While watching video essays and analyses on YouTube at home, I randomly stumbled across a video essay on Pixar’s Ratatouille. Curious, I clicked it, only to hear the speaker recount their experience as a poor student at a wealthy art school—a story that resonated deeply with me, recalling my own time at a prestigious performing arts school in the UK, which I entered at the tender age of 14. The narrator spoke about the pressure to shell out huge sums of money on a whim and recalled times when they had to borrow materials from peers, buy secondhand, or even plead with professors to allow the use of cheap knockoff brands. Though the performing arts school I attended wasn’t nearly as wealthy or expensive—since admission hinged on audition rather than tuition fees—it was nonetheless renowned, drawing a diverse crowd from across the UK and Europe, spanning the socioeconomic spectrum. The speaker described feeling simultaneously privileged to have access to such an elite sphere and viciously aware of their outsider status, vividly recalling the moment a professor flatly told their class that poor people simply don’t belong there. Having grown up attending a secondary school where I knew most classmates from childhood or lived in the same neighborhoods, I never questioned my place or felt inferior—certainly not poor, at least not in comparison to some friends and classmates. There had been an unspoken understanding of shared background, a tacit belonging I hadn’t fully recognized until it vanished. It was replaced by a sea of snotty, upper-class “artists,” obsessed with slumming it while radiating unwavering arrogance. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was lacking, fundamentally unequal to my peers—and I sensed they could smell it on me from a mile away. The speaker recalled calling a friend to vent, only to receive some stark wisdom passed on from a guest speaker: “These places aren’t made for people like us. Our job is to get in, steal what we can, and get out. We’re scavengers.”

 

Pixar’s Ratatouille is about... so much more than it seems at first glance. It’s a story woven from threads of inspiration, talent, art, memory, and capitalism—more specifically, the complex realities of class mobility within a capitalist society. The film presents a tale of stark contrasts: on one end, the poorest of the poor, forced to scavenge and dumpster dive just to survive; on the other, the wealthy elite, who can afford the luxury of haute cuisine, dining in exclusive restaurants that symbolize privilege and power. At its core, Ratatouille tells a rags-to-riches story, following an artist who begins from the bottom and strives to reach the pinnacle of this world. But once you start to see the rats not just as characters, but as metaphors for the poor—or, more precisely, as how the rich perceive the poor—a whole new, profound layer of the story emerges, one I hadn’t fully appreciated before.​

 

If you have money, you can afford to set aside work, chores, and all of life’s relentless demands—long enough to truly practice your craft. But the less money you have, the less time there is for such “frivolous” pursuits. Survival becomes the singular priority. Material costs are another formidable barrier. Sure, you can make do for a while with leftovers and substitutions, but inevitably, you hit a wall. For our protagonist, Remy, as an aspiring cook, progressing means experimenting with more expensive ingredients and better kitchen tools. But where on earth is he supposed to find that money? We see this struggle laid bare at the very start of the film. Remy and his family survive by scavenging—living off the land and other people’s garbage. His father has learned to focus purely on survival, dismissing Remy’s talents and passions as useless indulgences. Only when Remy’s skills become crucial to their survival does his father even begin to pay attention.

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The scene where Remy is forced into the grim role of poison checker resonates deeply—it evokes the soul-crushing reality of factory or retail work that families push you toward because it pays the bills and offers stability. Yet such jobs often drain your spirit, and all you want is to break free—to do something meaningful, creative, something that brings joy to yourself and others. But joy, of course, is a luxury only the wealthy can afford. In Ratatouille, Brad Bird unwaveringly tells the story of being an artist—his own story in filmmaking, Remy’s in cooking. The film poses profound questions: What does it mean to be an artist? What are you willing to sacrifice for your craft? And ultimately, is it worth it?

Remy, naturally, is determined to pursue his passion. He admires the humans, the wealthy creators he so desperately wants to emulate. “I know I’m supposed to hate humans, but there’s something about them. They don’t just survive—they discover, they create.” Making do with what he has, Remy repurposes found objects into kitchen tools and cooks using a mix of discarded scraps and foraged ingredients. When Remy first combines flavors and the result blooms into a synesthetic symphony of colors and music, we grasp his artistic vision. His art, like a fleeting moment of beauty, is ephemeral. He manages for a while on these terms, but then hits the inevitable boundary. To move beyond good and achieve greatness, he must cross into human territory. Though Remy claims he’s been in the kitchen countless times before, this time he oversteps—and the film punishes him for it. The chaos of the clan’s evacuation costs him both his home and family. Yet this loss is also a beginning. If Remy had never dared to steal that saffron, the clan would have stayed in the sewers, and he would never have ventured into Paris. At the time Ratatouille was released, Paris ranked as the 15th most expensive city in the world. By 2025, it has risen to 7th, tied with Zurich and New York. No matter the year, Remy aimed for the moon—and landed among the stars.

 

After the ghostly manifestation of the recently deceased Chef Gusteau—an embodiment of Remy’s artistic inspiration and inner voice—urges him to seek food, Remy finds himself at none other than his idol’s former kitchen. There, he watches Gusteau’s newest garbage boy, Linguini, accidentally ruin a pot of soup. Linguini, in many ways, is a human mirror of Remy. Who else has no social status? Who else has a job that literally revolves around garbage? Paris belongs to the wealthy, and just like a rat, Linguini is forced to inhabit the overlooked, neglected corners of that gilded world. His apartment is cramped, musty, and falling apart—a space where an old, dog-eared book props up the fridge. Linguini owns little more than a battered couch, a rusty bicycle, a box television, a pair of roller skates, and a few withering plants. Even when he finally goes shopping, presumably after receiving a paycheck, he still only manages to come home with the bare essentials: some milk, leftovers, a tomato or two, canned drinks, and a bottle of sauce. Linguini's desperation is palpable when he pleads with Skinner, the tyrannical head chef, saying, “I need this job. I’ve lost so many.” Through the lens of Ratatouille’s broader class metaphor, Linguini is less human and more rat-like than the film initially lets on. This comparison is made explicit during one of Skinner’s rants. After Linguini accidentally creates a culinary masterpiece—thanks to Remy’s secret involvement—Skinner fumes at Linguini’s sudden success. When Remy tries to sneak away unnoticed, Skinner spots him and lashes out, declaring, “They think you might be a cook, but you know what I think, Linguini? I think you are a sneaky, overreaching little—RAT!” The metaphor could not be clearer.

To survive in the world of the wealthy, these two outsiders—Remy and Linguini—must ally themselves with each other. They’re united not just by necessity but by shared exclusion. Their main adversary, Skinner, is the personification of capitalist gatekeeping. In Skinner’s world, cooking isn’t about passion or artistry; it’s about marketability. It’s about what sells. He has taken Gusteau’s love for food and twisted it into a cynical commercial empire that mass-produces cheap, frozen knockoff products. Skinner is arrogant, dictatorial, and violently resistant to change. Where Gusteau celebrated risk-taking and creativity, Skinner fights tooth and nail against any form of nonconformity because innovation threatens the stability—and profitability—of his brand. Linguini’s rise poses a direct threat to Skinner’s control. Initially, Skinner tolerates Linguini only because a garbage boy holds no real power. But the moment Linguini begins to show talent (or at least, the appearance of talent), Skinner launches a relentless campaign to squash him. Even when a critic praises Linguini’s soup, Skinner still tries to fire him—until, of course, he realizes the entire kitchen staff has taken Linguini’s side. Skinner backs off, but only strategically, only because appeasing Colette and the other cooks temporarily benefits him. Still, it’s clear: Skinner fully expects Linguini to crash and burn. 

 

Then comes Skinner’s most unsettling discovery: Linguini’s bloodline. Learning that Linguini is Gusteau’s biological son throws a wrench into Skinner’s plans. Suddenly, Skinner can’t fire him—not without risking a PR disaster. The irony here is biting: in the end, it’s not hard work, talent, or even Remy’s brilliance that protects Linguini from being crushed by the system. It’s nepotism. Bloodlines, not merit, become the key to survival and upward mobility. Without that genetic safety net, Skinner likely would have expelled both Linguini and Remy long before they could pose a real threat.

I doubt Ratatouille set out to make this point explicitly, but the parallel with real life is hard to ignore. The success of men like Skinner—the archetypal capitalist businessman—depends on keeping people like Remy and Linguini locked out of power. They cut wages, dismantle social programs, and build near-impenetrable barriers designed to keep the working class firmly in its place. For poor people, advancement is possible, but rare. It demands extraordinary labor, solidarity, and a near-supernatural stroke of luck. Meanwhile, a wealthy bloodline acts as a cheat code—one that catapults individuals to the top, bypassing the struggle entirely. 

 

That said, Ratatouille doesn’t completely disregard the power of allyship and collective struggle. Let’s talk about that—about solidarity in the face of capitalist power structures. The film makes a subtle but pointed argument: always remember where you came from, so you remember to lift others up. Colette’s arc embodies this ethic perfectly. During the film’s climax, she chooses to stand with Remy and Linguini, despite the secrecy, the lies, and the enormous risk to her own career. Why? Love, perhaps. But there’s more. Gusteau’s book reminds her of her own fight to survive in an industry that told her, repeatedly, she didn’t belong. As a woman in fine dining, she had to battle tooth and nail for respect in a male-dominated space. We watch her transformation: initially hostile and fiercely defensive of her position, Colette begins to warm to Linguini as he listens, learns, and values her expertise. There’s an ironic cruelty to this, of course. Cooking is historically coded as “women’s work,” yet the moment power, prestige, and paychecks enter the kitchen, it becomes a man’s domain—where a woman couldn’t possibly know what she’s doing. For most of history, women were told it was their moral duty to cook for their families—unpaid, unacknowledged. The idea of a woman demanding to be paid for cooking—let alone rising to head chef—was viewed as both a social and moral failing. Colette, having fought this battle herself, understands what it means to be marginalized, doubted, and dismissed. And because she empathizes with Remy and Linguini’s struggle, she chooses to act. That, ultimately, is how the heroes of Ratatouille succeed: not alone, but through empathy, solidarity, and mutual support from others who’ve walked a similar path. In a system built to exclude, outsider voices need each other. Even Anton Ego, the notoriously jaded critic, echoes this sentiment when he says: “The new needs friends.”

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After being captured by Skinner in a rat trap, Remy finds himself physically stuck and emotionally unraveling. Once again, Gusteau’s ghost appears—but as always, he’s only as free as Remy imagines him to be. Gusteau, as a manifestation of Remy's own artistic voice and insecurities, is trapped in the same mental confines that Remy is. Exhausted, frustrated, and emotionally drained, Remy lashes out at the ghostly figure. He tells Gusteau that he's tired of pretending—pretending to be a rat for his father’s approval, pretending to be human for Linguini’s validation. “You just tell me things I already know,” he complains. “I know who I am. Why do I have to pretend?” Gusteau responds with a knowing, almost omnipresent chuckle: “But you don’t, Remy. You never did.” And Gusteau’s right. Throughout the film, Remy is constantly performing—assimilating, conforming, and suppressing himself to fit into worlds that were never designed for him. Whether it's living under the oppressive expectations of his father or seeking acceptance from the human culinary world, Remy plays the role others expect of him. Even Gusteau’s ghost is a performance—an imaginary mentor Remy conjures to avoid facing the terrifying loneliness of being the first of his kind to chase a dream like this. The film offers several examples of this assimilation. One of the most striking is the dinner argument between Remy and his father, Django. When Remy declares that "A bird's got to leave the nest," Django replies, "We're not birds, we're rats. We don’t leave our nests—we make them bigger." Remy shoots back, "Well, maybe I’m a different kind of rat," to which his father darkly retorts, "Maybe you’re not a rat at all." Remy, for the first time, doesn't flinch: "Maybe that’s a good thing." Over and over, Remy tries to distance himself from his upbringing and his species—rejecting both the social customs and survival mechanisms that define rat life. He idolizes humans for their artistry and feels like a pariah for valuing creativity in a culture of survivalism. Even after Django takes him to the pest control shop, forcing him to look at rows of hanging rat corpses (a chilling nod to the real Parisian exterminator Julian Aurouze & Co.), Remy still refuses to retreat into fear. Django warns him: "You can't change nature." Remy counters: "Nature is change. It's the part that we can influence. And it starts when we decide." With that, Remy walks—on two legs—toward the restaurant, toward his dream, and toward self-actualization. Ratatouille at its heart is a coming-of-age story about growing up and finally allowing yourself to be who you are—regardless of the limitations society, your family, or your background place on you. For the first time in the film, Remy fully frees himself from the expectations of others—and, just as importantly, from the expectations he's internalized. For the first time, he gives himself permission to simply exist as himself. That authenticity is exactly what resonates with Anton Ego in the film’s climax.

 

Speaking of Ego—his character arc is its own subtle class commentary. It’s hard to say definitively whether Ego comes from poverty, but there are telling clues. He’s from rural France. The fact that his emotional undoing is triggered by a simple “peasant dish”—ratatouille—suggests a childhood where luxury wasn’t the norm. Somewhere along the way, Ego abandoned that history and reinvented himself as a harsh gatekeeper of high society’s culinary standards. And how do the characters “defeat” him? Not with fancy gastronomy, but with comfort food. With something that speaks to love, simplicity, and memory: the food his mother made for him as a child. The emotional impact is not just about taste—it’s about care. Hospitality. Someone created a dish that was not just technically perfect but deeply personal. A dish that speaks directly to Ego’s humanity. This level of observation and empathy—knowing your customer’s heart, not just their palate—is something no critic can defend against. Colette, too, plays an important role in this dynamic. Early on, she warns Linguini, “You cannot be mommy in the kitchen,” referring to how women in the culinary world are often expected to be nurturing while still competing in a brutal, male-dominated space. Ironically, it’s precisely that kind of maternal, hospitable care that ends up breaking through Ego’s defenses. Interestingly, despite Colette’s earlier struggles with sexism, when Ego learns that she’s now head chef, his reaction is one of delighted surprise—not disbelief. This actually makes perfect sense: the best cook Ego ever knew was his mother. The moment resonates both personally and socially: Ego doesn’t flinch at the idea of a woman running the kitchen because the archetype of the nurturing female cook is already embedded in his most formative, positive culinary memory. Ego himself is practically coded as a vampire throughout the film. His gaunt, pale appearance, the sharp angular features, his dark wardrobe—all heighten this gothic metaphor. He “feeds” off the creative energy of others, delivering judgment that can “kill” restaurants. His nickname, “The Grim Eater,” only strengthens this predatory image. His office is coffin-shaped, his typewriter adorned with skulls, and his voice drips with cold detachment. The symbolism of “ego death” is literalized in the very room where Ego is finally humbled and transformed. 

 

Finally, Linguini’s arc offers a clever subversion of the “chosen one” trope. On the surface, his story looks like every inspirational hero’s journey: a nobody suddenly exhibits genius, is mentored by a hard-nosed love interest, defeats the villain, and claims his birthright as Gusteau’s son. It’s an easy, marketable narrative—the kind people root for because it feels earned. But the reality is more complex. Linguini didn’t rise because of innate talent; he rose because of Remy’s skill, Colette’s mentorship, and sheer luck tied to his bloodline. His true talents aren’t in cooking at all. They’re in hospitality and service. The film drops subtle hints early on: Linguini’s roller-skating skills, his dexterity, his natural charm when he isn’t pretending to be something he’s not. In the final act, it's these abilities—not culinary genius—that help save the day. He zips around the restaurant, balancing trays, glasses, and orders with grace and energy. Linguini may not be the next great chef, but he’s found his own authentic way of honoring his father’s legacy—by giving diners unforgettable experiences. Not by creating the food, but by delivering it with heart.

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And the beautiful irony of Remy’s story is that even after all that risk, his chosen art is one that’s inherently fleeting and consumable. Remy will spend hours perfecting a single flavor, obsessing over his mise en place, carefully wiping away a stray dab of sauce—and within half an hour, that meal will be reduced to mere calories in someone’s digestive system. The same fate awaits his creations as a Happy Meal or the “corn puppies” Gusteau’s ghost scoffs at. Yet Remy labors as though each plate is a permanent masterpiece. That, more than anything, makes Ratatouille one of the purest films about art and artistry. For many artists, the work is their attempt at immortality. Remy knows his work won’t last. But he creates it anyway.

 

What makes the film’s ending so satisfying is that Remy wins—not just because of technical skill—but because he appeals to Ego’s humanity. To Ego’s own past. By serving him ratatouille, Remy reminds him of something fundamental and buried: empathy. The visual storytelling here is just as poignant. Ego’s color palette shifts from cold black and purple to warm earth tones by the film’s end. Once a grim, vampiric figure with coffin-shaped furniture and skull-themed stationery, Ego re-emerges looking healthier, more grounded—rooted, literally and figuratively, in his own past. Even Remy himself is shown with more weight on him in the final scenes. It’s subtle, but it’s there: he’s well-fed, happier, more alive.

What I love most about Ratatouille is how it lets idealism, artistry, and genuine human connection win out over cynicism, greed, and jadedness. Skinner (the “greedy chef”) represents pure capitalist exploitation—trying to monetize Gusteau’s legacy with frozen food lines and sellable branding. Ego, on the other hand, is disillusioned by the pomp and ego (fittingly) of haute cuisine, having turned cold and bitter toward an art form he once loved. By the film’s end, both forces are undone: Skinner is literally sent packing, and Ego is reborn—transformed by the raw sincerity of Remy’s art. Back when the film was released, we all recognized Ratatouille as a cinematic masterpiece—and apparently, so did the late Anthony Bourdain. In a 2011 interview with Entertainment Weekly, he remarked, “It’s a measure of how deficient Hollywood has been in making an accurate restaurant-based film that far and away the best was about an animated rat.” Bourdain went on to praise the film for its precise and loving portrayal of the restaurant world, from the food itself, to the chefs’ reactions, down to the tiniest kitchen details. “I really thought it captured a passionate love of food in a way that very few other films have,” he said, highlighting how Ratatouille transcends its animated form to reveal something deeply authentic and heartfelt.

 

And here’s where Ratatouille does something incredibly rare for stories about artists: it gives equal weight to the critic. The final act doesn’t just resolve Remy’s story; it resolves Ego’s too. That’s practically revolutionary. When does a movie about an artist ever bother to humanize the critic? Typically, critics in film are bitter failed artists, punchlines, or villains. Brad Bird—who spent time working on The Critic back in the '90s—clearly knows the trope. That show’s protagonist, Jay Sherman, was the classic embittered, insecure critic caricature. But Ego? Ego is different. Ego isn’t a failed chef. He doesn’t hate food. He loves it—fiercely. His standards are brutal because he believes food should be art. His famous line—“If I don’t love it, I don’t swallow”—isn’t just a threat. It’s a challenge. He wants chefs to make something worth loving.

His scathing review of Gusteau wasn’t born from personal spite, but from real disappointment. He felt the passion was gone. When Remy presents him with that ratatouille—simple, but perfect—it’s not just Ego’s palate that’s shaken. It’s his whole worldview. Brad Bird’s career-long belief—that true art and passion can shake the world—is crystal clear here. True art, Bird argues, can come from anywhere. And if we limit who gets to tell stories or create, if we gatekeep the kitchen, we deprive ourselves of flavors we’ve never tasted and voices we’ve never heard. In an era of increasing cultural debates over who belongs at the creative table—whether that’s people of color, women, queer creators, or anyone from marginalized

backgrounds—Ratatouille stands as a timeless reminder:

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Making room for everyone only expands the flavor palette of the world.

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That’s the heart of Ego’s final speech, one of the most beautiful and self-aware monologues about criticism and creation in modern cinema:

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"In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little, yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face is that in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so. But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is in the discovery and defense of the new. The world is often unkind to new talent, new creations. The new needs friends. Last night, I experienced something new: an extraordinary meal from a singularly unexpected source. To say that both the meal and its maker have challenged my preconceptions about fine cooking is a gross understatement. They have rocked me to my core. In the past, I have made no secret of my disdain for Chef Gusteau's famous motto, 'Anyone can cook.' But I realize, only now do I truly understand what he meant. Not everyone can become a great artist. But a great artist can come from anywhere."