| Jesus was a great storyteller. He told stories that were compelling, tales that dealt with daily life and familiar situations and that were almost invariably surprising. It is one of the hallmarks of a Jesus parable that things will be somehow turned upside down from what we would expect. There's the son that comes home after squandering all his inheritance and is honored at a party! Or, the shepherd that leaves all of his sheep only to search for that one that is lost, or the king who is planning a wedding feast, but when he is snubbed by his rich friends, ends up inviting the poor off the streets. 
A parable is powerful because it speaks to us in our language, engages our imagination, and functions sort of like a finger pointing at a bright star… it makes us look up and see something we might otherwise have missed. It also does this in such an entertaining way that we are nourished before we have a chance to protest that there might actually be some spinach mixed in with all this yumminess. Great parables are uncommon, so I find great reason to rejoice when I discover one. "Ratatouille" (written by Brad Bird and Jim Capobianco, directed by Bird) is a jewel of a film parable speaking creatively to some timeless issues. And in case we miss its very direct parable-like structure, in the last few minutes of the film we are given a reflection about the turning upside down of the world and its values by one of its central characters who undergoes a conversion (masterfully voiced by Peter O'Toole).
Unlike a conventional movie review I am not going to sketch out the film here. I will just tell you that it's about a little rat living in Paris. I am also not going to evaluate its technical merits, although the virtuosity of the animation is truly breathtaking. Rather, I want to point out some of the insights in the film, and celebrate its ingenuity in making us ponder profound and difficult issues in a delightful way.
Who's in the kitchen?
Remy is a fabulously talented "little chef," a hard-working and creative cook, someone who is so honest that -- although he is hungry -- he will work for his food rather than steal it. Remy is also a small rat, persecuted when seen only as a rat and constantly in danger of discovery. The film makes us see the difficult paradox that, although despised as long as he is working invisibly in the kitchen, restaurant patrons rave about his cooking. Remy is good at what he does, but his "status" as a rat could keep him from sharing his gift. Not only Remy, but in a beautiful representation of community, his whole colony of fellow rats, wash themselves clean (baptism?) in order to run the kitchen, feed the patrons and save the human restaurant owner from financial ruin. How many invisible Remy's - those we are so quick to despise because they are deemed undesirable - are indeed working hard and silently in kitchens all over the world, or cleaning our offices at night, cutting our lawns, caring for our children? Why do we not see the profound nobility in working hard to feed a family when crime might provide a speedier solution, or the very real talent it takes to grow a fragrant bed of flowers, put a whimpering child to sleep, or create a meal? "Ratatouille" is about the invisible and expendable "other" we'd rather not see but whose labor makes our life and its luxuries possible.
In the film's oft-repeated bit of wisdom "anyone can cook" there is a radical call to equality in the celebration of our God-given gifts. The emphasis is on the unique giftedness of each individual life and in the destructiveness of those labels that needlessly separate us.
Us versus them
As little Remy confronts the exclusion that comes with being a despised rat, he realizes that the enmity goes deep and appears to stretch out into eternity. He is told and shown in a heartbreaking scene that humans and rats have always been adversaries. Catching and killing rats is what humans do; stealing from humans is what rats do. It has always been this way. Remy cannot imagine such a world. He cannot accept that things must be this way, and through his goodness he changes them. Even if his life is in danger, he comes to the rescue of his young human partner Alfredo because friendship and honor matter to the little chef. Alfredo is transformed by Remy's repeated gestures of generosity and the seeds are sown (to use another parable image) for humans and rats to live productively together.
Beauty is as beauty does
Finally, "Ratatouille" is a work of art, intricately drawn and beautifully executed. It's a work of art where we as viewers are invited in and regaled with the luminescence of the City of Lights, gifted with colors we had only seen in our childhood dreams. In the frames of the film we see our daily life -- raindrops, the golden crust of bread, the texture of rosemary leaves stirred into a briskly boiling pot -- as new, beautiful, surprising, a new creation in art, from the greater Creation of God's art. Perhaps we had not noticed in a long time the musical notes that play inside us when we taste a strawberry, or been aware of the painful truth that while some of us eat lovely tasting cheeses, others scrounge around for the discarded wrappers.
 In the end, "Ratatouille" leaves us with the hope-filled image of a double banquet, the one upstairs where all the little rats are enjoying their tasty meals and the one downstairs where the humans do the same. In between these two worlds is Remy, making the sharing possible, making the meals possible, making the beauty possible. Perhaps the filmmakers named the little rat after the legendary St Remigius, the 5th century bishop of Reims who is credited with the conversion of the king of the Franks to Christianity. We can also see in him a Christ figure, reconciling, bringing plenty, encouraging fellowship and peace.
Prophets come in all sizes and shapes it seems, and in this parable the prophet is a little rat (and his very talented writers), and we the humans are invited to listen. Cecilia Gonzalez-Andrieu teaches at Loyola Marymount University. |
