Modern pushes for the gastro fusions of thrills and dining have made The Menu quite the interesting beast. It connects the dots between a rise in independent, glamorous thriller productions with a generation’s love for Gordon Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares. Amazingly, nobody saw that link sooner. Well, Boiling Point did, but not to the grim extent and overindulgence found in The Menu. Mark Mylod has made quite the leap from his days navigating Ali G: In Da House, and now finds himself aboard the rich, elite and snooty as they neck palette-cleansing dishes with that inevitably, Ralph Fiennes-shaped twist that he so often brings to his performances. Nicolas Hoult and Anya Taylor-Joy do well to lead that charge, but it is clear where Mylod’s focus is.
What is worse, though? Commitment to the craft or dedication to trying to understand it? Hoult’s snooty portrayal of Tyler Ledford is perfect. That fine balance between being a self-prescribed expert and not caring for who the other talents are behind it. Fiennes is the head chef, the director, the singer, the man at the core of each and every artisanal project. His deathly stares in the kitchen are intense, and nicely placed with good riffs and title cards to break up each course. Fiennes’ portrayal in that first act relies on the less-is-more experience, but it comes with the promise of seeing him feature, prominently and expectedly, in the latter half of the feature. Suspension of disbelief, at times, is needed to make The Menu work as it tries and fails to mount some thriller-oriented spectacles.
Shocks are frequent, of course, but they never feel as though they have much clarity beyond that of a necessity to happen. Fiennes is delicate with his work here, the professional without passion trying to conjure up some love for his profession. Julian Slowick is a natural Fiennes character. Mylod has a smart message on his hands, while Fiennes and Taylor-Joy enjoy their exceptional performances, as does Hoult. With that trio comes quality, and the pay-off is marvellous, if not a bit rocky on the way there. The back and forth between Fiennes and Taylor-Joy has an emotional pay-off necessary to providing lighter moments, but also to understanding Slowick’s intentions, and by extension, that of Mylod’s.
Do food lovers take themselves this seriously? Grandeur and killing take the place of home-cooked delicacies. Those delights take up nightmarish proportions and do get to grips with the novelties and snootiness of the Instagram-worthy dishes that take up screens and not stomachs. Hoult does well in a new turn that sees him play an absolute buffoon, while Taylor-Joy presents that already-known range with a step further in quality. Beyond that though is a meek message disguised as brutal retaliation. Mylod questions the reason for a critic, the impact of their words and the necessities of them. He does so bravely and intimately, although it is unclear, through that avenue of thought, what his conclusion could be. No room for burn out when the clock never stops, The Menu muses on that with eerie, fairly clear intent.
