When Wine Country Whispers: The Art of Getting Lost in the Glass
Documentaries, at their best, aren’t just about telling stories—they’re about dissolving boundaries. The new film Burgundy, from the duo behind The Truffle Hunters, isn’t merely a portrait of France’s famed wine region. It’s an argument that the most profound truths emerge when reality and imagination ferment together. And honestly, isn’t that the point of any great vintage? To make us question what’s crafted and what’s discovered?
The Venice Shift: Why Documentaries Are the New Oscar Bait
Venice Film Festival’s recent embrace of documentaries feels less like a trend and more like a reckoning. While awards circuits have long prioritized prestige dramas, nonfiction filmmaking is finally getting its due as high art. But here’s what interests me: why Burgundy stands out amid heavier, more “serious” docs like Alex Gibney’s Musk exposé or a seven-hour Bertolucci deep dive. At 90 minutes, it’s a palate cleanser in runtime but a full-bodied experience. Maybe that’s the point. In an era of bingeable content, Dweck and Kershaw trust us to savor something slower, stranger, and infinitely more intoxicating.
The Danger of Living in the Frame
The directors describe their approach as “tethering to the dirt”—a poetic way of saying they embed themselves until they stop observing and start dreaming. That’s not just a filmmaking technique; it’s a philosophy. How many artists claim to “disappear” into their work? Few succeed. But by living alongside Burgundy’s winemakers until the line between subject and storyteller blurs, Dweck and Kershaw tap into something raw. Personally, I think this is where documentaries should hurt a little. If you’re not risking obsession—or outright delusion—how will you ever capture the madness behind a perfect Pinot Noir?
Reality? Please. Let’s Talk Invention.
Venice’s synopsis calls Burgundy a place “where the observed and the invented become inseparable.” Let’s lean into that tension. Why do we cling to the myth of “objectivity” in nonfiction? The best docs—like Joshua Oppenheimer’s The Act of Killing or Kirsten Johnson’s Dick Johnson Is Dead—know that truth isn’t captured; it’s conjured. By weaving a coming-of-age romance between a sommelier and a vineyard worker into the fabric of real lives, Dweck and Kershaw aren’t cheating. They’re asking: What if the emotional truth matters more than the literal one? A wine critic’s reverie or a mogul’s legacy angst isn’t just “content.” It’s confession.
Why Burgundy? Or: The Tyranny of Terroir
Burgundy isn’t just a location; it’s a worldview. The region’s obsession with terroir—the idea that soil, climate, and tradition shape a wine’s soul—is both beautiful and absurd. As someone who’s visited those vineyards, I’ll admit: the mysticism feels earned until you realize it’s also a marketing strategy. Burgundy the film seems to get this duality. These winemakers aren’t quaint artisans; they’re warriors defending a legacy while younger generations wonder if they’re just prisoners of it. The aspiring sommelier and vineyard worker at the film’s heart aren’t just characters. They’re stand-ins for anyone torn between reverence and rebellion.
The Future of the Past
What does Burgundy predict for documentary filmmaking? Two things. First, the rise of the “lyrical hybrid”—films that borrow fiction’s tools to deepen nonfiction’s impact. Second, a pivot toward stories where heritage isn’t nostalgia but a battleground. I’d love to see more of this: not “true crime” or “inspirational journeys,” but works that make us question how much of culture is preserved and how much is performed. After all, if a wine critic can chase the “sublime” in a glass, why can’t a filmmaker chase it in a frame?
Final Pour: Why This Matters Over a Snifter of Merlot
I keep thinking about the directors’ line: “A life built on pleasure is not a simple life.” That’s the paradox of Burgundy, and maybe of art itself. We consume stories (and wines) for their surface delights until we realize the real indulgence is in the complexity beneath. Burgundy isn’t about wine country. It’s about the human condition—tangled, devoted, and forever trying to justify our obsessions. If that sounds like your kind of documentary, pour yourself a glass. You’ll need it to fully appreciate the messiness.
