Jiro Dreams of Sushi

Saw Jiro Dreams of Sushi. Needless to say, I now want sushi. This was a nice antidote to yesterday's serial killer docudrama. Whereas that was misery porn, this is food porn with a heavy dose of refinement porn. A little old Japanese man talks of how to prepare the perfect sushi rice, how his fish-dealer is the best in the world, how his rice-dealer is the smartest man in the business, how the fish must be served at room temperature, never cold, how the octopus must be massaged, all while busy violins intricately twinkle on the soundtrack and the camera lingers over tiny little cakes of rice and fish which are always clearly luxuriating and relaxing onto the little black board they were just placed onto. This is pronographic in so many ways.

The film is a PBS-style beautiful documentary, focusing on lightness, beauty, art. It sometimes hit Baraka-esque levels of aesthetic revelling, as we visit the fish market, or when we film Jiro sitting in a subway car. There is almost no drama or strife in the film at all. The only note of anything as boorish as interpersonal conflict might be mined from Jiro's relationship with his sons, one of whom has his own sushi place and the other who is Jiro's apprentice. If you were inclined, you could argue that there are unspoken wounds here, but you'd be reaching. The son and the film have nothing but adoring praise for Jiro. It would probably be a bit tiring if it weren't for the loving caresses of the camera, always focusing on something pleasant and delicious.

The film pokes into many odd corners in its effort to break up 90 minutes of gushing love. We talk a bit about overfishing, about Jiro's family, his philosophy. We hear a lot of gushing praise from a food critic who thankfully explains Jiro's brilliance to us plebs. I wonder if the critic played any role in Jiro's rise to fame? A very pleasant little mouthful of a film.