For a documentary about the man behind one of the best, most influential restaurants on our planet, Noma: My Perfect Storm is terribly uninspired. It’s about René Redzepi and his amazing Copenhagen restaurant, Noma, the epicenter for Nordic cuisine that has topped the “World’s 50 Best Restaurants” list four times since 2009. Chef René and his team are relentlessly focused, innovative and dedicated, nearly to a fault, and yet Pierre Deschamps documentary is the complete opposite: rudderless, overwrought and unoriginal.

The focus is squarely on chef Redzepi, his food philosophies, ego, work ethic and accomplishments. It’s a solid underdog story. Redzepi’s vision for Noma was to introduce the world to the first purely Scandanavian restaurant, sourcing ingredients from local farmers and crafting region-specific dishes you’ll only find in their little corner of the world. The irony here is that this Nordic culinary revolutionary is actually an immigrant from Macedonia who regularly faced discrimination for his Muslim background on his journey to the top. The adversity molded Redzepi into a bit of a rebel, a proud outsider who exercises his passion on his terms and cares little what his peers and critics think of him.

The story’s drama comes from a February 2013 norovirus outbreak that affected over 60 of Noma’s patrons, a botch that arguably lost them their top spot on the Best Restaurants list that year. A year later, still reeling from their prior defeat (though they won’t admit it), the Noma team attends the awards ceremony again. Redzepi goes on bitterly about how the ceremony is all arbitrary bullshit anyway, but fast forward a few minutes and he’s a ball of giddy excitement as it’s announced that Noma’s retaken the top spot. It’s intriguing to watch his psychological ups and downs, but the film is never piercing or incisive enough to explore that side of his psyche in a way that’s challenging or revealing.

The most upsetting thing about this food doc is that it doesn’t seem to share the same passion for food as its subject. The amazing plates Redzepi and his team design and debate over so meticulously aren’t showcased often or artfully enough, and this gets very frustrating, very fast. When we do see a close-up of one of Noma’s marvelous plates, it’s almost always out of context, with no insight provided into the conceptualization of or inspiration behind the glistening food in front of our eyes. Deschamps doesn’t seem concerned with weaving together food photography and narrative in a meaningful, coherent way, and that hurts the film bad.

Deschamps is so interested Redzepi’s temperament in the kitchen (one scene sees him berating his cooks for confusing lemon thyme with thyme-thyme) that there isn’t much room left for the film to revel in the beauty of the world-renowned chef’s delectable dishes. Periodically, the Noma crew will have these food jam sessions where the cooks will freestyle some brand new dishes and present them to the rest of the team for evaluation; if the dish is good enough, it may eventually end up on the menu in some form. It’s nice to see Redzepi interacting with his team in such a loose, casual, positive environment, complimenting his cooks on their “fucking amazing” creations. But we can’t get a good look at the food! I found myself squinting to catch a glimpse of the experimental dishes the young cooks worked so hard on, but Deschamps never lets us get in close.

It’s easy to get onboard with a character examination about Redzepi—he’s a fascinating guy with a chip on his shoulder and a truly great mind for cuisine. But Noma: My Perfect Storm doesn’t reflect in its form chef Redzepi’s obsession with food, which in this case turns out to be a fatal flaw. The film is too fixated on what’s in his head to truly appreciate what he’s making with his hands.

It’s a short-but-sweet episode this week as Bernard chats with filmmaker Anthony Lucero about his indie crowd-pleaser, East Side Sushi. Plus, listen in to find out why Bernard had to cut this week’s episode short and record under the influence of some yummy, mind-numbing drugs.

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For a film about the culinary arts, a world driven by passion, sweat, and sleepless nights, Le Chef is so careless and uninspired it’s borderline upsetting. What’s worse, it fails twofold as a comedy, going for the cheapest, most worn-out gags you’ll find this side of an Adam Sandler cash grab. The film’s primary conflict is a dilemma anyone who’s given their life to the food industry can relate to: How does one balance a love for food with love for one’s family? Sadly, the film has nothing interesting to say on the matter, serving up a generic, value meal story that’ll have audiences salivating for a foodie movie with more soul, like John Favreau’s infinitely better Chef.

Jean Reno plays culinary icon Alexandre Lagarde, who runs a classically French three star restaurant, Cargo Lagarde. It’s an old school establishment steeped in old school principles, eschewing the foams, liquid nitrogen, and sous vide machines of modernist cuisine. Despite Alexandre’s legacy of excellence, many feel his food has become out of touch, chief among them being the restaurant’s new owner, Stanislas (Julien Boisselier), who’d oust Alexandre immediately if it weren’t for a stipulation in the chef’s contract specifying he can only be fired should he lose one of his three stars. The pompous young Stanislas tries every trick in the book to sabotage Alexandre, from hemorrhaging his staff to cutting off his produce suppliers, and the future looks grim for the once thriving head chef.

His only hope is an enthusiastic young chef named Jacky Bonnot (Michaël Youn), a food prodigy with extraordinary kitchen skills, skills learned from studying obsessively the life, career, and recipes of Alexandre himself. Jacky’s lost four jobs in four weeks, getting kicked out of kitchens for being a perfectionist, to the point of arguing with customers over their dining habits. With his pregnant girlfriend Beatrice (Raphaëlle Agogué) depending on him, he settles for a job as a painter to help pay the bills. Jacky meets his hero, Alexandre, in a chance encounter and is offered a job as sous chef at Cargo Lagarde. Together, the two chefs work hard to come up with a smashing new menu to impress the critics and save their careers, becoming so embroiled in their scramble for recognition that they neglect their loved ones in the process.

Constantly on screen are two men who supposedly have a burning devotion to food, and yet the film does nothing to illustrate why they love food. The film’s cardinal sin is that the food on screen is never made to look delicious. In fact, there’s little food on screen at all, with the only dish leaving any kind of impression being a trio of duck cubes made by way of molecular gastronomy. Of all the dishes director Daniel Cohen could choose to highlight, he chooses one that represents a culinary mindset (modernist cooking) the film is mocking. (“Chemical shit” Alexandre calls it.) The dish that convinces Alexandre that Jacky is chef material–a red mullet pumpkin soup–is literally not shown on screen. We see Reno raving about how delicious the soup is while all we see in his hands is a bowl with sides too high to see its contents, and a spoon with orange stuff on it. Decisions like these are stupefying.

Once it becomes clear that the film isn’t for foodies, its true form emerges: This is a hokey, lowest-common-denominator odd couple movie. In the film’s worst scene, Alexandre and Jacky infiltrate a competitor’s restaurant disguised as a stereotypical Japanese man and wife, with Jacky’s face covered in geisha makeup. It’s hideous on several levels: Youn looks dreadful (not in a funny way), the accents they put on are offensive, and the gags (most regrettably one involving Youn doing a fan dance to stealthily swipe ingredients) draw no laughs, only uncomfortable silence. It feels like Reno and Youn would have had tighter chemistry had the material not been so weak. It’s easy to buy Reno as a rigidly structured commander of a kitchen brigade, and Youn is a generally likable doormat. But with their characters’ motivations so lazily sketched in the script, they’re given no opportunities to really fall into a groove.

The film’s only saving grace is Reno, who at this point in his career isn’t capable of being uninteresting on screen. His “home life” subplot, involving his adult daughter (Salomé Stévenin) pleading with him to watch her defend her thesis at university, is the closest the film comes to feeling heartfelt. Aside from this exception, the film’s attempts to establish stakes are laughable, and its wraps the story up in a bow so tidy it’ll have any familiar with the restaurant business calling “bullshit” before the credits roll.

Le Chef trailer

First, let’s address the elephant in the room. You’re on a website called Way Too Indie, where you’re reading a review of the newest album by Kelis, the artist whose 2003 hit “Milkshake” was a major label product that absolutely dominated commercial radio. Yes, this is the same Kelis responsible for “My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard/and they’re like, ‘It’s better than yours.'” It’s easy to think, then, that Kelis is exactly the opposite of indie, and that her music is simply commercial, for-profit, mainstream fodder. But take a moment to listen to “Milkshake” again: putting aside the song’s incredibly cheesy lyrics and borderline uncomfortable music video, the song’s production (provided by the Neptunes) is sleek and sensual, and Kelis’ raspy voice provides a delicate tension without which the song might simply fall flat.

More than ten years after “Milkshake”, a critically underrated, lavish R&B gem, Kelis is the mother of a nearly five-year-old son, and is divorced from rap legend Nas for just about four years (their marriage lasted for roughly the same amount of time). She’s no longer that 24-year-old employing cheap sexual euphemisms for radio play; she’s matured tremendously since then, and has gained greater artistic control of her music. Her sixth album Food serves as evidence of Kelis’ newly asserted dominance over her art: no longer a major label signee, she takes advantage of her newfound flexibility tremendously. Rather than working with a whole handful of writers as she did on albums like Flesh Tone, Kelis Was Here, and Tasty, Kelis is instead paired with only two cohorts due to the comparatively small budget of her new label, the consistently excellent, primarily electronic label Ninja Tune. Producer Dave Sitek of TV on the Radio and brass arranger Todd Simon co-write every song on this album, leading to Kelis’ jazziest, smokiest, most sensual, exciting, and certainly most consistent album yet.

Food embraces orchestral arrangements and lounge-inspired sensuality without fully leaving the realm of pop music. This trait can be traced directly back to Sitek and Simon: Sitek’s own TV on the Radio pushes the boundaries of traditional rock song structures while embracing brass contributions (best exemplified by their song “Dancing Choose”), and Simon is responsible for some of the steamy, erotic arrangements on Rhye’s 2013 debut, Woman. Their contributions to Kelis’ sound manifests constantly on Food: after the smoky, reflective aura of “Floyd” is gradually introduced, horns amplify its starry-eyed nature, resulting in an afflicting track that sounds remarkably like the slower jazz standards. Likewise, the searing, charged “Change” intensifies with frantic brass placements just as its first chorus strikes. “Jerk Ribs”, Food‘s first single, arguably benefits the most from its production: the brass placed at the song’s periphery imbues the song with a glowing, triumphant quality that makes it an unforgettable moment.

“Jerk Ribs” is also special for its lyrics, which chronicle Kelis’ relationship with music. The words on this track tell the tale of Kelis’ growing up and gradually becoming more inseparable from the sounds around her. “I was the girl/my daddy was my world/he played the notes and keys/he said to look for melody in everything”, Kelis reflects, later confirming that this passion hasn’t left: “The bass vibrates/right through me/the brass, the strings, I love everything.” Although it’s not unreasonable to view the latter lines as musically breaking the fourth wall, if you will, since they so perfectly reference the sound advanced throughout Food, more interesting is how personal these lyrics are. In fact, personal poetry pervades Food: despite some of the songs’ titles explicitly naming certain foods (“Jerk Ribs”, “Cobbler”, “Biscuits ‘n’ Gravy”), the subject matter is universally love-based, and close to the heart.

Running the gamut from lovelorn to exuberantly infatuated, Food‘s lyrics nicely suit the fiery brass behind them. “There will never be/another/day for us to be/lovers/I’ll follow in your lead/forever/and we’ll forever be/together”, goes the chorus to “Forever Be,” and these words, despite their inherent simplicity, astutely match the pulsating modern take on lounge music that backs them. “Breakfast” and “Hooch” blaze this same path, their ecstatically-in-love lyrics lining up cleverly with their brassy, passionate instrumentation. “Floyd” and “Runner”, however, explore the more upsetting side of love, but the sounds and topics of these tunes still mesh wonderfully. The former track is Food‘s most explicitly sultry number, a melancholy list of desires best summarized by Kelis’ simple wish in its chorus: “I want to be blown away.” “Runner” is equally aching, its brass spikes accentuating just how badly Kelis wants to return to a former lover.

Of course, the topic of love is in no way novel territory for any genre of music, but Kelis’ raspy yet confident vocal delivery almost always ensures that she conveys her feelings strongly and genuinely. Second single and reunion story “Rumble” displays Kelis calmly meditating on her return to an ex-lover, until her voice explodes forward towards the end of the second verse, breaking into fractured, splintered pleading for her man to “stay the night, baby.” Sure, some listeners will be instantly turned off by just how far she pushes her voice, but the limits to which she extends provide the song with a grand spark. She successfully does this during the chorus of the surprising, Western-inspired “Fish Fry” as well, but steps a bit too far outside her comfort zone on final track “Dreamer”, the huskiness of her voice feeling unstable and unbalanced rather than admirably delicate and affecting.

No, Food isn’t perfect, as “Dreamer” demonstrates: for example, the penultimate “Biscuits ‘n’ Gravy” is just a tad too dry to strike as poignantly as the majority of Food, although it’s still a great track. Really, almost every track on Food is enjoyable, but a select few have some irksome facets. The call and response sections of “Fish Fry” and “Cobbler” feel juvenile and forced, although the latter track has one of the most thrilling choruses present. The oddly dull cover of Labi Siffre’s “Bless The Telephone”, placed just after the album’s midpoint, is probably the album’s lowest point, as it completely lacks the remaining tunes’ invigorating nature despite being un-traditionally pretty. Otherwise, Food‘s consistency and novel (well, for Kelis) approach are commendable, although the album’s fifty minute runtime, over thirteen songs, is a bit excessive.

It’s great that Kelis is finally getting her chance to shine after so long. In 2003, when “Milkshake” emerged and opinions divided like 1860s America, it was unclear whether Kelis would just be a “one hit wonder”, to use one of the more reductive musical terms out there, or if her talent would last with time. With each album since then, a bit more of what makes Kelis special has emerged; Food is the first instance of it being on full display. Although the contributions of Dave Sitek and Todd Simon absolutely cannot be understated, this album is a landmark for Kelis, who’s finally crafted the kinds of songs that she’s always seemed capable of. Although her new label may have less money, it’s certainly given her more artistic freedom, helping to sculpt Food into the great piece that it is. This is her very first album released independently, and the buoyancy of Food‘s most jubilant tracks indicate that she’s probably not leaving anytime soon, suggesting that this is only the first chapter in a long, thrilling neo-soul saga. It’ll be exciting to see how the next chapter unfolds, but, for now, what’s been unveiled so far is fully satisfying and enchanting.

It’s hard not to like a love story whose lovers are brought together by a home-cooked meal. Make it an Indian home-cooked meal, with aromatic curries and slow-cooked vegetables, and it’s borderline irresistible. Aside from eliciting tummy rumbles, Ritesh Batra’s feature debut, The Lunchbox, is an enticing, melancholy romantic indie about our universal hunger for validation and intimacy.

An anomaly sets our story in motion: in Mumbai, there is a remarkable delivery network made up of “dabbawallahs”, bicycle deliverymen who take hot homemade lunches from housewives to their husbands at work. Despite an antiquated coding system, the dabbawallahs’ error rate is unbelievably low, at an estimated one error per six million deliveries. Batra’s story follows one of those astronomical errors, in which a lunch prepared by Ila (a ravishing Nimrat Kaur) is mistakenly delivered to the desk an aging accountant and widower named Saajan (Iffran Khan, Slumdog Millionaire, Life of Pi) for reasons left unexplained by Batra, giving the coincidence a slight air of magic.

The delicious meal–which Ila lovingly prepared with the guidance of her “auntie” to rekindle her stagnant relationship with her husband– warms Saajan to the core. (He usually gets a ho-hum delivery from a local restaurant.) When Ila catches wind of the mix-ups, she’s compelled to write a note to Saajan, as he consistently sends her stacked-tin food containers back to her empty, the ultimate sign of appreciation.

They begin a pen pal relationship, with their passed notes becoming longer and more personal as the days go by, and they grow to look forward to the notes as a source of joy. They share their deepest secrets with one another and, with each thinking their lives had plateaued, they find that they’ve reawakened the dreamer in one another.

Saajan, on the precipice of retirement, has been aggressively avoiding his pestersome successor, Shaikh, who diligently stalks him around the office, begging Saajan for any piece of advice. (Seeing Saajan’s seething anger when Shaikh successfully hunts him down is hilarious.) But as Ila’s notes begin to soften Saajan’s calloused heart, he begins to open up to Shaikh, and he learns that there’s more to the young man than he thought. Ila’s husband is so emotionally distant it sometimes appears as if he’s looking straight through her. Saajan’s notes give her something to cling to, something mysterious and new.

What drives The Lunchbox is our yearning to see these two characters (excellently acted, by the way) finally meet. The vulnerability and finesse displayed by Khan and Kaur is riveting. Batra’s editing of their written conversations make these scenes feel intimate and electrified, as if there’s no one else in the world but these two. Batra recognizes that the gravitational pull between her characters means everything, and tastefully maintains that tension throughout. The film isn’t as overly sentimental as it may initially seem, with Batra and her actors operating largely on subtlety and undertones. Those hoping for a Hollywood-style resolution will be disappointed, but by keeping the ultimate feel-good moment just out of our reach, Batra makes The Lunchbox a more resonant, alluring piece of romantic storytelling.