“You’ll eat less than you desire and more than you deserve.”
-Elsa (Hong Chau), The Menu
My best friend enjoys horror as a genre, across literature and film, because of what they call “nightmare outsourcing.” The concept, as I understand it, comes from the transference of the actual difficulty (horror, if you will) of life onto something designed to thrill, scare, and provide all that cathartic relief which comes with the survival of these fictitious scenarios. Being scared by something onscreen, as opposed to something we experience. I think catharsis has something to do with it, at least because that is the word which best comes to mind for the experience of watching 2022’s The Menu, directed by Mark Mylod and written by Seth Reiss and Will Tracy.
To be sure the film is scary, although unsettling is the word I prefer when discussing it. Anya Taylor-Joy’s brilliantly understated, though thoroughly engaging, Margot is thrown into an austere, haunting, and confining set piece surrounded by a dynamic cast, in kitchen and dining room alike, who drive terrifying tension, unnerving familiarity, and a mesmerizing story of loss, revenge, passion, and perfectly executed (I’m hilarious, remember) service.
There are subtle and consistent plays on the things one assumes about horror and the hospitality industry which keep those unfamiliar on the side of the guests and those familiar finding odd (and no less unsettling) sympathy with the staff. (Oh look, is this a theme?). From Peter Grosz’s unflappable and increasingly disturbed sommelier describing ethereal wine pairings to Hong Chau’s masterful maître d’ come the constraints of the form and function natural to restaurant and film alike turned inward, a cage for the guests and a guide for the audience. Yet one cannot help but understand the dynamism they get from playing against the influencer (and here we will attempt to resist a rant against the type) and foodie portrayed by Nicholas Hoult, the tech-bro trio of Arturo Castro, Rob Yang, and Mark. St. Cyr, or food critic double-team of Janet McTeer and Paul Adelstein.
These are familiar roles in society, in the industry, and in the film itself—and familiarity is part of their usefulness to plot and theme alike. The Menu makes no qualms about addressing the numerous toxic interactions inherent in the world of restaurants, and while that includes these dealings with guests it also must contend with the demands of the workplace and as is too often the case, the chef. In this case, that means Julian Slowik, portrayed by Ralph Fiennes. His stoic, artful performance provides an underlying menace uncomfortable for staff and diner alike, scary to those in the know about the power he holds and horrifying for those who discover it over the film’s progression.
From the interplay of this deep, and deftly researched, cast of characters comes the themes and the stories which the film manages to balance between surreal dark humor and thoughtfully introduced scares. At its heart, The Menu addresses the supposed unspoken things which underpin an industry known for its effects on mind and body alike, and from that perspective provides a unique catharsis, or at least a sense of understanding, for industry workers who have the chance to see it. The demands of a kitchen or chef, the demands of the guests, and the demands of one’s self bear down and lay bare the struggle of those who make serving others a life’s calling, or even simply a paycheck, throughout the film. What this does to passion, to drive, to soul is unquestioned, as is the kind of sympathy it generates for others pulled into this (or similar) lines of work.
One is reminded of that viral Anthony Bourdain quote about the empathy found uniquely among hospitality workers.
In that sense, the film not only advocates for workers, but also offers the kind of nightmare outsourcing one finds cathartic bordering on power fantasy. The things all sides of the house joke about while simultaneously lamenting—difficult guests and vapid influencers, temps and plating, turnover and burnout, sexual abuse and toxic power dynamics, are all genuinely on display through The Menu. But then it is also a reminder, a reminder served brilliantly by Taylor-Joy’s Margot, about the point of it all, and what happens to anything when anything turns from a love to obsession. Perhaps that is the most poignant warning throughout, and a kind of revelation about the simple things which, when obsessed over, develop into something or someone worthy of a place in the kitchen at Hawthorne.
By the end, it is my hope and belief that one walks out of The Menu and remembers, in their work and in their day-to-day lives, the love and passion underlying the nature of almost everything—and takes the time to reflect about the degradation which occurs when those things are sacrificed in the name of perfection, or status, or money, or even comfort. There is no inherent harm to drive, to a desire for success, or the development of one’s professional and personal creative talents. But in a world which demands and demands, a world of takers as Slowik might prefer it put, there is plenty to be lost when one has nothing left to give except perfectly executed, poetic, horrifying prix fixe of pain.
So slow down and do not merely eat. Taste and savor life while it’s yours.
Move thoughtfully and carefully, aware of your effect on the world.
Never underestimate all that goes into a good cheeseburger.
And, please, tip your servers.
Even if you get your food to go.