Big Night (1996)

There are films that astonish with their brilliance, and then there are films that live just shy of greatness—achingly close, yet all the more affecting for it. This is one of those films: desperately optimistic, quietly devastating, and utterly intoxicating in its charm.

Set in a time that feels just out of reach, the film captures the wistfulness of a bygone era without ever lapsing into nostalgia. Instead, it leans into something more elusive—a feeling, a mood, a particular kind of exhaustion that settles in after a long, indulgent night. Watching it is like making an omelette with a hangover: tender, familiar, slightly painful, and wholly necessary.

Every performance is delicately measured, adjusting to the film’s stakes with an ease that never calls attention to itself. The characters, each in their own way, navigate a shifting reality—gaining and losing their footing in ways that feel as heartbreaking as they are inevitable.

For those who love food not just as sustenance but as a language, a memory, a philosophy, this is a film worth savoring.