There’s something deeply seductive about stories that blend the earthy, messy reality of human lives with the mythic sheen of tradition. Take, for instance, the new documentary Burgundy by Michael Dweck and Gregory Kershaw, the same duo behind the acclaimed Truffle Hunters. At first glance, it might seem like another slice of artisanal life captured on film—wine, dirt, generational legacies. But dig deeper, and you’ll find a meditation on how pleasure and purpose intertwine, and how the act of documenting human rituals can become its own kind of alchemy. Personally, I think this film is a masterclass in how to make something mundane feel transcendent, and it raises a deeper question: Can art ever truly capture the weight of a life lived in devotion to something as simple as a glass of wine?
The Venice Film Festival has long been a stage for cinematic grandeur, but what’s fascinating now is how it’s becoming a haven for documentaries that don’t just inform—they haunt. This year’s lineup includes behemoths like Luca Guadagnino’s seven-hour Bertolucci documentary, but Burgundy stands out for its brevity and intimacy. It’s a 90-minute film that feels like a slow sip of a rare vintage: you don’t rush it, and you’re left with a lingering sense of something both familiar and foreign. What makes this particularly fascinating is how it contrasts with the festival’s usual fare. While others chase spectacle, Burgundy leans into the quiet, the unspoken, the daily grind that most people would call ‘boring’ but that these filmmakers have turned into poetry.
Let’s talk about the directors’ approach. Dweck and Kershaw describe their method as ‘looking for people still tethered to their dirt.’ That phrase alone is worth unpacking. In an age where everything feels digitized and curated, the idea of ‘dirt’ as a metaphor for authenticity is almost poetic. But here’s the thing: they don’t just observe—they immerse. They stay long enough to stop being observers and become participants in the lives they’re documenting. This raises a question: When filmmakers spend years with their subjects, does the line between reality and invention blur? In Burgundy, the answer seems to be yes. The film isn’t just about wine; it’s about the people who live and breathe it, their conflicts, their dreams, their flaws. And that’s what makes it so compelling. It’s not a portrait of perfection—it’s a portrait of people who’ve chosen a life of discipline, not because it’s easy, but because it’s exquisite.
One thing that immediately stands out is how the film reframes the concept of ‘legacy.’ We’re used to thinking of legacy as something monumental—monuments, monuments, big names. But in Burgundy, legacy is a vineyard worker’s hope to one day inherit his father’s land, or a sommelier’s struggle to prove herself in a male-dominated field. These are small, personal legacies, yet they’re no less significant. What many people don’t realize is that the weight of tradition isn’t just about preserving the past—it’s about shaping the future. The film shows how these characters are caught between honoring their roots and forging their own paths, a tension that feels achingly universal. It’s not just about Burgundy; it’s about anyone who’s ever felt the pull of something greater than themselves, whether it’s a family business, a cultural heritage, or a passion that defines them.
And then there’s the question of how this film fits into the broader documentary landscape. In an era where reality TV has turned everything into a spectacle, Burgundy is a reminder that the most powerful stories aren’t always the loudest. It’s a quiet film, but its power lies in its restraint. It doesn’t shout; it whispers. This raises a deeper question: What happens to the art of storytelling when we’re bombarded with noise? Burgundy is a counterargument, suggesting that sometimes, the most profound truths are found in the spaces between the frames, the silences, the unspoken moments. A detail that I find especially interesting is how the film uses the act of drinking wine as a metaphor for life itself—something that starts simple, becomes complex, and ultimately leaves you with a mix of satisfaction and longing.
If you take a step back and think about it, Burgundy isn’t just about wine or even about France. It’s about the human condition—the way we cling to rituals, the way we seek meaning in our work, the way we pass down stories and secrets through generations. What this really suggests is that the best documentaries aren’t just about their subjects; they’re about the audience. They invite us to see ourselves in the lives of others, to recognize that our own struggles and joys are part of a much larger tapestry. In that sense, Burgundy is more than a film—it’s an invitation to slow down, to savor, to notice the beauty in the ordinary. And isn’t that what art is supposed to do? Make us feel seen, even when we’re looking at something as seemingly simple as a bottle of wine?
