Frissons, à la carte.
The concept of haute cuisine is often described as a blend of art and sustenance, but The Menu asks: what happens when the art itself bites back? Mark Mylod’s razor-sharp satire serves up a banquet of biting commentary, garnished with horror and comedy, all plated with meticulous precision. It’s a darkly funny deconstruction of pretentious culinary elitism, served alongside a searing critique of consumerism, class, and the cult of the auteur.
The story unfolds on an exclusive island, where a handpicked group of diners arrive for an evening at the gastronomic temple of Chef Slowik (Ralph Fiennes). Fiennes gives a performance that’s equal parts magnetic and menacing, commanding the screen with the poise of a culinary cult leader. The guests, an eclectic mix of archetypes representing wealth, privilege, and ego, quickly realise that the menu is more than just a degustation – it’s a finely calibrated gauntlet of psychological (and literal) terror.
Anya Taylor-Joy’s Margot is the audience’s anchor in this high-stakes feast, her scepticism and grounded perspective offering a much-needed counterpoint to the absurdity around her. Taylor-Joy’s chemistry with Fiennes crackles, particularly as her character’s unexpected presence unsettles the rigid perfectionism of the evening’s master plan. Nicholas Hoult, meanwhile, is perfectly cast as the insufferably sycophantic foodie Tyler, whose fawning devotion to Slowik makes his eventual reckoning all the more satisfying.
Mylod, known for his work on Succession, brings the same surgical precision to the storytelling here, balancing tension and humour like a master chef layering flavours. The screenplay, penned by Seth Reiss and Will Tracy, wields wit like a scalpel, carving through the layers of artifice surrounding the characters. Every course served during the evening has a narrative purpose, a thematic weight that’s revealed with macabre flourish.
The Menu takes full advantage of its setting, transforming the restaurant into a cold, geometric altar to perfectionism. The cinematography frames each dish like a piece of modern art, echoing the obsession with aesthetic over substance that the film so ruthlessly critiques. The sterile beauty of the mise-en-scène amplifies the growing unease, making the restaurant feel as much a trap as a temple.
The film’s humour is as dark as its themes, with moments of absurdity that land like perfectly timed amuse-bouches. It skewers not just the world of fine dining, but also the sycophancy that surrounds genius, the commodification of art, and the transactional nature of relationships in the upper echelons of society. It’s a rich feast of ideas, though some might argue that its focus on satire occasionally leaves its emotional core a little underdone.
As the evening hurtles toward its inevitable, fiery conclusion, The Menu deftly avoids the pitfalls of predictability. It knows exactly how to serve its final course: with a searing statement that’s as cathartic as it is unsettling. This isn’t just food for thought – it’s a full-blown culinary reckoning.
Ultimately, The Menu is a sumptuous treat for those with a taste for satire, anchored by stellar performances and a script that slices through its subject matter with surgical precision. Whether you savour it or find it hard to digest may depend on your appetite for its particular brand of dark humour, but there’s no denying it’s a dish that lingers long after the plate is cleared.
