Paper Palate

Over the weekend, I had gone down to New York City to visit relatives, and had a chance to catch Michael Hoffmann’s Eden as part of the Tribeca Film Festival. The film centers on the trials and travails of Gregor, a rotund German chef who, while plucking the feathers from a duck, introduces himself to us by explaining his lifelong love for the earthy pleasures of food.

It’s one of those moments that could’ve easily been accomplished with flashback and perhaps a montage of kitchen prep scenes as Gregor readies himself for another night of business. But it’s focused on a duck, and is occasionally interrupted by Gregor sweet-talking his produce like a suitor proposing a date.

I shall stuff you with all kinds of good things. Cloves, cinammon, anise, juniper berries. And then we shall roast you in a hot oven so that your skin becomes crisp and beautiful. Oh you will be so beautiful, my sweet.

Or something like that. Then the film moves on, and you don’t see the duck again. Eden is littered with such scenes; gorgeous moments of sensual food prep that have little or nothing to do with the plot, and simply exist just to hook and tease you. It’s the shower scene for foodies. Gratuitous Gastronomy, if you will; the kind of thing that would probably show up on Cinemax if the execs at the channel realized there was a market for food porn. Not the least of reinforcements for this concept is the fact that Gregor is a chef with a gift for making aphrodisiac dinners.

The conceit that food is an instrument of emotion is a familiar one in cinema. Like Water for Chocolate featured a woman who channeled her emotions into dishes that inexplicably evoked both lust and sorrow. Big Night was all about the indelible link between love and flavor. To this lineage, one would add Eden and its hapless hero, who can inspire love and emotion from all of his diners, but cannot win love for himself.

Instead, Gregor watches waitresses as a purely voyeuristic exercise; knowing in his heart that his heavy-set physique will never win their affections. Nonetheless, he manages to strike up a friendship with a young waitress, Eden, and her disabled daughter. It is through this relationship that his cooking becomes a device that both enriches and complicates Eden’s life.

As a romance and a comedy, the film is like its chef — earnest and well-meaning yet clumsy and self-conscious; excelling only in the moments where food is the center of attention. The dynamic between Gregor, Eden and her family feels forced and sometimes unintentionally creepy. The resolution of the film is a hilariously contrived deus ex machina, but in between all of the mediocre plot points is an endearing comprehension of the primal wonders of the kitchen and the irresistable draw it has to those of us who’ve been fortunate enough to sample its sublime wonders. Hopefully its exposure on the film festival circuit will get it a distributor and you can keep an eye out for it in your local arthouse.