What does it mean to cook for someone? It can be a form of love or of duty, it can speak to someone on a level beyond words. Eating can be anything from a chore to a delight, and while the most pretentious dish can be disappointing, the most humble can be perfection.

It's also a form of theatre.

For the first 20 minutes of The Taste of Things, we see little but food. Vegetables are gathered from the kitchen garden, sauces are made and meats prepared for what looks to be a decadent feast. This excess is continued throughout the narrative, with casual dining a distant concept for the gourmands of the story.

A meal is prepared in the kitchen and carried upstairs to the waiting guests, whose table is replete with specific-use cutlery, lace tablecloths and ornate china, where it is unveiled to appreciative oohs and aahs.

Alongside the beauty of the finished product, the joy of fresh vegetables taken from garden to table, the film never shies away from the gore and violence of cooking. Soft lighting and warm tones illuminate frames of poultry innards being ripped out and discarded, meat being butchered. This is an integral part of the process, we're constantly reminded; there's violence behind the carefully constructed final dishes.

For a two-dimensional production, The Taste of Things does its best to engage all of its viewers' senses. It's beautifully designed and shot, and we hear every crackle and sizzle as ingredients are transformed into complete dishes. While you can't taste the food—technology hasn't got there quite yet—evocative and technical descriptions make you feel a part of the dining process.

The downside of this is the overly loud sounds of eating and breathing which become cloying and claustrophobic very quickly. Hearing Dodin's (Benoît Magimel) laboured breathing as he dots caviar atop an oyster successfully emphasises both the near-surgical precision of gourmet cooking and the sensuality of the meal, but is also an unpleasant distraction from the rest of the plot. Equally, amplified chewing noises are an unpalatable addition to several scenes.

While romance underlies the events of the film, it almost always comes second to vocation. Eugenie (Juliette Binoche) values her independence and wants to be valued for her vocation rather than her womanhood—before marrying Dodin she asks him whether she is his cook or his wife, with the former the desired answer. She only accepts his insistent proposals once he asks her through the medium of dessert, which includes a carefully selected pear that matches the curve of her body.

Binoche shines as Eugenie when she's given the chance, but her role allows her limited scope. Eugenie is not without autonomy—far from it. She is firmly in control of the relationship, outlining boundaries and deciding when Dodin is allowed entry into her room, but it's hard to ignore the fact that she is, in many ways, still his servant.

The same unexplanatory approach to class roles is taken to gendered expectations; while Dodin leaves to attend lauded gatherings and visit his friends, Eugenie remains firmly in her domain—his home. She has little interaction with anyone outside of those she cooks for and with, arguably becoming a variation of the angel in the house figure.

The Taste of Things is an exquisitely designed film, but it feels like an ingredient is missing. That being said, it's an enjoyable study of the emotional power of food and how we communicate with the people we love.

The Taste of Things is released in UK cinemas on 14 February 2024.