The Art of Becoming: Matt Johnson’s ‘Tony’ Deconstructs the Myth of Anthony Bourdain

In the landscape of modern independent cinema, few directors possess the kinetic, documentary-style restlessness of Matt Johnson. Known for his meta-commentary on fame and failure in films like BlackBerry and The Dirties, Johnson has turned his lens toward a different kind of origin story: the pre-fame life of Anthony Bourdain. His latest feature, Tony, is a briny, bittersweet coming-of-age odyssey that eschews the typical biopic trap of hagiography. Instead, it offers a portrait of an obnoxious, self-mythologizing teenager who is so desperate to be someone that he attempts to bypass the foundational labor of actually becoming a human being.

Tony is not a film about the man who would eventually redefine global travel and culinary journalism. It is a film about a 19-year-old kid—played with prickly, magnetic arrogance by Dominic Sessa—who is far more concerned with the aesthetic of being a tortured writer than the actual work of writing. Set against the sun-drenched, salt-crusted backdrop of Provincetown in the summer of 1975, the film captures a moment in time where the future icon was little more than a "spoiled, miserable, narcissistic, self-destructive and thoughtless young lout," to borrow the words from the film’s own opening title card.

The Anatomy of an Imposter: A Chronology of the Summer

The narrative arc of Tony is deceptively simple, echoing the "magical summer" tropes of the 1970s while subverting them with the sharp, cynical bite of Johnson’s directorial sensibilities.

The story begins with a lie. Tony, having bullshitted his way through a grant application concerning the works of J.D. Salinger, convinces himself—and, more importantly, his parents—that he is destined for a prestigious fellowship. When reality inevitably crashes down upon him in the form of a rejection letter, he doesn’t retreat. Instead, he doubles down. He heads to Provincetown, chasing a classmate, Nancy (Emilia Jones), with whom he has constructed a fantasy of intellectual kinship.

Upon his arrival, the veneer of his "important writer" persona is stripped away almost immediately. He is penniless, socially abrasive, and entirely unequipped for the realities of life outside his bubble of privilege. After a drunken altercation at a local eatery called The Flagship, where he manages to alienate the staff and get himself robbed, he is forced into a survival mode he never anticipated: working as a dishwasher.

The ensuing months serve as a brutal, necessary curriculum for the young Tony. He trades his pride for a place to sleep on the head chef’s hammock and begins a process of professional and personal maturation that is as messy as the kitchen floors he scrubs. By the end of the summer, the "fake-it-till-you-make-it" philosophy that governed his arrival has been replaced by something far more durable: the realization that the truth of one’s identity is not a costume to be worn, but a texture to be earned.

The Supporting Cast: A Kitchen Crucible

While the film rests on Sessa’s shoulders, the supporting cast provides the friction required for his character’s transformation. The kitchen staff at The Flagship is a collection of vivid, blue-collar archetypes that function as both a foil to Tony’s upper-middle-class angst and his ultimate mentors.

Leading this ensemble is Leo Woodall, whose portrayal of Sal is arguably the film’s most incandescent element. Sal is an ultra-charismatic "Masshole" who moves through life with the raw, unrefined intensity of someone for whom every meal could be their last. He is the antithesis of Tony—a man of pure id who lives entirely in the present. Watching Tony attempt to navigate a friendship with a man who would just as soon set the restaurant on fire as look at him provides some of the film’s most compelling sequences.

Antonio Banderas, playing the role of the Chef, provides the film’s emotional center. Eschewing the tropes of the "inspirational mentor" found in films like Good Will Hunting, Banderas portrays a man who is clearly tired of the pretenses of the world. He recognizes the potential in Tony, but he refuses to coddle him. His performance is one of quiet authority, suggesting that his life is far broader and more meaningful than simply being a footnote in the origin story of a future television host.

Analyzing the Cinematic Language

Technically, Tony marks a departure for Matt Johnson. For an audience accustomed to the shaky, handheld, documentary-style "zoom-ins" of BlackBerry, the visual language here is a surprise. Johnson, working with his writing team—Todd Bartels, Lou Howe, and Matthew Miller—has opted for a more static, controlled aesthetic.

The use of super long lenses and a more deliberate camera movement suggests a director testing his own boundaries. It is almost as if Johnson is conducting an experiment to see what happens when his trademark "motor-mouth" characters are trapped within the rigid, beautiful dimensions of a period-piece frame. The result is a film that feels like a Polaroid captured in the heat of a Provincetown August—slightly faded, intensely nostalgic, and deeply honest.

The film’s soundtrack, featuring subtle needle-drops of Brian Eno, further enhances the sense of a world that is slipping away. There is a "how were we ever so young?" sentimentality to the proceedings, but it is constantly tempered by the sharp, salty dialogue that refuses to let the audience grow too comfortable.

Implications: The Legacy of the "Real" Bourdain

The question arises: does the fact that this kid grows up to be Anthony Bourdain matter? Surprisingly, the film suggests that it is almost entirely irrelevant to the immediate experience of the movie.

For the "No Reservations" neophyte, Tony is simply a character—a flawed, arrogant boy learning how to live. For the long-time Bourdain fan, however, the film offers a layer of profound irony. We see the "ingredients" of the legend—the wandering spirit, the love of the profane, the attraction to the truth—but we see them misapplied. Tony wants to be Holden Caulfield; he doesn’t yet realize that his eventual self, Anthony Bourdain, would be defined by the very things he is currently running from.

The film serves as a reminder that icons are not born; they are forged in the mundane, the embarrassing, and the repetitive. By focusing on the "pre-fame" era, Johnson successfully detaches the character from the heavy weight of the Bourdain legacy, allowing us to see the humanity—and the vanity—of the person before the myth took hold.

Conclusion: A Worthy B-Grade Triumph

Tony is not a perfect film. Its reliance on certain genre tropes—particularly in the handling of the character of Nancy, who often feels more like a plot device than a fully realized human—can occasionally feel at odds with the film’s otherwise naturalistic, improvisational spirit. Yet, these are minor quibbles in a work that is so clearly confident in its own identity.

By the time the final credits roll, the film doesn’t offer a clean resolution. There is no grand speech where Tony realizes his future, nor is there a moment of cinematic triumph that wraps up his character arc with a bow. Instead, the film ends where it needs to: with the sense that the path forward is open. It is a story about a young man learning to be unburdened by a future that is far more complex, and far more rewarding, than anything he could have invented for himself in a grant application.

Tony is an experiment in patience and perspective. It asks us to look at a young man who is trying to skip over his own life and instead find value in the detours. It is a refreshing, challenging, and ultimately deeply satisfying piece of filmmaking that confirms Matt Johnson as one of the most interesting voices in contemporary American cinema.

A24 will release "Tony" in limited theaters on Friday, August 7, with a wider expansion to follow on Friday, August 21.