BABETTE'S FEAST (1987)
"This head chef had the ability to transform a dinner into a kind of love affair."
3.5 out of ****
Starring Stéphane Audran, Bodil Kjer, Brigitte Federspiel, Jarl Kulle Written & Directed by Gabriel Axel, from a story by Isak Dinesen Cinematography by Henning Kristiansen
It is hard to imagine, in the last years of the 20th century, why anyone would choose the chaste, ascetic lifestyle that deeply religious people lived in the past (and that some still live today). The pleasures of the flesh are so immediate, so tangible: why forsake them? BABETTE'S FEAST, a wise, gentle Danish film, poses this question, but rather than the usual contrast of pious self-denial with the intense rewards of sex, it approaches the issue from a different angle, by looking at that other great carnal pleasure: eating.
Based on a novella by the great Isak Dinesen (probably best known for her memoir, OUT OF AFRICA), the tale is set in a village on the wild, rugged coast of Jutland. It is the 19th century, but it could easily be the 17th. The people are kind but puritanical; they live in simple, modest cottages; their favourite recreation is singing devotional songs. There are few young people in the community, and it's not hard to imagine why.
The first half of the film mostly fills in details of the past. We meet Philippa and Martina (Bodil Kjer, Brigitte Federspiel), the sweet, virginal daughters of a respected minister. Each sister is wooed by an outsider, but they reject their respective suitors, opting instead for lives of duty and charity, following in their father's footsteps.
As is often the case in Dinesen's stories, these brief, youthful passions have long-lasting consequences. Martina's suitor is an emotional French singer, and years later, still remembering the sisters' generosity and humanity, he refers a woman to them, a refugee from civil war in Paris. The sisters agree to let her live with them as a maid. The woman is Babette (Stéphane Audran). And years after this, Philippa's suitor, Lorenz (Jarl Kulle), who had departed when he realized he could not have her, happens to be visiting, on the occasion of their late father's 100th anniversary. For this special occasion, Babette asks that she be allowed to create a special dinner. Reluctantly (they don't want to indulge themselves), the sisters agree to let Babette treat them and their guests to the full range of her culinary talents.
The movie's first half is awkward; it betrays its literary provenance. We are shuttled back and forth in time, jarringly. Frequent voice-overs try to smooth over the awkward transitions, but the end result is intrusive. The film explains everything that is happening--the emotions and events are kept at a distance. But if it seems hurried and detached, it is perhaps because the filmmakers were anxious to get to Babette's feast, and who could blame them?
What a dinner it is. It is the centerpiece the movie, and it is wonderful. The guests arrive; are seated; they chat; fine wine is poured; and, one by one, exquisite French dishes are set before them. The camera lingers lovingly on every aspect of the meal: the preparation, the serving, the consumption. With musical precision, the film cuts back and forth from kitchen to dining room. Babette devotes herself to the feast, while the guests enjoy the results of her devotion, all the while making small talk, or religious observations, or toasts, or quiet sounds of satisfaction. Without fuss or bother, we are shown just how much pleasure can be had from a single meal, after a lifetime of soup and ale-bread.
There is very little use of incidental music; instead, ambient noises are emphasized, and this is particularly effective during the feast. The sounds of the kitchen and the dining room become a sort of ersatz orchestration, the perfect accompaniment to the conviviality and epicurean delight of the dinner. The fizz of champagne filling a glass, the bubbling of sauce in a pot on the stove, the soft clink of knife and fork as a piece of fruit is sliced open--these become a symphony, and Gabriel Axel the conductor. He makes the dinner sequence sensuous, intimate, vivid, but never calls attention to his methods: this is filmmaking so fine, so subtle, you are hardly aware of it.
Because they fear they are indulging their appetites unbecomingly, the dinner guests make a pact: they will say not a word about the food or drink. They will not admit that they have enjoyed it. Lorenz alone is not part of this pact, and his vocal enjoyment of the meal is humourously contrasted to the other guests' refusal to express their delight. But they certainly are delighted, and, in, the end, it is fortunate that they promised to say nothing--no words would have been adequate to express their dawning realization that in the gratification of our earthly senses there is, perhaps, something holy.
A Review by David Dalgleish (Sept 19/98) dgd@intouch.bc.ca
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