The Truf­fle Hunters

When I was young, I knew that there was some­one called God, who lived way up in the sky. I learned that He made Heav­en and Earth and all the bits and pieces in between, which sad­ly includ­ed mush­rooms, the sworn ene­my of my youth­ful palette. A while after learn­ing about God, and hav­ing gone through five years of Catholic edu­ca­tion, I knew I didn’t have much time for them. But, after watch­ing Gre­go­ry Ker­shaw and Michael Dweck’s ambrosial doc­u­men­tary The Truf­fle Hunters, it’s evi­dent the divine wasn’t far above, but just under­foot – and I’d been con­vert­ed to give mush­rooms anoth­er try.

Unearthed in the green­ery of Pied­mont, Italy, the film’s sub­jects are a rich and nutri­tious­ly spry col­lec­tion of elder­ly gen­tle­men who spend their days and nights hunt­ing for truf­fles, with the help of their beloved, scene-steal­ing dogs. Open­ing with a stalk­ing zoom straight from the para­noia thriller play­book, despite the hunters’ walk­ing sticks and shaky demeanour, their for­est-floor chase is imme­di­ate­ly gar­nished with inten­si­ty and shroud­ed in mys­tery. It feels like less of a har­vest and more of an exca­va­tion, because in the ground lie holy arte­facts, and their toil­ing for them is an unend­ing act of faith.

The Truf­fle Hunters has no open­ing explana­to­ry title card; the hunters them­selves are only named when it comes up in their con­ver­sa­tions and the exact loca­tion of their pur­suits is nev­er total­ly clear. The prize itself is kept tan­ta­lis­ing­ly away from close-ups, as if it’s the Ark of the Covenant and us mere mor­tals will be blind­ed by it, where­as these monas­tic for­est dwellers are pure enough to do so. Their mud­dy-fin­gered, welly boot-squelch­ing craft is caught in locked off, med­i­ta­tive­ly long takes, suit­ably reflect­ing the del­i­ca­cy and patience hid­ing under the anoraks.

Escap­ing the for­est, the busi­ness end of the pur­suit pro­vides a glimpse into the lives of the truf­fle sales­men and the restau­ra­teurs serv­ing them, who seem to be some kind of mush­room mafia. With tales of fam­i­ly ties, ter­ri­to­ry wars, old hunters who got out of the game, and deals cut in dim­ly lit alleys, the Pied­mont cob­bles are unde­ni­ably mean streets.

Despite death being on the line – albeit from old age rather than get­ting whacked for sell­ing dodgy gear – the hunters’ com­mit­ment is infec­tious, their pas­sion for truf­fles rivalled only by their romance with their dogs. The true stars of the show are the sup­port­ing canine cast, skilled hunters them­selves who, like a ther­a­pist in a teen movie, give the main char­ac­ters some­one to open up to. They share din­ner plates, birth­day cakes and mus­ings on the after­life, each inter­ac­tion treat­ed with ten­der­ness that it’s hard not to be moved.

Its gnarled, sub­ter­ranean sub­ject may be shroud­ed in a bib­li­cal halo, but The Truf­fle Hunters sub­lime focus on the nat­ur­al world and both its flo­ra and fau­na inhab­i­tants offers calm­ing reas­sur­ance for the unwashed. Tread­ing through it, dig­ging at it, hid­ing under it, we’re remind­ed that hal­lowed ground is just under our feet.

Lit­tle White Lies is com­mit­ted to cham­pi­oning great movies and the tal­ent­ed peo­ple who make them. But to keep going, and grow­ing, we need your sup­port. Become a mem­ber today.