Through moments of swine irony, mutual tenderness, and sublime nudes compositions, Taste tells of the human need of exploring his inner nature versus the unbalanced reality of existence. Put aside by a world that has treated them as disposable accessories, Lê’s ensemble of characters take a hiatus from society and retreat in a mazed, seemingly industrial abandoned building to rediscover life through sheer sensorial experiences.
While days are paced by simple acts whose acknowledgement alone suddenly makes them unique and real, as opposed to what has hardly become an idea—an unlikely career, family members lost or far, and a balloon that will never be seen in the air—something reminds us that our nature is constantly attracted by what destabilises it.
Its blue and bronze seductive aesthetics—literally, from the very first scene where a coach silently arranges pieces on a miniature football pitch under the watchful eye of a group of bare-chested players—might have tricked me into thinking that Taste is more than what it actually has to say. No matter. I still found its near cubistic narrative fascinating, and young Lê Bảo’s talent one to follow.