The Taste of Things review –Juliette Binoche stars in deliciously subversive tale of later life love

‘Emotional harmony’: Juliette Binoche (Eugénie) and Benoît Magimel (Dodin) in The Taste of Things. Photograph: Stéphanie Branchu/AP

Sumptuous, sensual and impossibly handsome, at first glance French-Vietnamese director Tran Anh Hung’s lavish foodie romance The Taste of Things looks like just another decorous prestige period drama. But in its elegantly restrained way, Tran’s film, which is set almost entirely in the kitchen, grounds and dining room of the country chateau of famed gourmet Dodin (Benoît Magimel) in 1880s France, is every bit as radical and risk-taking as some of the showier, quirkier awards contenders this year (it was France’s submission for this year’s international Oscar category, chosen over Anatomy of a Fall, but failed to make the final list).

Take its exquisite opening sequence. Starting with a wordless nod of approval from Dodin’s celebrated cook, Eugénie (Juliette Binoche), as the gardener hands her a gnarled, freshly exhumed celeriac root, the film then gets down to the serious business of cooking. Around 35 minutes, much of it dialogue-free, is dedicated to the meticulous preparation and appreciative consumption of a feast. In a fluidly choreographed dance of the camera and characters, Eugénie is joined in the kitchen by Dodin, kitchen assistant Violette (Galatéa Bellugi) and Violette’s niece Pauline (enchanting newcomer Bonnie Chagneau-Ravoire).

Dodin describes them both as being in the autumn of their lives; Eugénie prefers to think of herself in a permanent summer

Aside from the remarkable technical accomplishment of this sequence, you are struck by the audacious daring of easing us into a film with a tranquil, uneventful study of chopping, sieving, tasting and savouring that lasts for more than half an hour. Given the pressure from streaming platforms for film-makers to open their movies with full-throttle, audience-grabbing plot dumps, Tran’s decision seems defiant and almost subversive.

This luxurious, leisurely opening allows us to fully explore and feel our way around the relationship between Dodin and Eugénie. He is her employer, certainly, but it’s obvious from the outset that, both in the kitchen and outside it, they are equals. More than that, there’s an effortless intimacy in the way they move around each other; the way their heads almost touch as they confide over the precociously sophisticated palate displayed by the untrained but entranced kitchen newbie, Pauline. But it’s not until the evening, when the plates have been licked clean and the last of Dodin’s guests has waddled home that we learn not only that Eugénie and Dodin are long-term lovers, but also that the relationship is conducted on Eugénie’s terms. Over a twilight digestif, accompanied by a chorus of cicadas, he asks her to marry him and she gently demurs: it’s a conversation that has clearly played out on countless occasions over the past 20 years. Dodin persists nonetheless.

Tran, whose previous films include the similarly evocative and slow-burning The Scent of Green Papaya, makes a point of emphasising the parallels between the sensual experiences of food and those of the flesh. The grunts and moans of gratification emanating from Dodin and his foodie chums as they wear the traditional napkin over their heads to conceal the shameful decadence of scoffing an ortolan sound positively coital (a now outlawed delicacy, the tiny songbird would be force-fed, drowned in Armagnac then chomped down in a single mouthful). And while I adored the mischief of cutting straight from a luscious and inviting poached pear to a shot of Binoche’s delectably peachy naked bottom, nobody could accuse Tran of being subtle in his symbolism.

Yet once again, The Taste of Things defies expectations. There is something refreshingly unconventional about its depiction of the tender, well-worn love between Eugénie and Dodin. It’s not just that they are an older couple – Dodin describes them both as being in the autumn of their lives; Eugénie prefers to think of herself in a permanent summer – there’s also the point in the relationship at which we join them. Cinema tends to be fascinated by the high-stakes drama and intensity of new love or the brutal evisceration of its final moments. Far fewer films explore the comfortable familiarity of a love that has endured and deepened over decades. Vanishingly rare are pictures that capture this kind of relationship so satisfyingly.

There’s a serene emotional harmony between Dodin and Eugénie, but also an enduring, intensifying pleasure in each other’s company. It’s a pleasure that is expressed through food rather than words. Dodin’s longing is folded into the paper-thin pastry of a dessert created for the ailing Eugénie. An omelette, cooked with love and eaten with a spoon, is as pure and heartfelt as a sonnet.