The first moments of Bob Giraldi’s Dinner Rush depict chefs’ hands shuffling through the air in slow motion; the camera remains at waist level as it fixates on the workers’ tongs, their rolled-up shirtsleeves, the food being transferred from pan to plate. This backstage overture offers an elegiac, unhurried display of culinary artistry, but the rest of the movie occupies an accelerated register. Dinner Rush unfolds nearly entirely on a Christmastime Tuesday within the confines of an Italian restaurant in Tribeca, packing its dozen-odd key characters into cramped environs: corner tables, narrow staircases, an overflowing bar, a steam-filled kitchen… the overall feeling is one of nonstop controlled chaos. People are constantly emerging from rooms with determined looks, rounding corners with trays of food, partaking in rapid-fire gossip sessions, and interrupting conversations to extend a handshake or report a problem. In one head-spinning but typically enthralling sequence, embattled sous-chef Duncan (Kirk Acevedo), a gambling addict, divides his attention between navigating the clamor of his fellow cooks, listening to the broadcast of the St. John’s game at the Garden, and flirting with hostess Nicole (Vivian Wu) through the wall-mounted speaker system.
"...the overall feeling is one of nonstop controlled chaos."
Within this shoulder-to-shoulder ambiance, Giraldi and screenwriters Brian S. Kalata and Rick Shaughnessy arrange a bounty of outsize personalities, each one maximized in a manner appropriate for a spirited night on the town. The restaurant’s owner, Louis (Danny Aiello), a man of old-school grace and retirement fantasies, clashes with his domineering head-chef son, Udo (Edoardo Ballerini), who wants to adapt the menu of yore to the fads of the contemporary food scene. Udo’s self-important customers include Sandra Bernhard as a food critic of local renown and the late Mark Margolis as a sneering gallerist who belittles the staff, while Louis contends with the intimidations of two Queens mobsters (Mike McGlone and Alex Corrado) aiming to shake him down for a piece of the restaurant. Although these characters frequently do little more than bark orders and consume champagne and pasta while sitting down, Giraldi and cinematographer Tim Ives stage the dining-room action with a compact urgency, clinging to people’s faces and intimate gestures. In a brief shot late in the movie, Giraldi pulls back from this close-up perspective to show Louis making for the exit underneath the restaurant’s suddenly lofty-looking ceilings. The image lands as a visceral shock, the unforeseen breathing room above the diners’ heads seeming completely incongruous with the pressurized, high-octane frames that have come before.
The New Jersey–born Giraldi, largely known for his work in music videos and advertising, has also maintained a career as a restaurateur, including as the part owner of Gigino Trattoria, where the movie was shot. (The Greenwich Street eatery still operates today.) This insider’s perspective surely contributes to the movie’s credible bits of detail—a fight breaking out over misplaced oregano, nightly specials scribbled on a chalkboard—and its sharp insights into both the allure and the horror of the restaurant business. Giraldi surveys the room with infectious curiosity, pausing at each customer complaint, budding romance, and old rivalry just long enough to register the essentials. An unbroken take in which Summer Phoenix’s indomitable waitress Marti uncorks a wine bottle while fielding a table’s biographical queries encapsulates the heady energy of Dinner Rush, which convinces in its real-time observational acumen even as it summons a heightened atmosphere befitting the whims of its marquee performers.
The first moments of Bob Giraldi’s Dinner Rush depict chefs’ hands shuffling through the air in slow motion; the camera remains at waist level as it fixates on the workers’ tongs, their rolled-up shirtsleeves, the food being transferred from pan to plate. This backstage overture offers an elegiac, unhurried display of culinary artistry, but the rest of the movie occupies an accelerated register. Dinner Rush unfolds nearly entirely on a Christmastime Tuesday within the confines of an Italian restaurant in Tribeca, packing its dozen-odd key characters into cramped environs: corner tables, narrow staircases, an overflowing bar, a steam-filled kitchen… the overall feeling is one of nonstop controlled chaos. People are constantly emerging from rooms with determined looks, rounding corners with trays of food, partaking in rapid-fire gossip sessions, and interrupting conversations to extend a handshake or report a problem. In one head-spinning but typically enthralling sequence, embattled sous-chef Duncan (Kirk Acevedo), a gambling addict, divides his attention between navigating the clamor of his fellow cooks, listening to the broadcast of the St. John’s game at the Garden, and flirting with hostess Nicole (Vivian Wu) through the wall-mounted speaker system.
"...the overall feeling is one of nonstop controlled chaos."
Within this shoulder-to-shoulder ambiance, Giraldi and screenwriters Brian S. Kalata and Rick Shaughnessy arrange a bounty of outsize personalities, each one maximized in a manner appropriate for a spirited night on the town. The restaurant’s owner, Louis (Danny Aiello), a man of old-school grace and retirement fantasies, clashes with his domineering head-chef son, Udo (Edoardo Ballerini), who wants to adapt the menu of yore to the fads of the contemporary food scene. Udo’s self-important customers include Sandra Bernhard as a food critic of local renown and the late Mark Margolis as a sneering gallerist who belittles the staff, while Louis contends with the intimidations of two Queens mobsters (Mike McGlone and Alex Corrado) aiming to shake him down for a piece of the restaurant. Although these characters frequently do little more than bark orders and consume champagne and pasta while sitting down, Giraldi and cinematographer Tim Ives stage the dining-room action with a compact urgency, clinging to people’s faces and intimate gestures. In a brief shot late in the movie, Giraldi pulls back from this close-up perspective to show Louis making for the exit underneath the restaurant’s suddenly lofty-looking ceilings. The image lands as a visceral shock, the unforeseen breathing room above the diners’ heads seeming completely incongruous with the pressurized, high-octane frames that have come before.
The New Jersey–born Giraldi, largely known for his work in music videos and advertising, has also maintained a career as a restaurateur, including as the part owner of Gigino Trattoria, where the movie was shot. (The Greenwich Street eatery still operates today.) This insider’s perspective surely contributes to the movie’s credible bits of detail—a fight breaking out over misplaced oregano, nightly specials scribbled on a chalkboard—and its sharp insights into both the allure and the horror of the restaurant business. Giraldi surveys the room with infectious curiosity, pausing at each customer complaint, budding romance, and old rivalry just long enough to register the essentials. An unbroken take in which Summer Phoenix’s indomitable waitress Marti uncorks a wine bottle while fielding a table’s biographical queries encapsulates the heady energy of Dinner Rush, which convinces in its real-time observational acumen even as it summons a heightened atmosphere befitting the whims of its marquee performers.