The Wing or the Thigh?

The first thing you notice about Louis de Funès in The Wing or the Thigh? is that the legendary "man of forty faces a minute" looks a bit leaner, a bit more fragile than in his 1960s heyday. He’d recently survived two heart attacks, and the production was actually a high-wire act of medical supervision—there was an ambulance and a doctor on set every single day. Yet, the moment he disguises himself as a prim, elderly grandmother to infiltrate a subpar restaurant, the old magic returns. It’s a masterclass in physical comedy that feels like a silent-era relic dropped into the vibrant, slightly cynical world of 1970s France.

I actually rewatched this while nursing a head cold that had totally nuked my sense of smell, and seeing Duchemin lose his taste felt like a personal attack. It made the high-stakes gastronomic warfare feel oddly relatable, even if I wasn’t trying to take down a corporate food empire from my couch.

The Passing of the Comedic Torch

What makes this film such a fascinator for cinema history nerds is the casting. You’ve got Louis de Funès, the undisputed king of the French box office, sharing the screen with Coluche, the rising, rebellious star of the café-théâtre scene. At the time, this was the equivalent of a "passing of the torch" moment. Coluche plays Gérard, Charles Duchemin’s son, who is secretly moonlighted as a circus clown because he’d rather take a custard pie to the face than judge a soufflé.

The chemistry is surprisingly tender for a slapstick comedy. Usually, Louis de Funès is a whirlwind of ego and shouting—think of his frantic energy in The Mad Adventures of Rabbi Jacob (1973)—but here, he’s tempered by a genuine paternal anxiety. He wants his son to carry on the "Duchemin Guide" legacy, unaware that the kid is more interested in pratfalls than pâté. Coluche brings a laid-back, modern energy that acts as the perfect foil to his father's high-strung, old-world obsession with culinary purity.

Practical Effects and Plastic Peas

The film’s climax takes us inside the lair of the villainous Jacques Tricatel, played with oily perfection by Julien Guiomar. If you grew up in the era of practical effects, this sequence is a goldmine. Long before CGI allowed directors to lazily render a factory, director Claude Zidi and his crew built a nightmarish, surrealist "food factory" that feels like something out of a Terry Gilliam fever dream.

We see machines pumping out synthetic eggs, rubbery chickens, and wine made from chemicals. Watching the Duchemins navigate this mechanized hellscape is pure visual joy. The props department must have had a field day creating "food" that looks intentionally revolting. It’s a biting satire on the industrialization of the 1970s—the "Tricatel" character was clearly modeled after Jacques Borel, the man often credited (or blamed) for bringing the American-style fast-food model to the French highways. The message is clear: modernity is a tasteless, pre-molded brick of grey slime, and I’m inclined to agree every time I see a sad airport sandwich.

The Home Video Legacy

For those of us who spent the 80s and 90s raiding the "International" section of the local video store, The Wing or the Thigh? was a frequent discovery. In the US, it often showed up on tapes with cover art that leaned heavily on the "crazy Frenchman" trope, usually featuring Louis de Funès in one of his many disguises. The film has a specific, saturated color palette typical of mid-70s TOBIS productions—lots of browns, oranges, and that crisp, clean cinematography by Claude Renoir (grandson of Pierre-Auguste, no less) that makes the real food look mouth-watering and the fake food look genuinely terrifying.

The score by Vladimir Cosma is also a total earworm. It’s got that jaunty, rhythmic 70s pop-jazz vibe that makes even a scene of someone writing in a notebook feel like a high-stakes heist. It’s the kind of music that defined an era of European comedy—lightweight but impossibly catchy.

Ultimately, The Wing or the Thigh? isn't just a vehicle for its lead star's comeback; it’s a remarkably prescient look at how we lost our connection to what we eat. It balances broad slapstick with a sharp, satirical edge that hasn't dulled with age. Whether you're a fan of Louis de Funès' rubber-faced antics or just someone who appreciates a well-staged factory disaster, this is a meal worth sitting down for. It reminds me that even when the world is being paved over by plastic and efficiency, there’s still room for a well-timed gag and a really good bottle of Bordeaux.