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Books of the year 2017, part one: chosen by Andrew Marr, George Osborne, Rose Tremain and others

The New Statesman's friends and contributors recommend their top reads from the last 12 months.

Elif Shafak

One of the year’s most exciting discoveries was Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine (HarperCollins) by Gail Honeyman. The enormous distance between the modern world and the inner world of the central character, Eleanor, is beautifully and vividly told. Honeyman’s voice is funny but heartbreaking, intelligent but compassionate, sharp and sweet. Only a very talented and courageous author could reach out to readers across the world by writing about a seemingly ordinary woman’s loneliness. Honeyman is that writer and I salute her.

Another marvel was East West Street by Philippe Sands (Weidenfeld & Nicolson), published in paperback this year. In an age in which the truth has become more elusive than ever, this is a brave, passionate book that makes its readers witnesses of a search for it. While the book focuses on a family’s trajectory through history, the questions it raises regarding memory, human rights and justice are universal and timely. One of the best examples of analytical thinking and research combined with fine storytelling.

Robert Macfarlane

Two remarkable books by two extraordinary North American writers appeared in the past few months. Anne Michaels, the author of one of the most important modern novels, Fugitive Pieces (1996), published her first volume of non-fiction, Infinite Gradation (House Sparrow Press). It is a meditation on death, love and the limits of utterance that extends Michaels’s lifelong preoccupation with the ethics of art.

Rebecca Solnit’s The Mother of All Questions (Granta) is a brilliantly sharp-edged, quick-tongued set of essays about feminism and the conspiracies of silence that enable harassment and abuse, which has proved eerily premonitory of the Harvey Weinstein scandal (and all the other scandals). Solnit is both a stylist and a fighter, distinguished by her rare combination of grit and grace.

Rose Tremain

Not enough attention was paid this year to Neel Mukherjee’s harsh and vibrant third novel, A State of Freedom (Chatto & Windus). Mukherjee’s deep knowledge of India and the West, allied to his never-failing curiosity about the ties that both bind us and separate us, makes him an outstanding chronicler of Bengali life, seen from within and without. His evocation of the world of servants, trapped in slave-like submission to the whims of the rich, is particularly moving. Nothing here – not even the heartbreaking struggles of a dancing bear and his destitute master – feels contrived or strained. In an age when so many fiction writers flimflam around in a cloud of unknowing, Mukherjee has an eagle’s eye for the truth.

John Gray

I’ve been gripped by a topical book of 20th-century history. Fresh, vivid and revealing, Sean McMeekin’s The Russian Revolution: A New History (Profile Books) records how Rasputin, hearing that Russian troops were being mobilised to enter the First World War, telegraphed the tsar warning that it meant “the end of Russia and yourselves”. What followed – the Red Terror and White atrocities, large-scale peasant rebellions and the Volga famine – cost the lives of 25 million people, 18 times as many as Russian casualties in the world war. In the two months following an assassination attempt on Lenin in August 1918, the Bolshevik secret police executed nearly 15,000 people, more than twice the total number of prisoners of all kinds executed during the last century of tsarist rule. As McMeekin shows, an ignorant peasant-mystic proved a better guide to events than anyone – Marxist or liberal – mesmerised by grand theories of history.

I’ve also enjoyed the thrillers of the Swiss author Friedrich Dürrenmatt, republished by Pushkin Press, especially The Judge and His Hangman, in which a dying detective defies conventional ideas of proof, responsibility and justice.

David Hare

Women born in the mid-20th century are now producing fascinating accounts of how the rise of feminism affected their lives. In the past couple of years, there were great memoirs by Carly Simon and Tracy Tynan. This year, in A Life of My Own (Viking), Claire Tomalin writes as feelingly about herself as she has always written about every­one else. Beautiful.

For pure fun, I recommend Dent’s Modern Tribes (John Murray) by Susie Dent, a lexicography of groups and professions. I loved surfers’ slang best, especially their word for colleagues who hang out in shallow water. I’ve known a few paddle-pusses myself.

Andrew Marr

For me, it’s been a year of poetry immersion because I chaired the Forward Prizes. Maria Apichella didn’t win, but her Psalmody (Eyewear Publishing) is a collection I’ve been rereading with increasing delight. These are poems set in Wales about the relationship between an atheist ex-soldier and a Christian girl, and they feel both timeless and bang up to the minute: they read with the page-turning urgency of a thriller.

I can’t not mention Sinéad Morrissey, who did win with On Balance (Carcanet) – a wide-ranging, capacious, brilliant and entirely satisfying collection of poems that will be read many decades hence. For prose, try Andrew O’Hagan’s The Secret Life (Faber & Faber) on the wilder shores and darker characters of the internet. It’s funny, neatly written and deeply thought-provoking.

Kathleen Jamie

The most extraordinary human being I encountered in print this year was the naturalist Sooyong Park, who has devoted his life to the Siberian tiger. He spends six months of the year living in a coffin-like hide, observing tigers and seeing the disasters caused by poaching and the wastage of their habitat. Perhaps because Park is not European, his attitude is different to what we are accustomed to. Science combines with the near-shamanic knowledge of the hunter-gatherer. The Great Soul of Siberia (William Collins), in Jamie Chang’s deft translation, is a book of intensity, grief and wonder. Observation and intensity also mark Alice Oswald’s Falling Awake (Jonathan Cape). It’s a good title for what she does best: make us aware. Oswald manages to make fully formed, cool but passionate poems from the micro-moments that the rest of us either ignore or don’t know what to do with – the reflections of a cloud in a puddle, for example. With work free-formed, seductive and strange, Oswald is a terrific poet.

William Boyd

Matthew Francis’s brilliant reworking of The Mabinogi (Faber & Faber), the Welsh national epic, made scales fall from my eyes. Ted Hughes meets Game of Thrones meets Gerard Manley Hopkins – you get my drift. It has a wonderful precision of language that has made me seek out Francis’s other volumes. I found Megan Marshall’s new biography Elizabeth Bishop (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt) fascinating as well as astute, and deeply understanding of Bishop’s highly complex persona. We cannot learn too much about this wonderful poet.

William Dalrymple

My favourite novel was Exit West (Hamish Hamilton) by Mohsin Hamid. A profoundly contemporary story about civil wars, unstable countries and refugees pouring to the cities of the West, it is also beautifully written, with the ghost of Camus hovering at the edge of the frame, as he did in The Reluctant Fundamentalist. Two books on south Asia also gave me great pleasure. Both are by talented journalists who have done long stints in the region. Isambard Wilkinson’s Travels in a Dervish Cloak (Eland) is a funny, moving portrait of Pakistan, one of the most complex of countries, but here rendered in bright chiaroscuro and with obvious affection. River of Life, River of Death (Oxford University Press), Victor Mallet’s book on the pollution apocalypse of the Ganges, here turned into a metaphor for modern India, is also a wonderful achievement but more political, analytical and serious in tone.

Roy Hattersley

Though anchored in the world of espionage, A Legacy of Spies (Viking) is – like all of John le Carré’s MI5 novels – far more than a conventional story of deception, defection and death. It is ingeniously constructed around a departmental inquiry into the perceived failures of the operation that formed the plot of The Spy Who Came in from the Cold. The necessary violence is described in retrospect and the casual heroism of the agents stands out in contrast to the formality of the civil servants who judge them. The result is an examination of basic emotions – love, fear, loyalty and despair. All that and the pleasure of a reunion with George Smiley.

Claire Tomalin

Two biographies have delighted me this autumn. In Jenny Uglow’s Mr Lear (Faber & Faber), the shy writer of nonsense verse and hard-working painter, befriended by the powerful yet unfulfilled in love, living among vividly described expatriate British communities, is brought to life with exquisite sympathy in what must be the most handsomely produced book of the year.

Hilary Spurling’s Anthony Powell (Hamish Hamilton) also offers an often surprising and always brilliant picture of English upper-middle-class intellectual life in the mid-20th century: drunkards, journalists, musicians, aristocrats, hangers-on and the odd genius. I couldn’t put it down.

Craig Raine

It isn’t that I don’t read anything. I read all the time. I have the bedsores to prove it. But when it comes to books of the year, it feels as if I’ve spent the year OD-ing on box sets. I have to ask my friends. They can’t remember turning a page either. The Giacometti show at Tate Modern was disastrously laid out but the catalogue, edited by Lena Fritsch and Frances Morris (Tate Publishing), is a Giacometti A-Z under many headings by many hands: Matisse, Henri; Politics; Kiki de Montparnasse, and so on. A great innovation. Jed Perl’s Calder: The Conquest of Time 1898-1940 (Yale University Press) is a mine of detail. Calder’s pliers were by William Bernard, who sold his design to the William Schollhorn Company in New Haven, Connecticut. I never knew that.

Tom Stoppard

One of my books of the year is Laurent Binet’s novel The 7th Function of Language (Harvill Secker), a kind of hoot about French lit crit. I’m also in the middle of a very nice edition of Keats’s Selected Letters, edited by John Barnard (Penguin Classics), who is a wonderful guide through the correspondence.

Neel Mukherjee

The American poet Brian Blanchfield’s first collection of essays, Proxies (Picador), filled me with wonder, admiration and elation. Subtitled “A Memoir in Twenty-Four Attempts”, this outrageously intelligent book, written in a style that fuses head and heart alchemically, advances the game on both the life-writing and the essay fronts.

Chief Engineer, Erica Wagner’s biography of Washington Roebling – the man who built the Brooklyn Bridge, one of the iconic constructions that define the most iconic of cities – is a masterful work of research, revelation and gripping narrative. It brings to pulsating life 19th-century New York and New Jersey and manages to be moving, too. 

Jason Cowley

Two books about grief moved me greatly. First, the Man Booker Prize judges got it right in choosing George Saunders’s Lincoln in the Bardo (Bloomsbury) as their winner. It’s a wondrous novel set on the night a grieving Abraham Lincoln, at the height of the Civil War, visits his dead 11-year-old son Willie in his crypt in Georgetown. The novel, which in form resembles a play or a script, is a polyphonic masterpiece, by turns hilarious and deeply poignant.

Richard Beard’s memoir, The Day That Went Missing (Harvill Secker), tells the story of a tragedy – the drowning of the author’s nine-year-old brother Nicky while on a family holiday in Cornwall in the 1970s – and of how the family reacted to its loss by behaving as if Nicky had never lived. Until, that is, the now middle-aged Beard reawakened long-repressed traumatic memories.

Deborah Levy

No doubt about it, I will read the genius poet Emily Berry’s second collection, Stranger, Baby (Faber & Faber), for many years to come. She begins with a Freud quotation: “The loss of a mother must be something very strange.” Her subject is indeed the death of a mother. These poems continue this conversation with Freud, forging a strange, tough language to give value to the absurdity and chaos of grief. She manages to be witty, too: “Now all my poems are about death I feel as though I’m really living.”

I thoroughly enjoyed Punk Is Dead: Modernity Killed Every Night (Zero Books). Edited by Richard Cabut and Andrew Gallix, this anthology of essays, interviews and personal recollections reflects on the ways in which punk was lived and experienced at the time. Gallix flips his finger at those who see nostalgia as an affliction and rightly attempts to promote the fragmented and contested legend of punk to “a summation of all the avant-garde movements of the 20th century… a revolution for everyday life”.

George Osborne

In the centenary year of the Russian Revolution, I reread Mikhail Sholokhov’s wonderful, unsparing epic And Quiet Flows the Don, reissued by Penguin Classics. It starts as an elegy to the hard, sometimes suffocating communal life of a Cossack village on the banks of the River Don in Russia and turns into a work of brutal realism as the community is denuded by the First World War, then destroyed by civil war and revolution. As a teenager, I saw only a grand tale of soldiers and revolutionaries; now I read an intimate human story of loss and love. Any book that won both the Stalin Prize and the Nobel Prize in Literature has to be worth a look.

If you want a complete antidote, read Tina Brown’s The Vanity Fair Diaries (Weidenfeld & Nicolson), the party-by-party, cover-by-cover story of how a Brit conquered New York publishing. As a novice editor, I can tell you it is packed with priceless advice from one of the greatest of them all.

Antonia Fraser

Hilary Spurling’s Anthony Powell: Dancing to the Music of Time (Hamish Hamilton) is a remarkable match between subject and biographer. (Spurling knew Powell over many years, an advantage she uses with admirable delicacy.) The result is an exciting story, from its unhappy beginnings to its triumphant ending with Powell as a leading 20th-century novelist. You can’t read this without your fingers itching to get at his Dance novels, whether for the first or the 15th time.

The Collected Novellas of Stefan Zweig (Pushkin Press), which I had never read despite a long and ardent admiration of Zweig, includes Burning Secret, about a boy and childish passion, which wrings the heart.

This article first appeared in the 16 November 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The plot to stop Brexit

Clockwise from top left: Moonlight, Phantom Thread, Call Me By Your Name, The Shape of Water
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The hand that feeds: how food scenes became the home of intimacy, sex and power in film

While food in general has been a big part of film over the past two years, it’s feeding scenes that stand out: from Phantom Thread’s BDSM omelette to Moonlight’s diner meal.

When was the last time somebody fed you? Not the last time your friend invited you round for dinner, or your partner cooked something delicious and romantic that you ate together. Not the last time you went to a nice restaurant and your date scooped a forkful of their meal into your mouth. When was the last time someone lived to serve your appetite, and your appetite alone?

Being fed is something that happens to people in an infantilised state. It suggests vulnerability. In this way, it is deeply, sometimes overly, intimate. When one person is eating and another isn’t – particularly in a sit-down, food-focused setting – traditional social dynamics become imbalanced, like being stark naked next to someone fully clothed, or a singer performing for an audience of one. As such, being fed can sit on a knife-edge of power dynamics: sometimes maternally nourishing, sometimes romantically intimate, sometimes exposing and uncomfortable. As a visual expression of the complexities of relationships, and with our need for food so often functioning as a metaphor for emotional needs and sexual desire, feeding scenes are particularly cinematic.

In fact, they are some of cinema’s most memorable: from Snow White accepting the evil witch’s apple in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs to the much-parodied food-as-foreplay sequence in 9 Weeks. I think of the sandwiches eaten early on in Psycho. When Marion arrives at the Bates Hotel, Norman Bates asks her, “Will you have supper here?” relaxing her by insisting “I was just about to, myself…” But once the sandwiches are prepared, Bates doesn’t eat. “It’s all for you. I’m not hungry. Please go ahead,” he insists. Marion, forced to eat alone, nibbles uncomfortably, and Bates watches closely. “You eat like a bird”, he says, comparing her to the stuffed birds dotted all around the room. It’s our first hint – along with his off-screen mother’s disembodied ranting about Mary “appeasing her ugly appetite with my food – and my son!” – that something is deeply wrong, as the proper dynamics of a meal are disturbed, and food openly discussed as a sexual metaphor.

While food in general has been a big part of film and film discussions over the past couple of years – from teenage girls snacking on un-consecrated wafers in Lady Bird to Get Out’s fruit loops and milk eaten (crucially, psychopathically) separately – it’s feeding scenes that stand out: from Phantom Thread’s BDSM omelette to Moonlight’s diner meal.

Perhaps no recent film privileges the role of food in relationships as highly as Moonlight (2016), which follows the coming-of-age of a gay black boy in Miami, Florida. “When it comes to food and film, its Barry Jenkins’ 2016 film Moonlight that paints food, and feeding, the most vibrantly,” Ruby Tandoh writes in her book Eat Up, in a section on the ways in which food functions as a language of caring. “The food is rich and exquisite and larger than life, but it’s not really the contents of the plate that counts. What matters, in each of these scenes, is that the meal sits there on the table between Chiron and the people who love him – a symbol of the most nurturing kind of love.” Moonlight explores the growing up of Chiron, in three acts (child, teenager and adult), and each of these acts contains at least one key scene in which Chiron is fed.

In an early scene, young Chiron (Alex Hibbert) is sat in a plasticy diner in front of Juan, a stranger who has taken it upon himself to look after neglected Chiron. Juan sits casually, a milkshake in hand, but with no food for himself, while Chiron eats his fries with a fork, quickly and silently.

“You not gonna tell me what your name is?” Juan says. When Chiron makes no attempt to reply, Juan pulls the tray out of his reach. Chrion looks down and shuffles back into his seat, still sulkily silent. Juan laughs. “Oh, man, you know I wouldn’t do you like that. Anyway, I apologize, alright? I’m just trying to get you to say something.”

After a short car ride, we are at home with Juan and his girlfriend Teresa. Juan and Teresa have no plates before them, but are both watching Chiron silently make his way through a plate of chicken. “You don’t talk much but you damn sure can eat,” Juan laughs. “That’s alright, baby. You ain’t got to talk till you get good and ready,” says Teresa. Finally, he speaks. “My name’s Chiron.” Even at this early stage in the film, the relationship between emotional and physical nourishment is clear, as food seen as a gateway to trust and familiarity.

When Chiron is older, he still relies on Teresa for this nourishment. In the film’s second act, Theresa tries to joke with a teenage Chiron (Ashton Sanders) as he eats (again, she herself does not), but Chiron, anxious and sullen, doesn’t bite, instead looking down at his plate. Theresa gently, lovingly insists he sit up and speak. “Stop putting your head down in my house. You know my rule, it’s all love and all pride in this house. You feel me? I can’t hear you. Do you feel me?”

These dynamics reappear in Chiron’s romantic relationship as a grown man. Now muscular and masculine but still shy and reserved, Chiron (Trevante Rhodes) meets up with Kevin (André Holland), the object of his childhood affections, in the diner he runs. This diner scene, for many the iconic image of the film, is stretched out until it twitches with sexual tension, full of long silences and extended eye contact, running at an almost painfully long fifteen minutes. “You ain’t changed one damn bit,” Kevin observes. “You still can’t say more than three words at a time, huh?” Without missing a beat, Chiron speaks. “You said you was gonna cook for me. I know how to say that.”

We watch Kevin prepare the chef’s special with skill and care. Kevin brings it over to Chiron in a window booth, insists they share a bottle of wine, and attentively watches him eat his meal. When Chiron drops a bit on the table, and eats it with his fingers, popping it in his mouth, Kevin laughs. “I saw that, I saw that!” When Chiron is reluctant to share more personal details of his life, Kevin refuses to let it slide. “I’ve been back there in that kitchen, man, and cooked for your ass and everything. Hey, these grandma’s rules, man. You know the deal: your ass eat, your ass speak.”

Kevin’s joking about “grandma’s rules” points towards the larger significance of Moonlight’s meals: food is the tool that allows Kevin, Theresa, and Juan to enter Chiron’s life intimately, in both parental and romantic roles. For someone like Chiron – lonely, neglected, whose appetites and needs don’t take centre stage in his own childhood home – meals like this become the times where he is most vulnerable, and most open to love.

Parallels have been drawn between Moonlight and Sean Baker’s exploration of impoverished childhood The Florida Project (2017), even by Barry Jenkins himself. Moonee, The Florida Project’s central character, is, like Chiron, the child of a single mother in desperate circumstances (they live in a $38 a night motel called The Magic Castle, near Florida’s Disney World). But Moonee’s mother Halley is more caring, and present, and is at her most nurturing when feeding her child.

In one scene, we watch from Halley’s perspective as Moonee eats her weight in food at an all-you-can-eat hotel breakfast buffet Halley has sneaked them into. Moonee wolfs down bacon and fruit and pastries, and drinks a huge glass of orange juice in a single gulp. She is thrilled: “I wish I had a bigger stomach – like I was pregnant! I could fit food in there... We’ve gotta come here again. This is the life man! Better than a cruise!” The whole scene is a performance: Halley pretends to be a normal hotel guest on holiday with her child, Moonee in turn plays up her enjoyment for her mother. But it’s a performance that allows Halley and Moonee to have a loving, normal mother-daughter relationship, even if it’s short-lived. Halley simply watches her overexcited daughter quietly, smiling beatifically. As her daughter is at her most effusive and childlike, delighting in life’s simple pleasures, Halley is at her most maternal.

Kelly Reichardt’s Certain Women (2016) can also be compared to Moonlight: here is a colder imagining of queer love in a diner. Lonely, isolated Montanan ranch hand Jamie (Lily Gladstone) falls for a young lawyer, Beth (Kristen Stewart) when she accidentally walks into her law class. After class, Jamie offers to take Beth to a diner. Over three scenes in that diner, Reichardt explores Jamie’s unreciprocated interest in Beth: in each, Beth eats while Jamie watches eagerly, ordering no food for herself.

In the first, Beth eats a sad-looking burger and complains about the long journey ahead of her. In the second, she eats a bowl of soup, while Jamie, again, only watches. Beth asks Jamie, businesslike, “Do you happen to know anyone in town who could teach my class?” Jamie chuckles sheepishly and says, “I don’t know anyone at all.” It’s overly intimate – Jamie wants Beth to ask about her loneliness. Her soft smile is the one of someone being examined by a new lover. Beth looks at her soup and asks Jamie vaguely about her job working with horses. Jamie responds with childhood anecdotes about her and her brothers sneaking out at night to ride wild horses, smiling that same embarrassed smile.

The third and final time the two arrive at the diner, it’s on horseback. Emboldened by the mere mention of her horses in their last conversation, when Beth agrees to share a ride to the diner, Jamie surprises her by bringing out her horse. The two ride the horse in silence. In the diner, biting into a grilled cheese, Beth offers Jamie some of her fries. Jamie, as ever, declines to eat, but stares unbreakingly at Beth, asking her a question that picks up on the last throwaway comment Beth made the last time they were at the diner: clearly, she’s been running that conversation over in her mind, thinking of something to ask her. It’s painful to watch such undivided, unreciprocated attentions, and Jamie’s misreading of the scene leads to an awkward declaration of feeling later in the film.

7,000 miles away, Francis Lee’s God’s Own Country (2017) too explores queer desire in an isolated, rural setting. Johnny (Josh O’Connor) is a closeted Yorkshire farm worker with a drinking problem, used to denying himself life’s pleasures. The arrival of stunningly handsome Romanian farmhand Gheorghe (Alec Secareanu) catches Johnny off-guard.

The first time they eat together, Johnny tears into a pot of instant noodles without putting a flavour packet in; Gheorghe empties his packet into his noodles quietly and slowly. They are silent and avoid eye contact. The second time, it’s early, the morning after their first sexual encounter. Gheorghe watches silently as Johnny forks noodles into his mouth. “What?” he asks, uncomfortable. “I’m starving, me.” The third time, after watching Gheorghe begin to pour his flavour packet into his noodles, Johnny holds his own cup towards him. Gheorghe shares his packet. Again, Gheorghe watches Johnny eat. Eventually Johnny is too uncomfortable under his gaze, and finishes his noodles inside, alone. But later, as their relationship develops, we see Gheorghe cook for Johnny, even tasting it and salting his food for him, and they begin to actually enjoy food together.

Shared pleasure in food as a form of romance pops up again In Luca Guadagnino’s Call Me By Your Name (2017), set in rural Italy in 1983. Oliver (Armie Hammer) and Elio (Timothée Chalamet) fall in love around the breakfast table, amongst fragrant peach trees. During their first breakfast together, Oliver begins by helping himself to an egg. He taps it with his teaspoon so violently he smashes the whole egg into a runny mess of yolk and bits of shell. The maid takes it away, he takes a second, and breaks into it with a little more restraint. Elio is eating a peach, chewing on it as his parents and Oliver chat about the fruit trees. Oliver begins hurriedly eating his egg, making appreciative noises, dripping liquid yolk all over the table, and is soon offered another. “No, no, no I know myself too well – if I have a second I’m just gonna have a third, and then a fourth, and you’re just gonna have to roll me out of here. Delicious.” Elio pauses from his chewing to watch, intently.

The next time we see Oliver eat an egg, it’s in close-up, with ridiculous squelching noises. Though Guadagnino has insisted there is nothing sexual about this moment, only Epicurean, (even insisting in his defence “We didn’t do a close-up of that”, but I beg to differ – see above), the dialogue during the scene at least links Oliver’s egg eating to sex. “We almost had sex last night,” Elio says to his father, while Oliver eats. Then adds, “Marcia and me.” Of course, it is peaches that are the film’s most sexualised food. And, as Dan Q Dao writes in Munchies, the original novel contains an even more explicit version of the scene, as Oliver eats a peach Elio has had sex with, while Elio watches.

Call Me By Your Name is not the only film this year offering audiences a sexy egg. Eggs are more deliberately sexualised in Guillermo del Toro’s The Shape of Water (2017), set in Baltimore in 1962. Every morning, cleaner Elisa (Sally Hawkins) masturbates in the bath in the time it takes her to boil two eggs to take to work. Later, when she first meets the fish-man creature the laboratory she cleans is experimenting on, she feeds him the very same eggs – which he devours with visible pleasure. Is this human feeding animal, mother feeding child, or lover feeding lover? Eggs bond them – “egg” is the first word she teaches him in sign language, and the eggs she brings him every day soon become tokens of love, as Elisa lines them up on the edge of his tank, making eyes at him.

In the film’s most unambiguous exploration of Elisa’s feelings for the amphibian man, the two sit at opposite ends of a long table, while the creature eats an entire plate of boiled eggs. As Elisa watches him eat, she sings along with the song on the radio, and the scene melts into an old Hollywood fantasy, where Elisa swirls around a stage with the creature in her arms. We cut back to the dinner table: the creature is studiously peeling his eggs, oblivious. When Elisa feeds the amphibian man, it both brings them closer together, and serves to emphasise the gulf between them in their experiences of the world.

In all these films, the relationship between food and sex is romantic, pleasant, or at least fairly safe. But in Julia Ducournau’s French film Raw (2016), food and sex are dangerously, violently linked. During an initiation ceremony at her second day of veterinary school, vegetarian Justine (Garance Marillier) is forced to eat raw rabbit’s kidneys.

It brings her out in a bright red rash – and sees her develop an insatiable craving for raw meat, sex, and even human flesh. Slowly but surely, Justine starts eating other people. As the film goes on, her primal, cannibalistic desire becomes indistinguishable from lust.

Food is dangerous, too, in Sophia Coppola’s The Beguiled .When wounded soldier Corporal John McBurney (Colin Farrell) ends up at all-female boarding school in Civil War-era Virginia, his presence is an unwanted, but nevertheless thrilling. Three dinner scenes between teachers Miss Martha (Nicole Kidman) and Miss Edwina (Kirsten Dunst) with their five pupils explore the tensions he brings into the home. In the first, the women mediate on the lessons his arrival could teach them. In the second, they are joined by the Corporal himself, each of the girls taking their moment to try and impress him. They take the odd bite of their meal, but their attentions are focused on McBurney, who is forced into a performative tummy-rubbing appreciation: “This is the finest meal I can remember”.

The third comes after McBurney has threatened, at gunpoint, to murder the women. They decide to protect themselves and dispose of him by feeding him a poison version of his favourite mushroom dish. “Corporal, we’d like to let you know that we harbor no ill feelings, and made this meal in commemoration of your journey ahead,” Miss Martha insists. As the mushrooms are passed to the Corporal, none of the girls help themselves. As he piles his plate high, the girls stare on and neglect their own plates. Coppola’s stage directions repeatedly emphasise how the women keep their gazes fixed on McBurney: “All eyes are on him”; Jane, Emily and Amy “stare”; “They all watch as McBurney eats up the mushrooms”; “The girls watch him”; “The united women calmly watch”. Of course, unbeknownst to McBurney, the intensity of their undivided attention and their own refusal to eat the mushrooms is a sign that something deeply suspicious is happening.

Ultimately, any intimate act is so because it holds a level of risk, and requires an element of trust. Here, the vague danger that comes with accepting food from another person is taken to its logical conclusion. Within a few seconds of eating, McBurney lies dead on the floor.

Strangely, The Beguiled is not the only film of 2017 featuring a woman feeding a threatening man poison mushrooms to regain control. In Paul Thomas Anderson’s Phantom Thread, the dining table at 1950s London dressmakers the House of Woodcock is as fraught as that of a Civil War boarding school. Phantom Thread explores the complexities of hunger and sexual desire perhaps more explicitly than any other film this year: at the New Yorker, Helen Rosner calls in “one of the great food movies in recent memory”. Difficult, self-mythologizing 1950s fashion designer Reynolds Woodcock has a complex relationship with his work, alternating between discipline and spontaneity, self-denial and self-expression. His relationship with food oscillates, too: sometimes it is one of control and deprivation, other times an ecstatic binge. When he is happy, inspired, or aroused, Woodcock eats with relish.

When he first meets Alma (Vicky Krieps), she is a waitress in a seaside café – from her, Reynolds orders an endless breakfast: “A Welsh rarebit. With a poached egg on top – not too runny. Bacon. Scones. Butter. Cream. Jam – not strawberry. A pot of Lapsang souchong tea. And some sausages.” She delivers it to him, along with a note: “To the hungry boy.” Food remains the sire of their flirtation and their battleground.

As Reynolds’ relationship with Alma develops, her relaxed approach to food enrages him. She butters her toast too loudly, slurps her cereal obscenely. She violates the sanctity of his breakfast by eating enthusiastically. “If breakfast isn’t right,” Reynold’s sister Cyril (Lesley Manville) explains, “it’s very hard for him to recover for the rest of the day.” When Alma brings him tea in the afternoon, he balks. “No, Alma, what are you doing? Don’t put the tray on the table, please. Just take it off. I didn’t ask for tea.” When she replies that the tea is going out, he snaps, “The interruption is staying right here with me.” When Alma rejects the conventions of the household to prepare a surprise dinner for Reynolds, he makes no attempt to conceal his disdain: “As I think you know, Alma, I prefer my asparagus with oil and salt. And knowing this, you’ve prepared the asparagus with butter. Now, I can imagine in certain circumstances being able to pretend that I like it made this way. Right now, I’m just admiring my own gallantry for eating it the way you’ve prepared it.” Perhaps their worst argument ensues.

In these moments, Alma is a nuisance, or worse, a threat to the stability and order or the House of Woodcock, forever interrupting Reynolds with inconvenient reminders of troublesome human desires: food, sex, emotional intimacy. But when Woodcock is invigorated, inspired, and happy to give in to his wants, both Alma and food become much more enticing prospects. ”Do we have porridge?” he says brightly to his cook one morning. “Do we have cream? Thick cream? That’s what I’d like. Oh, Alma, would you like some porridge?”

Ultimately, Reynolds fluctuates between desiring power and control, and desiring its opposite. Understanding this, Alma is able to slowly, carefully, become the dominant party. Of course, it’s food – and feeding – that enables her to do this. The film’s final scenes shows Alma preparing a poisoned mushroom omelette for Reynolds: that will force him back into a vulnerable, infantilised, pathetic state, and put her in the position of controlling caregiver. “I want you flat on your back,” Alma whispers, “helpless, tender, open, with only me to help.” Reynolds smiles. It’s a state he desires sexually, emotionally and physically as the film’s insistent final words make unavoidably clear. “I’m getting hungry,” Reynolds says. We cut to black.

Anna Leszkiewicz is the New Statesman's deputy culture editor.

This article first appeared in the 16 November 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The plot to stop Brexit