The Pixar-Perfect Moment: Ego and "The Peasant's Dish"

With Onward in theatres in a few weeks, I figured I’d discuss Pixar’s brilliance. More specifically, I’d discuss my favourite Pixar moment and what it makes it great. And why not? This year, after all, marks the 25th anniversary of Toy Story’s release, so it’s worth giving “The House of Renderman” a proper send-up. But anyway, moving on.

Ratatouille’s an unusual movie. Ignoring how niche it is, especially as a mainstream production, it has a divisive status with Pixar fans. Even I have to be in the right mood to watch it. And while re-watching it to write this piece, it struck me how odd the premise, about a rat who hustles his way into the food industry, is. Also, one of its defining moments, when Linguini kisses Colette, is incredibly creepy in hindsight. (Seriously, ew!)

The one area even detractors acknowledge holds up is Anton Ego. Not only is he given humanity by the late-Peter O’Toole, in arguably one of his best performances, but he practically makes the film. He’s cold, brooding and nasty, but there’s an element of complexity that only someone like O’Toole can pull off. Case in point: when Ego is “defeated” by a ratatouille dish, which is the movie’s best moment. It’s also, arguably, one of the best scenes in film history.

For context, this moment has been culminating throughout the third-act. Ego, Paris’s snobbiest food critic, orders dinner from Gusteau’s restaurant with the intent to give another bad review; after all, he destroyed the reputation of the late chef once, so how hard can it be to disgrace his son? You can feel the tension, as well as the frantic attempt by Remy and his family to make a meal that’ll satisfy him. When it’s decided that Ego’s will have ratatouille, which Colette calls “a peasant’s dish”, all eyes are on Ego. Even Ego’s initially dismissive: ratatouille? Is this a joke?

Cue the first bite.

Within seconds of putting the food in his mouth, Ego’s, well, ego melts to reveal a younger version of himself coming home from a bike accident. His mother, a kindly lady, serves him-you guessed it-ratatouille. With that moment bubbling back to the surface, Ego, shocked, drops his pen. A warm smile appears on his face, the first in (probably) decades, and he proceeds to wolf down the rest of the dish. This’d be enough to claim as awesome on its own.

But it doesn’t stop there. After an altercation involving Skinner and the rats in the kitchen, Ego asks Linguini to meet the chef. We briefly see Linguini and Colette arguing over whether or not that’s a good idea behind closed doors, but they finally agree to show Remy after closing hours. Remy then takes over with his narration, culminating in one of the best speeches I’ve heard in film.

There’s a lot to unpack from these few minutes. For one, the dialogue’s sparse. Most of the storytelling’s told with visuals here. Considering that film’s a medium relying on the rule of “show, don’t tell”, this plays to its strengths. We don’t hear Ego mention how peculiar the ratatouille being served to him is, we see it in his face. We don’t hear him mention how he’s ready to give a bad review, the click of his pen does that. Even the flashback, which is dialogue-free, conveys his mood, as does dropping his pen.

The best example of sparse dialogue being used well is Remy’s narration, followed by Ego’s review. With the former, Ego only has one line. For the latter, no one but Ego is heard. A lot’s going on visually, but the floor’s given to the respective narrators. And it works.

Two, the narrations of both Remy and Ego are nerve-wracking and suspenseful. In Remy’s case, this is the equivalent of finding out Santa Claus isn’t real for Ego. When Linguini shows how Remy makes the food, you can see Ego’s unimpressed. You feel the tension, wondering if he’ll slight the meal because a rat made it. And when he leaves, the fear’s further enhanced.

But the movie does something clever: it subverts expectations. Ego’s speech starts with him being manner-of-fact: he mentions the role of a critic. He talks about how stressful it is for artists to be criticized. He even mentions how critics often ignore the merits of common art. For those who’ve had interactions with critics, this is all true to form.

Halfway through the monologue, however, Ego’s disposition changes. He mentions how the “defence of the new” is risky, and that his dinner came from “an unexpected source” that “rocked [him] to [his] core”. He also acknowledges that he was quick to dismiss Gusteau’s motto “anyone can cook”, saying that it was arrogance on his part. As he points out, “Not everyone can become a great artist, but the ability to become a great artist can come from anyone.” After years of snobbery, spitting out food that he doesn’t like and, well, ego, Ego’s, quite literally, pacified by ratatouille, or “a peasant’s dish”.

Third, there’s a lesson to be had here on a macrocosmic level. Brad Bird, the film’s director and writer, is frequently cited by critics as being “Randian”. On some level, it’s even possible to read into this scene as being him arrogantly patting himself on the back. But whether or not that’s a fair claim, art isn’t easy to make and often deserves more respect. You know the saying, “Everyone’s a critic”? This is a passive way of quelling that mentality.

And fourth, this is the movie’s apex, and yet it’s matched with subdued music. That the accordion is most-notable in this tense and quiet moment of introspection reminds us that it’s not the big and loud moments that make the greatest impacts. Sometimes, the act of feeding someone ratatouille and triggering nostalgic memories says it all.

Above all, the moment shows us that, when all is said and done, the language of cinema is universal. Ratatouille may not be the most-beloved Pixar movie, I admit it. Lord knows I have my issues with the film! But it has Pixar’s best moment. It’s a quiet, tense and effective scene about the power of art to inspire and change people positively. Bless Pixar for broaching the subject so sensitively.

That forced kiss, however, is pretty gross. How is that romantic, exactly?