If there is a moment on television this week that sums up the human condition in all its tragedy, absurdity and nobility, it is this. Two men, strangers united by a common cause, find themselves standing beside each other, and share a fleeting moment of communication.
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In a brief lull, sagging with fatigue, these two exchange a look. Words are not needed, but one speaks. Eight serious words. Words that say it all. Words to which the other knows there need be no response, because no response could ever be adequate: “I made a mistake with my cookie cutter.”
He made a mistake with his cookie cutter. Granted, there’s a chance this might not seem like much when you see it written here. But if you watch Storyville: Kings Of Pastry (BBC Four, Thursday, 9pm), you will find these words carry a weight you could never have imagined. There may be those who would assume a documentary about a cake-making competition – which is basically what it is – would be a trifle. But, while handled with the lightest of touches, this is heavy. The going gets so tough, you have to remind yourself to breathe. It is not a film for cream puffs, although there are cream puffs in it.
Kings Of Pastry is the highlight of a mysterious food season spread across BBC Four this week. Few would argue we are in pressing need of more TV shows about cooking, but this season seems to be making the case we could do with more of a different kind. Masterchef, Come Dine With Me, Jamie’s Ramsay Hell – all are fine in their way. But none really gets into the quest for art or the mad obsession that can drive chefs and gourmands into the hardcore. This, though, is precisely what’s on offer here: cooking shows that are a little less Michael Winner, a little more Michael Haneke.
The pressure cooker begins to build in Fat Man In A White Hat (Tuesday, 9pm), a two-part series in which the hyperactive American food writer Bill Buford takes his life in his hands by asking whether French food deserves to be considered among the finest in the world. In search of an answer, he uproots his family and throws himself into a gastronomical odyssey through France, seeking to understand the essence of the country’s cuisine by working under its most demanding chefs in what he describes, accurately, as “the militaristic, fascist, dictatorial, inflexible, scary-as-hell but kickass French kitchen”.
By the end of the first episode, five months have passed and Buford, sounding close to hysteria, admits he has reached the point where he is just beginning to understand how much he doesn’t know.
We venture deeper in The Man Who Ate Everything (Wednesday, 9pm), a portrait of Alan Davidson, the globetrotting, proudly dotty author of The Oxford Companion To Food, in which – madly, you might think – he set out to catalogue everything humans eat, from aardvark to zucchini, with Spam and various eyes along the way. For presenter Andrew Graham-Dixon, this book is no simple food reference, but “a portrait of the whole human race, in all its ingenuity”. By the end of his curiously engaging film, you sort of see what he means. Again, though, we are deep in obsession. It took Davidson 20 years to complete his book. He died four years later. (No aardvarks shed any tears.)
This, however, is but a light hors d’oeuvre before the emotional feast that is Kings Of Pastry. Shot on handheld video, it’s an unassuming-looking film, but gradually pulls you in, then won’t let go. There are masters behind and in front of the camera. The directors are the wife-and-husband team Chris Hegedus and DA Pennebaker (the brilliant veteran documentary-maker, probably still best known for his 1966 portrait of Bob Dylan, Don’t Look Back) and they work in an old-fashioned style that should be compulsory studying. No voiceover. No constant repetition. No leading the audience by the nose. They simply step back and bring off the difficult illusion they are letting the story tell itself.
The story is that of the three-day Meilleurs Ouvriers de France competition, in which 16 pastry chefs compete to join the ranks of the “MOFs” – the elite of French cake-makers, allowed to wear the hallowed red, white and blue collar. Hegedus and Pennebaker follow the campaign of three chefs as they train and then get down to the competition itself, held, like the Olympics and the World Cup, only once every four years, because more often would be too draining.
It’s like Masterchef in heaven. Or hell. Chefs must make a truly incomprehensible number of cakes and other delicacies, including – in the task that really sorts the men from the MOFs – sugar sculptures. Vast, maniacal, vulgar, almost surreally ornate creations for which sugar is pulled, shaped and blown like glass, but which are infinitely more fragile than the most delicate glassware.
On one level, the film is hilarious: big men being extremely serious about extremely ridiculous cakes. On another, as they toil to create these intricately meaningless things, it is profound. This is no competition in the ordinary sense, because everyone taking part could theoretically win, and everyone wants everyone else to win. A Band Of Brothers. By the end, the previously hardboiled head judge is practically in tears.
We soon learn how easily those sugar sculptures can be broken. After a while, I was gasping aloud every time someone went near one. Disaster looms constantly, and you wait constantly for it. Eventually, digging my nails into my palms, my heart tight, I realised I was reacting almost exactly the way I had while watching another film recently. Forget Masterchef. This is the culinary Hurt Locker.