I was more intrigued than anything — I’d heard the legend, seen the visuals, and wanted to know what the fuss was about. Delicatessen delivers a crumbling apartment block, a butcher with a sideline, and a constant thrum of hunger — grubby, clever, and oddly cosy for something this morbid.
When it keeps things small and strange, it’s properly fun. The physical comedy is terrific, the timing is razor-sharp, and there’s that brilliant sequence where the whole house falls into rhythm, like everyone’s living inside the same squeaky joke. The craft is undeniable, and you can see why it earned its cult status.
But after a while I found myself admiring it more than feeling it. The whimsy-and-rot vibe starts repeating itself, and the satire doesn’t always bite as hard as it sets up. Still, even when it’s not fully clicking, it’s hard not to respect how confidently it builds its peculiar little world.