Review: The Kitchen is a woman’s place, indeed

By Katherine Monk

A woman’s place is in The Kitchen, indeed. Melissa McCarthy’s character even walks around with a plate of cookies in the opening act. But that’s about as far as Andrea Berloff’s directorial debut goes with stereotype — the remaining two-thirds of The Kitchen features women doing everything women are not supposed to do. At least where the Hollywood Bible is concerned.

That’s the whole point of this exercise: To loudly crash the sausage party, whether it be the mob scene in 1970s New York, or Hollywood’s male-dominated corporate mafia.

To Berloff, it probably made no difference. As the screenwriter who won an Oscar nod for penning Straight Outta Compton, she’s processed both worlds from a specific point of view. Every shred of that experience pours out on the page, and in turn, bubbles up through each of the female leads, forming a trio of simmering kettles in Hell’s Kitchen. All we have to do is wait for the whistles as Berloff turns up the heat.

Based on a DC Vertigo comic book series created by Ollie Masters and Ming Doyle, The Kitchen is basically the same deal as Widows — or vice-versa. The long-suffering, law-abiding wives of criminals decide to take matters into their own hands when their men are incapacitated, one way or another.

Part revenge-quest, part sisterhood of the travelling pants with pistol-holders, The Kitchen has so many male constructs sewn into its inseam, Berloff doesn’t have a lot of room to move. It’s a man’s cut, yet she makes it comfortable by wearing it all a size too large, boyfriend style.

As a result, this movie looks pretty butch at first glance. It appropriates the comic-book, manicured and saturated Tarantino-style we’re accustomed to in these stylish, auteur-driven, action movies (according to the marketing, at any rate), as well as all the seemingly necessary violence. And all the unnecessary hair product.

Clearly, this movie is posing. It has slick cuts played out to a period soundtrack. But it’s also playing, which may be the best thing about it. Certainly, the story of three women going to the dark side as a collective coven isn’t what makes this interesting to watch. We almost make the assumption from the beginning.

Thanks in large part to Berloff and the cast, the truly fascinating part of The Kitchen isn’t the final product. It’s watching every character cook on different burners, and listening to the distinct sound of a whistling soprano chorus as each actor hits her own boiling point, then pours her scalding contents into a particular teapot of problems.

Thanks in large part to Berloff and the cast, the truly fascinating part of The Kitchen isn’t the final product. It’s watching every character cook on different burners, and listening to the distinct sound of a whistling soprano chorus as each actor hits her own boiling point…

A steaming Melissa McCarthy now becomes Kathy, the Brown Betty of the bunch: a familiar Irish Ma type with a round handle. She’s steeping a pot of hand-picked loyalty, mixed with matronly florals and some bitter herbs. Cuddled up in the criminal cozy beside her is Claire, a hot mug of brew that tastes light, but packs a deceptive, psychedelic punch. Rounding out the caddy is Tiffany Haddish as Ruby, the french press that allows all the dark sins to sink to the bottom, then carefully applies pressure to extract maximum flavour.

Because each actor is being the water, and not the vessel, the Mom-to-Godfather transformation demanded by the script and source material becomes their own as it leeches out. It’s not just great acting, it’s a team effort that finally overrides the watery quality of the story itself.

Berloff gets credit for giving her actors so much to work with both on screen and on the page. You feel some of the words have been steeping in her own mind, just waiting for an opportunity to spill out. It’s why the emotions in the film often feel real, even when everything else feels vaguely like a Charlie’s Angels episode — where the girls go rogue, find Charlie, shoot him in the head, and take over the business.

Berloff gets credit for giving her actors so much to work with both on screen and on the page. You feel some of the words have been steeping in her own mind, just waiting for an opportunity to spill out. It’s why the emotions in the film often feel real, even when everything else feels vaguely like a Charlie’s Angels episode — where the girls go rogue, find Charlie, shoot him in the head, and take over the business.

You gotta admit, there’s a part of that equation that could be morally justifiable in a standard Hollywood movie context, even without a #MeToo hashtag. Charlie was rich and sat behind an intercom while the Angels went out and risked their lives in high heels every week. For what? A few bucks and a designer purse?

Yet, as a woman and a human creature, I still find it difficult to swallow this sticky strand of moral thought. Violence can never be truly justified, even when it’s benefiting your side. I couldn’t cheer when the bad guy bought it, nor could I root on these charming sisters in crime as they sprayed their way to the top of the heap.

Maybe that’s why the movie left me feeling curiously empty. Tea and crones isn’t entirely satisfying, especially when the script is so dry and the recipe so crusty. But put some creamy McCarthy, honey Haddish or lemony Moss in The Kitchen, and you’re guaranteed more than few sweet gulps.

@katherinemonk

THE EX-PRESS, August 9, 2019

-30-