Have you ever been told your opinion was a bit too harsh? Perhaps someone jokingly compared you to Anton Ego, the notoriously severe food critic from Pixar’s beloved film, Ratatouille? This animated movie, celebrating the culinary adventures of a rat in Paris, introduces us to Ego, a character often perceived as the quintessential villain – a svelte figure draped in an indoor scarf, wielding words sharper than any chef’s knife. He’s the feared restaurant reviewer who could make or break establishments with a single, scathing critique. Paired against a health inspector with a pencil mustache, Ego initially appears to be another obstacle in Remy the rat’s path to culinary stardom.
The internet echo chamber frequently uses Ego’s name as a derogatory label, especially in today’s climate where artists and their fans are quick to denounce critics. A casual scroll through social media reveals snippets of Ego’s famous line, “We thrive on negative criticism,” often weaponized out of context. Even seasoned food columnists have invoked Ego’s name as a verb, questioning the cynicism of critical reviews.
Being likened to Anton Ego might seem like an insult, placing you in the realm of cinematic antagonists. However, this perspective fundamentally misunderstands Ego’s true role in Ratatouille. He’s not the villain; he’s arguably one of the film’s most compelling heroes. Yes, his office resembles a coffin, and his pronouncements are delivered with chilling precision, like, “I love food. If I don’t love it; I don’t swallow.” Yet, Anton Ego, and the very institution of criticism he embodies, emerges as a savior in Ratatouille. His pivotal review in the film’s climax not only rescues a struggling restaurant from financial ruin but also challenges the elitist foundations of fine dining, championing a more democratic, creative, and vibrant culinary landscape for everyone.
As a food writer myself, defending an animated critic might seem self-serving. But consider this: being called an “Ego” is not an insult—it’s a profound compliment, recognizing the transformative power of thoughtful criticism.
Hollywood’s History of Villainizing Food Critics
Hollywood has a knack for turning unlikely figures into heroes – daring archaeologists, quirky historians, even anxious office workers and activist shopkeepers. But when food critics grace the silver screen, they are often relegated to the role of antagonists, mere foils for the protagonists’ journeys. Consider Jon Favreau’s Chef, where a food blogger is depicted as shallowly mocking the protagonist’s weight and vulnerabilities. In Burnt, Uma Thurman plays a critic who boasts about closing “bad” restaurants and greets Bradley Cooper’s chef character with a chilling, “one hoped you were dead.” And who could forget Julia Roberts in My Best Friend’s Wedding, where her portrayal as a judgmental food critic foreshadows her manipulative and almost sociopathic tendencies? These portrayals paint food critics as one-dimensional obstacles, hindering the hero’s progress.
For much of Ratatouille, Anton Ego initially fits this villainous mold. Voiced by Peter O’Toole with a sinister undertone and animated with a gaunt, almost menacing physique, Ego embodies the stereotypical harsh critic. His initial review of Gusteau’s is devastating, contributing to the chef’s demise – a dark parallel to real-world tragedies linked to intense restaurant criticism. Gusteau’s further descends into mediocrity under a successor focused on cheap, frozen food.
However, the narrative takes a delicious turn when Ego encounters Remy’s ratatouille. This dish, crafted by a talented rat chef, triggers a Proustian moment, transporting Ego back to his childhood and thawing his icy demeanor. This culinary revelation culminates in a review that is both profound and transformative, which he shares with the audience:
“In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face is that in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so.”
It’s tempting to debate Ego’s assertion about thriving on negative criticism and minimal risk – topics critics themselves often ponder over post-dinner drinks. However, it’s crucial to pause here because many who quote Ego selectively stop at this point, omitting the crucial continuation of his speech.
The Heroic Turn: Ego’s Embrace of the New
Ego’s speech doesn’t end with cynicism. It evolves into a powerful declaration about the true purpose of criticism:
“But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is in the discovery and defense of the new. The world is often unkind to new talent, new creations. The new needs friends. Last night, I experienced something new: an extraordinary meal from a singularly unexpected source. To say that both the meal and its maker have challenged my preconceptions about fine cooking is a gross understatement. They have rocked me to my core. In the past, I have made no secret of my disdain for Chef Gusteau’s famous motto, “Anyone can cook.” But I realize, only now do I truly understand what he meant. Not everyone can become a great artist; but a great artist can come from anywhere. It is difficult to imagine more humble origins than those of the genius now cooking at Gusteau’s, who is, in this critic’s opinion, nothing less than the finest chef in France. I will be returning to Gusteau’s soon, hungry for more.”
In this pivotal moment, Ego transcends the caricature of a villainous critic. He embraces vulnerability, questioning his own profession and its potential for positive change. He challenges the elitism of fine dining, arguing that culinary brilliance can emerge from the most unexpected places. Implicitly, Ego’s transformation underscores that criticism can be a platform to confront privilege and grapple with complex ideas about art and its creators.
Good criticism, therefore, is not merely about passing judgment or dictating dining choices. It is a vehicle for learning and growth. This is the powerful message Ratatouille delivers.
Criticism as Education: Beyond Judgement
Roger Ebert, the celebrated film critic, eloquently captured this sentiment in his 2008 essay inspired by Ratatouille, stating, “A lot of people don’t know what ‘critic’ means. They think it means, ‘a person who criticizes.’” Ebert emphasizes that a good critic is not just a judge but “a teacher,” guiding audiences through the process of understanding and appreciating art. Critics may not possess all the answers, but they exemplify the very process of seeking them.
Ratatouille deeply explores this idea of the critic and artist as educators, forging a connection between Remy and Ego. In a poignant scene, Remy, through vivid descriptions, helps another rat – accustomed to mere sustenance – appreciate the subtle nuances of cheese and grape pairings. This scene isn’t just for the rat; it’s for us, the audience, encouraging a deeper engagement with sensory experiences often taken for granted. Ego’s review functions similarly; it’s not just a plot device to save a restaurant. It shapes the audience’s understanding of Gusteau’s and the broader culinary world. He becomes less of a Michelin inspector and more of a Greek chorus, illuminating the significance of recognizing talent from unconventional backgrounds.
Film critic A.O. Scott, in his book Better Living Through Criticism, further explores the parallel between Remy and Ego, arguing that both characters are dedicated to “the especially intense appreciation of something everyone else either takes for granted or enjoys in a casual, undisciplined way. Food.” Despite Gusteau’s apparent decline, both Remy and Ego become instrumental in its revitalization.
Ratatouille also exhibits remarkable foresight in its depiction of restaurants. The film, released in an era of meat-centric gastronomy, championed a refined vegetable dish – ratatouille – as the pinnacle of culinary aspiration. It also subtly addressed issues of culinary credit, with Gusteau’s chef emphasizing he didn’t cook the dish that impressed Ego, highlighting the often-unseen hands behind culinary creations. This prescient scenario foreshadowed real-world conversations about who receives recognition and benefits in the culinary world. Ratatouille subtly shifts focus from celebrity chefs to the everyday individuals (and animals) who contribute to our dining experiences – a movement further propelled by figures like Anthony Bourdain, albeit for a more mature audience.
The genius of Ratatouille lies in its ability to make complex themes about criticism accessible to children and engaging for adults. In a world saturated with superficial reviews and ratings, Ego’s insightful and concise speech (238 words, 1 minute 55 seconds) delivers more substance than many lengthy reviews. It challenges viewers to move beyond lazy consumption and embrace thoughtful engagement with art and food.
While Anton Ego’s dramatic pronouncements might not translate perfectly to real-world dining, his character resonates deeply because it speaks to a desire for more meaningful and insightful criticism. Even fifteen years after Ratatouille‘s release, Ego’s speech continues to be admired, a testament to the enduring need for critics who are not just judges, but discoverers and defenders of the new. So, the next time someone calls you an Anton Ego, wear it as a badge of honor. After all, in the realm of cinematic food critics, he is undoubtedly the finest.
