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In this film, obsessed as it is with
human corporeality, eating, drinking, defecating, urinating,
copulating, belching, vomiting, spitting and bleeding are so
closely related that it is impossible to separate out what is
aesthetically pleasing and what is merely disgusting. Violence
and eroticism and vulgarity and finesse are so intertwined here
that Greenaway makes it difficult to decide where eating ends
and human waste disposal begins.
It is to Le Hollandais, a restaurant
named after the large reproduction of a famous Frans Hals
painting that adorns one wall of the dining room, that the thief
and his wife come every night for dinner. The thief, an
unrepentant model of cruelty, greed and unchecked self-interest,
believes that dining out is a means of gaining social
respectability. Always accompanied by the members of his
gang, a collection of revolting, uncouth characters who, like
their boss, have no appreciation whatever for fine food, the
thief is evil personified, a man with no redeeming virtues
whatever. His wife, the victim of his bullying, physical
violence and blackmail is a more sympathetic character who
values and understands the dishes that are set before her.
The cook, who is also the owner
of the restaurant, is a perfectionist, believing that all
foods should be tasted, even if only experimentally. Although he
appreciates the wife and offers her some of his finer
experiments, he detests the thief. Knowing that the thief is a
dangerous man, the cook treats him with a curious mixture of
politeness and disdain.
It comes as no surprise when the
wife takes as her lover another regular visitor to the
restaurant, a quiet, modest man who is immersed in his love of
books, the antithesis of her husband. Nor does it surprise when
the cook helps them find places in the restaurant where it is
relatively safe for them to make love, virtually under the
nose of the thief. And make love they do - in the toilet, in
pantries, in walk-in refrigerators. That they are finally caught
by the thief and that the lover is destined to be killed, cooked
and served up as the chef d'oeuvre of a dinner is no more
shocking or surprising than any of the other events in the film.
Because Greenaway's goal is to
dismay, shock and disgust us, the kitchen, the restaurant and
the meals served here are particularly unappetizing. What makes
them fascinating, however, is Greenway's application of his
unique brand of hyper-reality to historical and social settings.
The time-frame of the kitchens is a
sliding one, incorporating the filth and squalor that typified
the cooking halls of 14th century European baronies as
well as the splendor and orderliness of the kitchens of the
great chef Careme when he held forth in the Brighton
Pavillion in the early 19th century. The decorative pieces of
poached and fresh fruits are pure Careme, having taking hours of
painstaking effort to create. The larders, however, are Medieval
- swans, fat eels, calves' brains, freshwater fish, pearl barley
truffles, piles of macaroni and rumps of beef arranged in ways
that overwhelm rather than please the senses.
Even though the dishes prepared by
the cook are impeccable in presentation and quality, Greenaway
assures that not one dish will make itself appealing to those in
the audience. Avocado in vinaigrette sauce with shrimps;
truffled roast chickens; a salad of pike fillets with oysters; a
rich potage a la Monglas - a creamy soup made with foie gras,
truffles, and mushrooms and flavoured with Madeira can all be
enormously rewarding culinary experiences, but when accompanied
by the farts, belches and vomiting of the crooks that sit at the
table, one is hard pressed to think of any food, no matter how
masterfully prepared, as being appetizing.
Even if it were not for the noxious
company, this is not a restaurant to which most true gourmets
would be attracted. Great cooking should be decorative but it
should not be ostentatious. Nor should sophisticated modern
dining involve great amounts of waste, overindulgence in too
many rich and uncomplimentary courses that follow one after the
other, or service that is so stilted and formal that it borders
on groveling. Such vulgar displays have been banished from the
table, as much for the sake of hygiene and good taste as for
reasons of expediency.
There are some who claim that the
most offensive moment of the film is the moment when the lover's
body, spit roasted and garnished with cauliflower and turnips is
served up as the single course in a special dinner prepared for
the thief. From the moral point of view, this objection stands
up badly, for in this film where excess is the rule, the eating
of human flesh is no more offensive than eating dog excrement,
urinating into a sauce, torturing a young boy or mutilating the
face of a beautiful woman, all of which have their place in
Greenaway's world. Culinary purists will argue, however, that
spit roasting is not the ideal way to prepare human flesh. Those
who have sampled this dish (including Guy du Maupassant, Marco
Polo and Captain James Cook, who was eventually eaten himself)
are in general agreement that the best means of cookery is by
slow stewing in a peppery red wine marinade that contains
juniper berries, marjoram, rosemary and plenty of onions.
Daniel Rogov |
