The Cook, the Thief, His Wife, and Her Lover (1989)

The Cook, the Thief, His Wife, and Her Lover, besides having one of the best movie titles ever, is noted for receiving critical acclaim and accolades at the time of its release, though I personally came into contact with it as a young teen thanks to its status as an X-rated film, of which there were only so many back in its day. Despite always having an interest in seeing it, it's taken until now for a proper Blu-ray release of this film to grace the shelves of lovers of cinema everywhere. And even then, it has to lie and say on the back of the box that it's region-encoded to only play in Region B drives when that's absolutely not the case. Oh well, at least we can finally appreciate this film the way those who saw it at time of release did.

This story is something of a modern fable, concerning the gangster Albert Spica and his tormented bride Georgina. You see, Albert is a bully; specifically the kind of bully who is given free rein to terrorize anybody within earshot. He throws money around and carries an entourage of shady characters with him at all times so that he can do as he pleases all over town. He considers himself a gourmet and does not like to be insinuated to be of little class, despite all his belching. He's a monstrous hypocrite and an abuser, and Georgina has become like a ghost of her former self watching him sit atop his gilded perch and torment those around him.

Georgina's miserable life becomes rather exciting, however, when she and a regular patron of Albert's favorite restaurant, a quiet man with his nose always buried in a book, begin a passionate, semi-anonymous love affair in between courses. For a while, things are going swimmingly, and the lovers' passion for one another burns so brightly that even the restaurant staff are helping arrange it so that they can safely rendezvous. Problem is, Albert Spica is a violent, impulsive, boarish man, and if he were ever to find out about what was happening under his nose... Oh god, one can scarcely imagine.

As I said, it's presented as something of a fable, only done up in fabulously theatrical style. The mise-en-scene is ornate, the giant sets lavish, the orchestral score lush, and the visuals sumptuous. There's a real poetry to the colorful visuals of the film, and an elegance to the way the camera guides us through each sequence. And then there's the costuming, which is maybe the best in any film that I've ever seen. Everything feels heightened, operatic even, and for such a primal film that deals with subject matter both ugly and beautiful alongside one another, that's a bold choice. Not bad for a film that opens with dog feces being forcefed to a man and smeared all over his person.

What's the moral, you may ask? That is, if this is indeed a fable. Here's the thing, though, dear reader: the answer may surprise you. As you might would expect, there are many varieties of things you could glean from the subtext of this narrative, but the most obvious one is entirely political. This is pointedly not a film about class division, despite its talk of the French Revolution, but rather a condemnation of political bullying and a warning of what might happen if the pressure doesn't let up on the poor muddled masses. But obviously, it can be taken to be more of a personal tale of domestic abuse just as easily and it doesn't diminish the lovely narrative one bit.

Since everything is so often firing on all cylinders, it's hard to argue that any one element of the stew is above any other, but it's inarguable that the performances of the cast do a bulk of the legwork in its most intense scenes, working hand-in-hand with brilliant writing. And despite portraying the film's antagonist, this is really Michael Gambon's show. Appropriately for the loud, brash, bullish character, his presence is always keenly felt, and the absence of his presence doubly so. He spends so much of this film seemingly effortlessly unloading volumes of incredible dialogue with genuine conviction. And my god, is he intense! You can't take your eyes off of him. You really buy him as this larger-than-life presence that can hold an entire town of able-bodied people prisoner. The rest of the cast does wonderfully across the board, with Helen Mirren giving one of her signature roles here (she's naked for what feels like most of the movie) but it's hard not to always go back to Gambon's demented performance.

The film saves the best for its final third, wrapping up with one of the most satisfying and cathartic endings in all of cinema. This final scene highlights that the film is quite full of interesting characters, or at least characters with some degree of depth to them. The little choirboy, the cook, and in fact, most of the rest of the kitchen staff as well, all get an establishing character moment at some point. When they all join forces in the end, it would be truly heartwarming if the scene didn't also prominently feature a barbecued man being forcefed to someone at gunpoint. Therein lies the central dichotomy of this strange little cinematic gem; the obscene and vulgar right alongside the sublime and beautiful. It's something different, and it's something damn good.