BRAD BIRD, the animation whiz behind Pixar’s Ratatouille, deserves all the critical good will in the world. This is a man who spent years building his career by doing hard time on other people’s projects, from the sublime (The Simpsons) to the embarrassing (The Fox and the Hound). When he was finally given his chance to direct, in the late 1990s, he turned out The Iron Giant, an unconventional animated fable that reviewers loved but nobody bothered to market; it was buried at the box office, and it was five years before Bird’s next project reached theaters. Fortunately for everyone, that film turned out to be The Incredibles, which in addition to earning a gazillion dollars also happened to be one of the finest American movies—if not the finest American movie—of the new millennium.
No one should be surprised, then, that Bird’s Ratatouille is in many ways a gorgeous and lively entertainment. The titular rat, Rémy, is a rodent from the French countryside who pines to be a brilliant cook like his idol Gusteau, a jolly, recently deceased celebrity chef whose motto ‘Anyone can cook’ featured prominently in his bestselling cookbooks and daytime TV show. Naturally, fate gives Rémy a chance to try his luck in the kitchen of Gusteau’s restaurant, as the hidden paw behind the garbage boy-turned-apprentice chef Alfredo Linguini, a redheaded klutz who couldn’t tell escargot from an escalope de veau without Rémy hiding under his tall white hat, pulling on his hair like a puppet master. The unlikely partners dodge various obstacles along the way to culinary success—Rémy’s uncomprehending family; Skinner, Alfredo’s villainous, diminutive boss (who’s bent on using the Gusteau name to market frozen dinners); and the terrifying food critic, Anton Ego, whose first bite of a Rémy-created dish is as moving a moment as you’ll see in cinema this year.
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