Whether real or ingeniously faked, filmmakers have been recursively attracted over the decades by telling a story in one continuous take. Having made it more achievable than in Hitchcock times, digital cameras have recently renewed the interest. But only a few have succeeded where many haven’t gone beyond making it look like a nerdy gimmick. Boiling Point easily stands out amongst the former. For once, it does feel narratively apt being able to follow the action in its hectic and erratic authenticity. Tons of television programs have made us relatively acknowledged on the hardships behind the double swinging doors of a restaurant kitchen, but rarely fiction has managed to dramatise the atmosphere so vividly. Scripting the entire piece even where improvisation seems to be taking place, Philip Barantini brilliantly mixes near documentary elements with captivating individual characters’ backstories. Professional and personal dynamics intersect and clash and overlap, to truly exhilarating cinematic results.
From the opening tracking shot on Stephen Graham marching to work while apologising on the phone for some parental negligence of his, what makes Boiling Point immediately resonate—with me at least—is its tragic being a rather accurate depiction of our brave modern life, and not even much in a parodic or caricatured way. No need to reach the extents of drugs and booze abuse—although again, both more round the corner than they may seem—to get trapped by an unhealthy form of addiction. ‘I need to stop,’ says chef at some point, sweaty and exhausted. Well, I promise I am not being rhetorical by saying I could clearly hear my own voice pronouncing it, with Scouse accent too.
