By Jason Osiason

The Taste of Things

The Taste of Things is beyond just food porn—it’s a food love story. Never have I seen a movie so perfectly capture what it means to consume food. On top of being a rich and mouth-wateringly shot love story, it’s about how food creates a sense of devotion, igniting thrill, evoking intimacy, and turning meals into memories. Using cooking as a love language, the well-deserved Cannes winner for Best Director chronicles how food was the foundation for a sprawling romantic relationship. The film opens with an extended sequence as thrillingly choreographed as any billion-dollar blockbuster. As mouth-watering entrees and meals are processed and served in exquisite detail, the camera glides throughout the kitchen with gluttony.

Juliette Binoche, in one of her more recent performances, stars as Eugénie, the mastermind chef orchestrating this culinary cuisine. Her reputation is as savory as the meals she cooks up and legitimizes the restaurant she’s employed by. Gérard Depardieu plays Alexandre, a renowned food critic who is captivated by Eugénie’s culinary prowess. As their relationship evolves, the film delves into their personal histories and the ways in which food has shaped their lives.

The Taste of Things is a rich and visually stunning exploration of how food can create devotion, ignite thrill, evoke intimacy, and turn meals into lasting memories. The film’s lush cinematography and meticulous attention to detail create an immersive experience that celebrates the transformative power of culinary art. While the narrative unfolds at a leisurely pace with intentionally low and intimate stakes, the atmosphere painted is heavenly and reaffirming, making for a deeply satisfying cinematic experience. [A-]

The Killer

The Killer is the funniest film of David Fincher’s career. I didn’t expect to love The Killer as much as I did. True to his anti-hero’s mantra, Fincher sticks to the plan and really delivers. So cleanly in his element, he crafts a slick, simple, clean, dark-humored, and expertly effective assassin film. Contemporary cinema’s most nihilistic mainstream auteur built his career by smuggling dark humor into pulpy genre pieces, but what makes this latest film so hysterical is how satire is baked into the overall themes of methodology. The rigid thriller follows an even more rigid assassin (welcome back, Michael Fassbender) who abides by an unfathomably stern mantra of apathy and process in a profession that threatens the opposite. That sounds familiar, right? Fincher is keenly aware of this metaphorical subtext regarding his perfectionist reputation and hilariously uproots it to text with ironically detached narration that taunts audience expectations.

At the same time, typically bleak sequences of carnage are delivered (featuring one of the most piercingly shot and brutal hand-to-hand combat set pieces in recent memory); the interest lies in the trivial mundanity of arriving there rather than the arrival. This is a deliberate and subversive approach that deconstructs the genre and invests more time in Fassbender’s character’s active mocking and detachment as he moodily glides through the plot mechanisms of murder. It’s no mistake Fassbender remains one of the most savagely watchable actors due to his striking physicality and soulful eyes, and these features are extrapolated to a propulsive degree as he carries every single scene. Tilda Swinton appears in a scene that directly confronts Fassbender’s manifesto and occasional desire for anarchy and elevates the film to a stunning level.

At almost two hours, there’s a lot of blitzing reputation. The finale is intentionally anticlimactic, but that’s the titillation of the movie. You can almost hear the director cackle off the screen at himself, knowing he made an off-putting hitman movie that makes fun of hitman movies, yet you’ll still love it. [B+]

Ferrari

Michael Mann has long been fascinated by the rites of masculinity, making Enzo Ferrari a fitting subject for his work. However, in Ferrari, Mann loses his way, struggling to find a compelling narrative to support his thematic exploration. Ironically, while vehicles are symbols of masculine freedom, the film itself feels like a broken-down car—dramatically inert and straightforward, clashing with Mann’s typically bold style. The screenplay is surprisingly traditional and reliant on trite, melodramatic dialogue, undermining Mann’s prowess as a confident filmmaker.

While there are moments of interest, the film is a mixed bag, focusing too much on Ferrari’s mistress and illegitimate son. It earns points for a crash sequence reminiscent of Final Destination but loses credibility by expecting us to believe Adam Driver would cheat on Penélope Cruz with a miscast Shailene Woodley. A significant focus of the film settles on the marital disputes between Ferrari and his mostly estranged wife, Laura, suggesting the real race is off the track. Driver is poised in the lead role and handles an Italian accent professionally, while Cruz emerges as the heart and soul of the film. Her intensely ferocious and animated performance highlights the more humorous and expressive elements of the relationship, calling to mind the farce of Italian cinema legends such as De Sica.

Cruz’s lively work exposes Mann’s disappointing decision to shoot the car sequences anonymously. The audio craftsmanship is excellent, but the blitzing racing set pieces feature forgettable side and background characters, limiting emotional attachment, which we’re haphazardly instructed to offer to Ferrari instead. There are far too many lifeless confrontations of domestic disputes and gesticulating behind-the-scenes boardroom meetings, which Mann struggles to cover in exciting ways. Such cumbersome dialogue yearns for more of the occasionally hellacious framing Mann is skilled at capturing, such as an askew closeup of the back of Ferrari’s head as he answers a phone.

A subplot involving a depressingly miscast Woodley as Driver’s quivering mistress stops the film in its tracks (no pun intended). Enzo Ferrari was a haunted man of ego who projected onto the creations he crafted, but that didn’t make for an engaging movie. [C]

Maestro

Bradley Cooper’s second directorial effort, Maestro, attempts to orchestrate a biographical drama about the life and work of renowned composer Leonard Bernstein. Despite Cooper’s evident passion for the subject matter and an earnest performance, the film hits a few discordant notes in its execution. The screenplay wavers in focus, leading to a narrative that feels more like a series of vignettes than a cohesive story. The highly stylized beginning of Maestro showed immense talent for framing scenes and was visually spellbinding, but the film cannot keep the momentum of its first few minutes.

The whole movie feels like one of the most self-affirming vanity projects I’ve seen in a long time. The performances ring false, and the film feels like it’s been edited to death, though it remains stunning to look at. As the lead contemplates how his relationship with Mulligan’s character Felicia impacted his musical work, you never get the feeling it really had an impact and that maybe she was a distraction from letting him be who he truly was. I found myself more fascinated when he got to explore who he really was than trying to live out a fantasy for a woman he cared for but didn’t romantically love. This made scenes of volatile emotion and tragic consequences devoid of impact, and I felt like the movie wanted to make me cry, but it didn’t work. Carey Mulligan brings a nuanced vulnerability to her role as Felicia Montealegre, Bernstein’s wife, her screen presence a testament to her talent. However, even her commitment to the character cannot surmount the script’s limitations. While the cinematography captures some striking visuals, they are not enough to compensate for the film’s uneven pacing and lack of character depth. Maestro sets out to pay tribute to a musical genius, but instead, it delivers a composition that lacks the emotional resonance and harmony befitting its subject. [C]

Janet Planet

Janet Planet is a mesmerizing exploration of how the conversations, imagery, art, and relationships we are exposed to at a young age play a crucial role in shaping our minds and worldview for adulthood. Set in the serene backdrop of a Massachusetts summer in 1991, the film follows 11-year-old Lacy and her single mother, Janet, through a period of emotional and personal growth. Lacy, a deeply observant and precocious girl, spends her days immersed in her imaginative world and the company of her mother. The bond between Lacy and Janet is the heart of the film, illustrating the profound impact of their relationship on Lacy’s developing sense of self and understanding of the world.

Pulitzer Prize winner Annie Baker’s direction brings an ethereal, almost dreamlike quality to the film. The naturalistic lighting and meticulously crafted sound design create an atmosphere that feels both intimate and expansive. The film’s visual language, with its thoughtful use of close-ups and long shots, draws the viewer into the characters’ internal worlds, making the emotions and relationships feel both raw and authentic. One standout sequence, set in the woods, transports Janet and Lacy into a magical realm, illustrating how art and nature can profoundly shape our perceptions and emotions.

Julianne Nicholson’s portrayal of Janet is both tender and complex, capturing a woman caught between her responsibilities and her desires. Zoe Ziegler delivers a remarkable performance as Lacy, her subtlety and depth bringing a quiet intensity to the role. The dynamic between Janet and Lacy showcases the delicate balance of nurturing and independence that defines their relationship. Supporting characters like Regina, played by Sophie Okonedo, and Avi, portrayed by Elias Koteas, add further layers of complexity, each bringing their own influences and perspectives into Lacy’s life. Ultimately, Janet Planet is unforgettable for its raw emotions, lovingly crafted scenes, and beautifully observed moments. It stands as a testament to how our early experiences, the art we engage with, and the relationships we form, collectively shape our understanding of the world and ourselves. [A-]

Foe

Foe is a less-than-stellar sci-fi psychological romance set in the future year 2065, starring Paul Mescal as Junior and Saoirse Ronan as his wife, Henrietta. The story revolves around their isolated life on a climate-ravaged farm, disrupted when a government agent, Terrance, arrives with a proposition for Junior to join a space mission, leaving an AI replica of him to keep Hen company. Despite its intriguing premise, Foe feels like an elevated young adult movie masquerading as ethereal art. The film swings more misses than hits, with explicit sex and nudity that feels gratuitous and out of place. The supposed romantic chemistry between Mescal and Ronan is more akin to that of siblings, making their relationship unconvincing and detracting from the emotional depth of the story.

Visually, Foe is stunning, with hauntingly beautiful cinematography that transforms the barren landscape into an evocative setting. The use of muted hues and close-ups adds to the film’s intense atmosphere. However, these visual elements cannot compensate for the lack of genuine romantic tension and the film’s overall narrative flaws. The exploration of loyalty and technology against the backdrop of a dying planet creates a thought-provoking experience, but the execution falls short. [D+]