The Menu: A Misunderstood Masterpiece About the Death of Art and the Hunger for Meaning
Mark Mylod’s The Menu is one of the most subtly brilliant films of recent years, a rare blend of horror, dark comedy, and biting satire served with precision.The Menu presents itself like an exquisite multi-course meal–, sleek, polished, and full of tension., However, underneath its high-class plating is a deeply satirical, biting commentary that many viewers seem to miss. And yet, despite its craftsmanship, clever writing, and pitch-perfect performances, it remains underappreciated by many viewers, often misread as simply a horror-thriller with a culinary twist. The truth is, The Menu has far more to say than its surface plot suggests, and its real brilliance lies in what’s left unsaid, rather, unsavored, by a mainstream audience that may not realize they’re the very subject of its critique.
At its core, The Menu is about consumption, not just of food, but of art, experiences, people, and meaning. It’s about how modern consumer culture, especially among the privileged and elite, turns everything sacred and soulful into a product. It’s a film about how we kill what we love by overindulging in it, analyzing it to death, commodifying it, and turning it into a status symbol. The food is the metaphor, but the message is much broader.
Ralph Fiennes plays Chef Julian Slowik, a once-passionate culinary artist who has become hollow and bitter after years of catering to entitled, performative diners who consume his creations not for sustenance or joy, but for prestige, attention, and social capital. The guests at his ultra-exclusive restaurant, Hawthorne, are representations of real-world types: the finance bros who see everything through the lens of ownership; the washed-up actor looking to seem relevant; the critic who dissects everything until it's lifeless; the loyal fanboy who worships artistry but doesn’t understand it. Every guest is a metaphor for how different sectors of society interact with art not to appreciate it, but rather to use and manipulate it.
And then there’s Margot (Anya Taylor-Joy), the outsider. Unlike the others, she isn’t supposed to be there , not only in the literal guest list sense, but ideologically as well. She doesn’t pretend to love the food, doesn’t analyze it, and doesn't try to impress anyone. She just wants a decent meal and to understand what the hell is going on. For example she openly critiques the many food options that are handed to her and the guests. That simplicity, that honesty, is exactly what Chef Slowik has lost and what he ultimately craves. She is the one guest who sees the farce for what it is, and her decision to ask for a cheeseburger isn’t just a plot device, it’s the film’s thesis. In asking for something simple, made with care and meant to be enjoyed, she offers the chef a glimpse of what he used to love about cooking, the true appreciation of the art, before it was corrupted by performance and praise.
One of the most tragic elements of The Menu is how it portrays the artist as a servant to an audience who doesn’t share even a fraction of his passion. Chef Slowik doesn’t just want to punish his guests, he wants them to understand why they are being punished. But they can’t, because they’ve never had to think about the consequences of their consumption. They’re used to being served. He’s used to being consumed.
The film’s tone, dry, dark, and composed mirrors the world it’s critiquing. Every frame is immaculately constructed, just like a fine dining dish, yet there’s a coldness to it. That’s intentional. You’re meant to feel how sterile and lifeless this world has become. Even the violence, though shocking, is delivered with the same calculated precision as each course. It’s not chaos but instead it’s ritual.
What makes The Menu underappreciated is that it doesn’t spoon-feed its meaning. Many viewers walk away seeing it as a horror satire of foodie culture and it is but that’s only the appetizer. The real entrée is its commentary on late-stage capitalism, the transactional nature of modern relationships, and the commodification of creativity. It’s not just about food. It’s about how we’ve lost the ability to genuinely experience things without trying to elevate, dissect, categorize, or profit from them.
In that sense, it’s a deeply existential film. Chef Slowik is every artist who has given too much to an audience that wanted too little. He’s the playwright whose words are quoted but not heard, the musician whose songs are streamed but never really felt, the painter whose work is Instagrammed but never truly seen. And Margot is us or at least, who we could be if we stopped performing and started actually participating.
By the end, the message is clear: sometimes, you just need a cheeseburger. Not because it's trendy or ironic, but because it's real. And in a world where everything has been curated, monetized, and elevated beyond recognition, realness is the rarest dish of all.
The Menu deserves more than just surface-level analysis or genre classification. It deserves to be understood, not consumed like fast food. It’s not trying to be a crowd-pleaser, it’s trying to wake the crowd up. And if you're still thinking about it days later, if it made you question your own relationship to art and consumption, then congratulations: you actually got it.