Tony, the A24-produced biopic about famed chef and author Anthony Bourdain, asks the question: What if the protagonist of a coming-of-age/the-summer-that-changed-my-life film does indeed… suck?
While this question is a play on Bourdain’s famous phrase of praise (“This definitely does not suck”), it is, in essence, what makes director Matt Johnson’s (Blackberry, Nirvanna the Band the Show the Movie) film about the chef, author, and television presenter’s fateful summer of 1975 work. We begin with a protagonist who is wholly unlikeable due to his arrogance and insecurities. He flat out sucks as a person. Yet, watching his slow and imperfect journey of self-discovery brings out a charm in the film that’s not only well-earned, but reflective of Bourdain himself.
When we meet 19-year-old Tony Bourdain (Dominic Sessa) he is as the author described himself in his acclaimed book Kitchen Confidential, “a spoiled, miserable, narcissistic, self-destructive and thoughtless young lout, badly in need of a good ass-kicking.” He walks around his college campus dressed like he walked out of a studio session with The Stooges, a pair of nunchucks tucked in his waistline, believing every word that comes from his mouth is profound, charming, and will get him far in this world. He’s convinced he sweet-talked his way into a writing fellowship that will fuel his Kerouac fantasies of being a writer in New York City.
Naturally, this pipe dream falls apart, and he rashly decides to flee his well-to-do suburban New Jersey home (for reasons that are fairly underwritten) to chase after Nancy (Emilia Jones—who makes a meal out of a thinly developed character), the woman he’s had a crush on since high school, who is spending her summer in Provincetown. In his arrogance, Tony is sure she’ll fall head over heels for him upon first glance. This plan fails immediately, and he soon finds himself drunk, penniless, and sleeping in a literal gutter after getting his ass kicked.
Stranded in Provincetown, Tony takes a job as a dishwasher at The Flagship, a local seafood joint (where he got his ass handed to him during his pity party), to fund his way back home. His time at The Flagship puts him in direct mentorship from two very distinct men: the fatherly yet highly enigmatic owner of the restaurant (Antonio Banderas), who introduces him to the world of cooking, and the devil-may-care cook Sal (Leo Woodall), who introduces him to the world of drugs and recklessness. Under these two men, the loutish, insecure, and privileged Bourdain discovers a love for cooking, the true camaraderie found in a kitchen, and the habits that would haunt him for decades.
Giving Tony the Springsteen: Deliver Me From Nowhere framework—telling a singular story from a famed life—was a risky proposition, especially since this part of Bourdain’s life could fall into that American as apple pie “the summer my life changed forever” genre. These tales usually involve a naive, wide-eyed protagonist who falls into a gauzy romance, meets a cavalcade of advice-spewing caricatures, and has the big “Aha!” moment that changes them forever. It’s all very Hallmark movie adjacent fluff. It’s also not the way to tell a story about a man who unabashedly spoke of his addictions, struggles, and flaws.
To Johnson’s credit (also a co-writer on the film), he allows Bourdain to soak in being unlikeable. The film doesn’t shy away from Tony’s arrogance, selfishness, and most importantly, his insecurities. So when we find a bloody, drunk, penniless Tony sleeping in the literal gutters of Provincetown, it’s not a dramatized moment of hitting bottom; this guy put himself there. From there he takes his lumps, fails constantly, injures himself often, and despite what he thinks are his best efforts, continually proves he’s just a mess of a human.
Dominic Sessa takes all of these circumstances, fueled by Bourdain’s insecurities, and manifests them into undeniable underdog charisma. He is the key ingredient to why Tony works so well as a non-traditional (yet still somewhat traditional) coming-of-age tale. His body language throughout the first half of the film is hunched, taut, and near-gnarled by anxiety unless he’s aided by alcohol or drugs. As he discovers himself and his passions, Sessa allows Bourdain’s body to relax, and simultaneously he begins to exude an infectious confidence. Sessa’s effortless ability to channel Bourdain’s intrinsic charm and charisma (as well as his rich baritone voice) sweeps audiences along for the chef’s journey of discovery and breaks our hearts when we see Tony give into his darker impulses.
Sessa’s dynamite chemistry with his comrades in the kitchen bolsters the charm he brings to the film. Comedian Stavros Halkias steals every scene he’s in, essentially playing a New England version of himself. His boisterous, coke-and-profanity-laced dialogue exemplifies the rough-around-the-edges familial nature of a kitchen that Bourdain speaks at length about in Kitchen Confidential. Leo Woodall is excellent as the bombastic devil with some redeemable qualities on Tony’s shoulder. He represents the danger and dark side of the culinary world that Bourdain would eventually find himself entrenched.
However, it’s Antonio Banderas who shines the brightest amongst the bunch. His character, known only as Chef, is a wonderfully rich character wrapped in a cable knit sweater of mystery. We don’t get any sort of sappy backstory, but Banderas’ vocal and physical choices throughout, you can tell this man has seen a lot and been through a lot. It’s also fascinating to watch Banderas work as Chef, as he masterfully and lovingly works with food; you’d imagine he’s been working in kitchens, and not movies, for his entire life. Sessa and Banderas have this incredibly realistic and loving relationship. It’s a classic mentor/mentee relationship, but watching the brash waves of Bourdain’s ego crash against the granite reserve of Banderas’ personality makes their eventual partnership feel so much more believable.
Tony is a film that indeed does not suck. It studies a flawed young man who discovers his life’s calling and all the good and bad that comes with it. It has an undeniable, imperfect charm that slowly simmers to perfection and is presented to the audience as a tribute and a story worthy of one of America’s great storytellers.
