The Cabbage Soup

If you were to close your eyes and listen to the opening theme of The Cabbage Soup, you might think you’ve accidentally stumbled into a demented carnival or perhaps a very low-budget space-disco. That synthesis of electronic chirps and accordion-style folk music is the first warning that you aren't in for a standard sci-fi romp. I first watched this on a rainy Tuesday while wearing a pair of itchy wool socks that made me feel as grumpy as the lead characters, and honestly, that’s the optimal physical state for this viewing experience.

The Cabbage Soup (or La Soupe aux choux) is a bizarre, flatulent, yet strangely touching artifact from the twilight of the French comedy Golden Age. It’s a film that, on the surface, shouldn't work. It’s a story about two elderly, alcoholic farmers in rural France who manage to summon an alien from the planet Oxo by having a competitive farting contest in their backyard. Yes, you read that correctly. This is a movie where the height of human civilization is argued to be a well-fermented bowl of liquid farts.

The Master of the Gurn

At the center of this madness is Louis de Funès, the undisputed king of French slapstick. If you’ve never seen a de Funès film, imagine a man whose face is made entirely of rubber and whose resting state is "apoplectic rage." Here, playing Claude Ratinier, he’s a bit more subdued, reflecting the actor's real-life heart troubles at the time. This was one of his final films before passing in 1983, and there’s a palpable sense of a legend taking a victory lap.

His chemistry with Jean Carmet, who plays his simple-minded buddy Francis, is the soul of the film. They represent a France that was already disappearing in 1981—the France of muddy boots, endless wine, and a refusal to acknowledge the 20th century. When the alien arrives, played by Jacques Villeret (whom you might know from Le Dîner de Cons), the movie shifts from a crusty sitcom into something genuinely surreal. Villeret’s performance is a masterclass in physical weirdness; he makes these high-pitched "gloup-gloup" sounds and twitches with a rhythmic intensity that makes him feel truly non-human, despite just being a guy in a bright yellow jumpsuit that looks like it was raided from a 1970s discotheque’s dumpster.

Practical Magic and Glowing Broth

Since this is the early 80s, we are firmly in the era of practical effects. There is no CGI here to smooth over the cracks, and the film is better for it. The Oxien's spaceship is a wonderful piece of model work—a glowing, rotating top that looks like it belongs on a Christmas tree. When it lands in the middle of a French garden, it has that tactile, "toy-come-to-life" quality that made the 80s so magical.

The effects team used simple tricks to make the cabbage soup appear "extraterrestrial" to the visitor. They rigged the bowls with lights to make the broth glow from within, creating a visual that is both appetizing and slightly radioactive. It’s a far cry from the sleekness of Star Wars or Close Encounters, but it fits the film’s "shabby-chic" aesthetic. While the big American blockbusters were looking toward the stars with awe, director Jean Girault (who collaborated with de Funès on the Gendarme series) looked at the stars and wondered if they’d like a nice piece of ham.

For those of us who grew up scouring the "International" section of the local VHS rental store, The Cabbage Soup was a holy grail of weirdness. The tape box art usually featured Villeret’s puffy alien face and de Funès looking shocked, promising a movie far more high-concept than the quiet, rural character study it actually is. On a grainy VHS tape, the neon yellows and glowing greens of the alien technology bled into the earthy browns of the farm, creating a specific visual texture that defined my early exposure to European cinema.

A Melancholy Aftertaste

What keeps me coming back to this film isn't just the fart jokes—though, let’s be honest, they are expertly timed. It’s the underlying sadness. The film is essentially about two men who have been left behind by progress. Their wives are gone, their lifestyle is considered obsolete, and the local government wants to turn their land into an amusement park.

The sci-fi element—the alien who falls in love with the taste of their soup—is a beautiful metaphor for the value of simple, human tradition. When the alien offers them a chance to leave Earth and live on a planet where they can be young again and their soup can be enjoyed by everyone, it turns the movie into a poignant fable about the dignity of the elderly. This is basically E.T. if Spielberg had a fetish for brassica vegetables and digestive distress.

The ending, which I won't spoil, is surprisingly cosmic and sweeping for a movie that starts with two old men drinking wine out of a dirty bottle. It’s a reminder that even the silliest premises can carry emotional weight if the characters feel real.

The Cabbage Soup is a chaotic, smelly, and wonderful piece of French culture that deserves its cult status. It captures a specific moment in the 80s where sci-fi tropes were being smashed into local folklore with reckless abandon. It’s not a "polished" film by any means, but it has more heart in its little finger than most modern big-budget comedies. If you can handle the farts, you’ll find a beautiful story about friendship and the universal language of a good meal. Just make sure you have some bread and cheese nearby—you’re going to get hungry.