If there's anything disgusting or grotesque that
The Cook, the Thief, His
Wife, and Her Lover doesn't dabble in, I'm at a loss to figure out what it
is. This film, a wildly exuberant, bitingly satirical examination of excess, bad
taste, and great acting, is the kind of over-the-top experience that will have
timid movie-goers running (not just walking) for the exits. Taboos? If director
Peter Greenaway has any, you can't tell by this film.
Common wisdom suggests that you don't go into films like
Babette's
Feast and Eat Drink
Man Woman on an empty stomach. By the same token, my recommendation
would be that you don't venture into The Cook on a full stomach. There
are times when Greenaway's vision becomes excessively graphic, and this goes
beyond just sex and violence (although there's a fair amount of both). Perhaps
the most disgusting sequences involve trucks of meat and fish left outside to
rot. The word "gross" was coined for this kind of stuff.
Roughly two-thirds of the film takes place inside the fine French restaurant,
Le Hollandais. With a dungeon-like kitchen that looks like it was snatched out
of Terry Gilliam's Brazil, this is a fantastically bizarre place to eat
dinner. The chef, Richard (French actor Richard Bohringer), is a gastronomical
genius who cares as much for the artistry of a meal as for its taste. Le
Hollandais' owner, an uncouth rogue by the name of Albert (Michael Gambon),
visits the restaurant nightly in the company of his wife, Georgina (Helen Mirren), and a flock of toadies. There, sitting in the center of Le
Hollandais'
dining room, at the biggest table, Albert holds court, spouting often-absurd
discourses about any subject he can think of. But, while he's talking, his
neglected wife catches the eye of a nearby diner (Alan Howard), and soon those
two sneak away for a tryst in the Ladies' Room.
The Cook, the Thief, His Wife, and Her Lover is well-written, with
dark humor and irony peppering nearly every conversation and monologue. More
than half of the lines belong to Michael Gambon (of Dennis Potter's The
Singing Detective), and he delivers them with relish. His is a wonderful,
larger-than-life performance, and he knows just how to present Greenaway's
dialogue to its best effect. Watching Gambon's tour de force is one of The
Cook's chief pleasures.
Helen Mirren, a British actress of some repute (best known for her portrayal
of Jane Tennison in the Prime Suspect series), has never been sexier than
here. Her performance is proof that a female lead doesn't have to be under 40 or
classically beautiful to heat up the screen. Mirren's lovemaking scenes with
Alan Howard are charged with eroticism, and her final confrontation with Gambon
is tense and bitter.
Set design is top notch. Le Hollandais is a surreal place, the kind of
fantastic setting that Jeunet and Caro would bring to the screen years later in
films like Delicatessen and The City of
Lost Children. This is also a movie of vivid colors: reds for the dining
room, pinks for the rest rooms, and greens for the kitchen. The Cook is
always visually interesting, even on those rare occasions when other aspects of
the production aren't as arresting.
One message that Greenaway clearly conveys is the association between two of
life's most obvious sensual pleasures: eating and sex. He litters this picture
with the brutal and the grotesque -- including murder, covering someone with
excrement, and cannibalism. The Cook is always as visceral as it is
visual, with Gambon on hand to provide acid commentary for everything (he never
seems to stop talking). Then there's the ending, which contradicts the saying
that revenge is a dish best served cold. In this case, it's warm, and very, very
appropriate.
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