American organized crime is by its very nature, patriarchal. It’s invariably steeped in a distinctly masculine greed, misogyny, and thuggishness that values wealth and violence above all else. But The Kitchen, written and directed by Andrea Berloff adapted from a Vertigo comic series, attempts to upend that by envisioning a crime syndicate run by women -which is a neat idea to be sure, empowering to some, degrading to others. However, the film falsely assumes there to be no greater dimensions to such a premise beyond the broadest strokes of vengeance on abusive men and a masculine system that remains heavily masculine as the protagonists in charge simply run it in the tracks of every other gangster movie.
And this is not a particularly good one. It isn’t very strong on the merits of its story, tenuous on the details of how mobster wives Kathy Brennan (Melissa McCarthy), Ruby O’Carroll (Tiffany Haddish), and Claire Walsh (Elisabeth Moss) manage to gain control of their Irish mob in Hell’s Kitchen, and is disinterested in setting up its large cast of characters in any meaningful way (we only learn one guy is Kathy’s cousin immediately preceding his death). Such brazenly convenient dropping of information and exposition, as well as a large heaping of unbelievable and awkward dialogue aren’t the scripts’ greatest shortcomings though; rather it’s how plot points and character motivations undermine the philosophy the film sets out with -most significantly the uncommented upon or critiqued evolution of the womens’ ruthlessness, and a last act reveal that changes the circumstances of their alliance thereby nullifying a part of their individual agency and capabilities.
The irony-laden double-meaning of the title goes hand-in-hand with the films’ thin portrait of sexism, which uses the 1970’s setting to be as broad with the stereotypes as possible. No man is safe from being an asshole, not even Domhnall Gleeson’s mysterious and brooding hitman, while the women taking on the patriarchy is bereft of meaningful comment or coherent intuitiveness as they grow their empire to the most banal ‘70’s musical accompaniment (is there a lazier song to evoke that decade than “Carry On My Wayward Son”?). They become merely women gangsters without the film saying anything substantive about what that means and it renders the whole enterprise shallow.
Equally egregious and disengaging are The Kitchen’s filmmaking blunders. It’s much too fast-paced through a lot of its first act, and the editing is often sloppily disorienting, characterized by a number of abrupt scene transitions that leave the scenes in question feeling incomplete -even the ending feels much too rushed, sapping off rather meekly a good thirty minutes of build-up. The film also has a fondness for jump cuts to close-ups (giving the impression of a failed take) and unnecessary establishing shots that make the whole flow very clunky, bordering on inept. Why is there a four second shot of Kathy and Ruby outside a Hasidic Jewish Temple before cutting to a meeting with the Rabbi? Why does a conversation between Kathy, Ruby, and Claire need multiple consecutive cuts to Ruby’s face during a single piece of dialogue? This is Berloff’s first directing credit, previously best-known for co-writing Straight Outta Compton, and it’s clear she needed more training on the technical side of the job.
She’s better with the actors, The Kitchen’s most audacious (and marketable) ploy. Though Moss is right at home (arguably to her detriment) as the marital abuse victim coming out of her shell to enact retribution on her oppressors, McCarthy and Haddish are deliberately cast against type for what appears to be the sheer novelty of it. Both have proven themselves capable with serious subject matter, McCarthy in Can You Ever Forgive Me? and Haddish in Tuca & Bertie, but those were also roles that depended to some degree on their comedic skillsets and personas, neither of which is present in The Kitchen, as brutal, violent, and intense as any other mafia movie. Ultimately Haddish fares a little better as the ambitious, impulsive schemer (though McCarthy is trying her hardest through an inconsistent accent), neither are at a point where they can sell material as serious as this. As committed as they are, you can’t help but expect McCarthy to make some outrageously off-colour remark or Haddish to let loose with an eccentric outburst of spontaneity.
The Kitchen is a film that would work much better with the cast of Steve McQueen’s Widows, the movie this film can’t help but be compared to due to the subject matter and release proximity. But then it would have been difficult enough to bring this movie to life without miscasting the leads, Moss and Gleeson too playing well below their talents, or contriving small parts for the likes of Common and Margo Martindale, who as the de facto crime lord, is the best part of the movie. Widows is certainly the superior film with much more going for it in every respect, but I have an admiration for what The Kitchen was at least aiming to be. However, it needed the strength to really dig into its concept, a less conventional narrative, more competent filmmaking, and better casting. Without, it feels little more than a gimmick of a genre flick.
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