There’s something oddly refreshing about a movie that dares to forget its own origins. Take Tony, the new A24 film that trades in the mythos of Anthony Bourdain for a raw, unpolished coming-of-age story. It’s a bold move—especially for a project rooted in the life of a cultural icon. But here’s the kicker: by shedding the weight of Bourdain’s later fame, the film becomes something unexpectedly honest. It’s not about the legend. It’s about the kid who didn’t know what he wanted, stumbled into a kitchen, and accidentally became someone people would remember. That’s the kind of narrative that feels like a breath of fresh air in an era where biopics often feel more like hagiography than storytelling.
Let’s cut through the noise for a second. Anthony Bourdain’s legacy is a mosaic of contradictions: a man who wrote about the grit of restaurant kitchens while living a life of privilege, who could be both incisive and self-indulgent. His memoir Kitchen Confidential is a classic because it captures that tension—the messy, unglamorous truth of the culinary world. But Tony doesn’t try to replicate that. Instead, it leans into the awkwardness of Bourdain’s youth, the part of his story that’s rarely dramatized. And that’s where the real magic happens. The film isn’t trying to lionize Bourdain; it’s trying to humanize him. That’s a rare thing in biopics, which often feel like they’re writing a eulogy before the subject has even died.
What makes this particularly fascinating is how the film handles its source material. The director, Matt Johnson, takes the first two chapters of Kitchen Confidential and stretches them into a summer-long odyssey. But instead of sticking to the facts, he builds a character arc that feels like it could’ve been plucked from a John Hughes script. Tony Bourdain, played by Dominic Sessa, is a college dropout with a chip on his shoulder and a mouth full of grandiose ideas. He’s not the sharp-eyed, globe-trotting storyteller we know from TV; he’s a kid who thinks he’s got it all figured out but is clearly still figuring out how to tie his own shoes. It’s a masterstroke of casting, really. Sessa’s performance is so unapologetically flawed that you can’t help but root for him, even when he’s being a complete brat. That’s the kind of acting that makes you forget you’re watching a biopic at all.
Now, let’s talk about the elephant in the room: why does this movie exist? Bourdain’s story has been told in so many forms—documentaries, TV shows, even a failed sitcom. But Tony carves out a niche by focusing on the pre-fame Bourdain, the one who was still learning to write and cook. It’s a reminder that legends aren’t born overnight. They’re forged in the crucible of failure, awkward social interactions, and the occasional seafood shack. And that’s where the film’s greatest strength lies. It doesn’t need to glorify Bourdain’s genius; it just needs to show the raw, unfiltered process of becoming someone. That’s a lesson that’s sorely missing from most modern storytelling, which often skips straight to the triumph and ignores the struggle.
But here’s the thing: Tony isn’t without its flaws. The film’s treatment of Nancy, the girl Tony meets in Provincetown, feels like a missed opportunity. She’s a fully realized character in her own right, but the script forces her into the role of a disposable love interest. It’s a common trope in coming-of-age stories, but it’s also a bit lazy. The movie could’ve used her as a mirror to Tony’s growth, instead of just a plot device to explain his emotional arc. That’s a shame, because Emilia Jones is clearly capable of more. It’s a reminder that even the best intentions can lead to flat writing when the narrative isn’t given enough room to breathe.
What this really suggests is that biopics need to stop trying to be everything to everyone. Tony succeeds because it embraces its limitations. It doesn’t try to be a comprehensive portrait of Bourdain’s life. It’s a snapshot, a moment in time that feels authentic and relatable. And in a world where we’re constantly bombarded with polished, sanitized versions of real people, that’s a welcome change. The film’s refusal to sanitize Bourdain’s early years is what makes it so compelling. It’s not about the man who became a legend. It’s about the kid who didn’t know what he wanted, stumbled into a kitchen, and accidentally became someone people would remember. That’s the kind of story that feels like a breath of fresh air in an era where biopics often feel more like hagiography than storytelling.
So, what does this mean for the future of biopics? I think it’s a sign that audiences are tired of the same old tropes. We want stories that feel real, not just reverent. We want characters who are flawed, not just flawless. And we want narratives that don’t just tell us who someone became, but how they got there. Tony is a small but significant step in that direction. It’s a reminder that sometimes, the best way to honor a legend is to forget about the legend for a while and just tell the story of the person. And if that’s not a lesson worth learning, I don’t know what is.
