meteoric beginning, to me, his career seemed to have gotten stuck in the cobwebs of a trajectory that is all too familiar within this century’s cinematic landscape: he had wandered into the murky terrain of „ambitious” projects, aiming towards an audience and a style of filmmaking that is „international” (star-studded casts, straightforward narration, etc.). In particular, I had been disappointed by his adaptation of Haruki Murakami’s Norwegian Wood, which I had seen as a student shortly after having fallen in love with the novel: little more than a television drama, unable to capture much of the protagonists’ emotional complexities or the charged atmosphere of ‘68-ist Tokyo in its rush to adapt the book „correctly”. And so, my surprise (and pleasure!) towards The Taste of Things / La Passion de Dodin Bouffant was all the greater: a sort of anti-period piece, a tactful expiration that is centered not inasmuch on its Epicurean titular character (Benoît Magimel) and his incredibly talented cook (Juliette Binoche), nor on the more or less secret love that they share for each other, but rather, of the notion of gastronomy, itself – a narration that verges on the minimal, cooked over a slow fire that allows all of the stunning, heady aromas of great cinema to unveil themselves.

On his splendid 1993 debut, The Scent of Green Papaya, my colleague Victor Morozov wrote the following: “Lying somewhere in between Terrence Davies and Robert Bresson, Tran’s film reveals a fragment of the world that is self-sufficient, where every single gesture, even the smallest one can imagine, is closely checked upon its entrance in the frame.” The Taste of Things reprises this thread: at least in what concerns Davies and his luxurious, deeply poetic manner of gazing at so-called „domestic” actions, of steeping them into a style of romanticism that draws its force not upon grand gestures but, rather, the complete opposite – and this is tangible from the very first sequence of the film, where, for almost twenty minutes, we witness the act of preparing for a feast. Beyond its status as a massive demonstration of gastronomic art (and I must admit that I often watched these minutes with the same type of amazement that I sometimes felt towards scientific documentaries: just see how they craft the Baked Alaska cake!), the way that Trần Anh Hùng manipulates time – no ridiculous ellipses, speedy cuts or other usual artifices – is, in itself, a translation of the act of cooking, bearing within it all of its generosity, all of its attention to detail, to doses and measures, to a duration that, lacking rigorous control, leads to things being either undercooked or outright burned. (Of course, it might also be worthwhile to discuss the film within this particular – in all senses of the term – current that has recently exploded: gastro-cinema, popularized by festivals such as the Berlinale, with some echoes in mainstream cinema, dancing on the fine line of cooking shows. Which is a sub-genre that I must admit to not caring about, at all – save for the series helmed by the fantastic Anthony Bourdain.)

To put it in brief terms, its transcendentalism draws its strength from telluric acts, from coordination, from attention to detail (and cooking, like cinema, is ultimately also an act of looking – not to mention of pleasure, of delight): one that bursts forth from this paradoxical clash between an apparent banality and mechanistic nature, and a higher conceptual plain, which regards the twin ideas of savoir-vivre and savoir-faire; as I was saying shortly after the film’s world premiere, here, time becomes like molasses, filtering the warm rays of the August sun. One can, of course, accuse the film of being blind towards any and all aspects that regard power structures (both within the maison of lord Bouffant and within the larger society that enables him such a luxurious lifestyle) – but I feel that, in the case of a film that exudes such warmth, I can forgive its irresolute apoliticism.

Last but not least, there’s something that interests me a lot about this new upswing in Benoît Magimel’s career – and I say that without any intention of downplaying Juliette Binoche’s contribution to the film, or her (admittedly, rather uneven) trajectory in recent years. I’m not talking here about his recent dramas (Peaceful, 2021) or comedies (Omar la fraise, 2023) – but about what he constructs here and in his role as the cryptic Commissioner De Roller in Albert Serra’s hypnotic, vexing Pacifiction (2022). Something is fascinating about him in these parts that impose a certain pedigree and prestige from the very outset, and are all the more interesting given that they involve some sort of opacity of the character, an inner terra incognita that Magimel puts into play (sic!) through subtle, fine gestures (wry smiles, positions of the hands, glances, a relaxed physicality). It’s something I’ve only ever felt with regards to Jacques Dutronc – certainly, also by virtue of a certain physical resemblance between the two –, especially in Van Gogh (1991) or Sauve qui peut (1980): a way of filling the screen with a presence that is not at all histrionic, but discreet, heavily reliant on presence. Just see how magnetic the late love scenes in this film can be. (Extra-textual matter may have also played a part, in the end: Binoche and Magimel were a couple in their youth, and the affection they bring to this film has a little something of the warm aura of a tender reunion.)

The Taste of Things is a film that does more than merely signal an artistic renaissance for Trần Anh Hùng, and is more than just one of the best features to be shown at this year’s edition of the Cannes Film Festival (where it rightfully won its Best Direction award) – it’s a film that is dedicated to the most elementary of epicurean principles: not inasmuch the hedonistic tenet that turns pleasure into the central purpose of life (because, after all, in some respects, its protagonist is not at all a modest man, nor the adept of a simple life), but that of ataraxia, a state of absolute grace and tranquility, which one must obtain by chasing away all worries, turbulences, and anxieties. As George Bernard Shaw used to put it, “There is no love sincerer than the love of food” – I’d (modestly) propose adding the love for cinema to it.

The Taste of Things will be screened at the 14th edition of Les Films de Cannes, which will run from 20-29 October in Bucharest, and 19-22 in Timișoara.

Flavia Dima

Film critic & journalist. Collaborates with local and international outlets, programs a short film festival - BIEFF, does occasional moderating gigs and is working on a PhD thesis about home movies. At Films in Frame, she writes the monthly editorial - The State of Cinema and is the magazine's main festival reporter.