Philip Matthews is studying Film & New Media at the University of South Florida.
The way that La Cocina makes use of time and space is an important part of the reason why the movie had my heart rate up for the entire second half as it attempts to convey the stress that comes with working a kitchen, and how someone who is already “going through it” would find such an environment difficult to navigate successfully for a long period of time.
While inside the building and the kitchen, the aspect ratio of the film is much closer to a square, while stepping outside widens it to a more standard film resolution, mixing this with the wider angles afforded by the extra space, even the viewer feels like they can finally breathe when the movie steps outside, I know I did. When in the kitchen, your breath is stifled by the compactness of it all, how close everyone is and just how loud it is as well. You may find it difficult to breathe (and I still do even thinking back on it), and the incredibly long takes that are used for the proper service sections build a feeling of anticipation that simply compounds on itself, further and further.
You leave the kitchen for a little bit, but it’s still quite the mess upstairs, and when you return to the kitchen, the entire floor is now covered in Cherry Coke, this all happens without any noticeable pause, there is no cut nor jump that allows the spectator to disassociate themselves with the events. The story about the man who was abducted by the green light is actually a bit of a reprieve, as its just a story told calmly without rush, and the soft ambience as opposed to the intense clatter of steel and dishes gives the mind a moment to think. This juxtaposition keeps the viewer nervous even during a part where nothing is happening, priming them for the next onslaught of stimuli.