Flux Gourmet: NZIFF Review

The stylised and highly fetishised filmmaking of Peter Strickland returns in a satire that lacks bite, aims for base levels and is slighter than any of his previous works.

It follows a group of sonic caterers, (a band which uses food and sound to create aural experiences), who have been chosen for a residence at an arty-farty mansion, run by Gwendoline Christie's flowery language spouting head. The trio uses cookery and Radiophonic Workshop stylings to create experiences and their time during the residence is being catalogued by a flatulent writer, whose growing discomfort becomes the main storyline.

But with a rival group threatening to derail the caterers' career and the band itself threatening to implode thanks to tensions and insecurities, there's plenty of pressure to deal with - and not just horrific gas.

Strickland's pretensions are on full display, with aural self-indulgence being the main element employed here. There's no disguising the level from the get-go with this film, a movie that, while threatening to send up the arts world, never really feels like it's got a target in its sights and has zeroed in with extreme precision.

Collectively, the ensemble here are fine; perhaps Christie stands out as she dives full-tilt into the lunacy the script demands, and Strickland's aesthetics have never been more obvious, but this remains a film that's for acquired tastes. It's definitely arty-farty, but with some of its low hanging fruit, it's never anything more than it could be - slide into its rhythms and you'll be satiated. 

But it truth Flux Gourmet is a movie that makes a meal of its intentions - and is sadly all the worse for it.