‘Nobu’ review: Less about the sushi master, more about a sexy global brand

It takes a little over an hour for “Nobu” to marinate long enough to approach a point of complexity, not exactly bitter but no longer cloyingly sweet. Nobu Matsuhisa, the celebrated sushi master, is running quality-control checks in one of his restaurants. A poor chef is sweating the test so badly, he won’t need soy sauce soon enough. His dish keeps being sent back: Chop the chives finer. Why is this pile of raw crudo smaller? Why did you paint a line of salt instead of a dot? The scene goes on, excruciatingly. A few minutes later, Robert De Niro — an early investor and co-founder — dominates a private board meeting with concerns about too-rapid growth. It’s not quite the ominous Waingro showdowns of “Heat” but in the ballpark.

Fastidiousness, precision and a kind of reputational exclusivity are at the heart of Matsuhisa’s enterprise. These are hard things to make a documentary about. But it’s also why Nobu needed to come to Beverly Hills for his concept to take root — not just any Los Angeles but the ’80s-era boomtown of power lunches and spend-to-impress dining. Spago’s Wolfgang Puck makes an appearance in director Matt Tyrnauer’s half-interesting film, fawning over his longtime friend sitting next to him but not quite articulating the essence of their revolution: high-end branding. You wish more time was spent on that conceptual idea, enabled by celebrities throwing around money on food they barely ate.

The kind of doc that “Nobu” more often resembles (as do most foodie-targeted profiles) is a gentle chronology of a humble genius and everyday guy who just happens to fly private. Matsuhisa bows to euphoric local fishmongers, does a lot of hugs and selfies with his staff, visits his roots in Japan and Peru. There are family interviews and a detour to Alaska, where, years before he had a 300-person nightly waitlist, an early restaurant of his caught fire — in the bad literal way (Tyrnauer cuts to the Anchorage newspaper headline). These false starts are somehow exhausting, lacking in suspense. He contemplated suicide, then came to California.

The food sails by: wedges of black cod with miso, delicate plates of thinly sliced fish adorned with tweezer-manipulated herbs. All of it is crazy-making and delicious. Still, apart from former Los Angeles Times food editor Ruth Reichl, who witnessed the rise of Nobu as it happened, there are few on-camera voices who speak directly to Matsuhisa’s gifts and experimentation with form. 2011’s “Jiro Dreams of Sushi” does a better job of delivering the intimate discipline of cutting and shaping. More testimony to the experience of eating at Nobu would have helped this feel less like a commercial.

“Nobu” is a film oddly unconcerned with the communal experience of dining. We hear about the way his sushi workstations are elevated (a “stage,” Matsuhisa calls them) and that’s central to the performance going on here, also the remove. Something clicks when the film heads to Nobu Malibu and visits the table of supermodel Cindy Crawford, whose “Cindy rice,” a dish he invented for her, adorns the menu. There’s a deep mutual gratitude between them that goes back years. An appreciation of the finer things? No doubt. Game recognizing game? Definitely.

It takes a little over an hour for “Nobu” to marinate long enough to approach a point of complexity, not exactly bitter but no longer cloyingly sweet. Nobu Matsuhisa, the celebrated sushi master, is running quality-control checks in one of his restaurants. A poor chef is sweating the test so badly, he won’t need soy sauce soon enough. His dish keeps being sent back: Chop the chives finer. Why is this pile of raw crudo smaller? Why did you paint a line of salt instead of a dot? The scene goes on, excruciatingly. A few minutes later, Robert De Niro — an early investor and co-founder — dominates a private board meeting with concerns about too-rapid growth. It’s not quite the ominous Waingro showdowns of “Heat” but in the ballpark.

Fastidiousness, precision and a kind of reputational exclusivity are at the heart of Matsuhisa’s enterprise. These are hard things to make a documentary about. But it’s also why Nobu needed to come to Beverly Hills for his concept to take root — not just any Los Angeles but the ’80s-era boomtown of power lunches and spend-to-impress dining. Spago’s Wolfgang Puck makes an appearance in director Matt Tyrnauer’s half-interesting film, fawning over his longtime friend sitting next to him but not quite articulating the essence of their revolution: high-end branding. You wish more time was spent on that conceptual idea, enabled by celebrities throwing around money on food they barely ate.

The kind of doc that “Nobu” more often resembles (as do most foodie-targeted profiles) is a gentle chronology of a humble genius and everyday guy who just happens to fly private. Matsuhisa bows to euphoric local fishmongers, does a lot of hugs and selfies with his staff, visits his roots in Japan and Peru. There are family interviews and a detour to Alaska, where, years before he had a 300-person nightly waitlist, an early restaurant of his caught fire — in the bad literal way (Tyrnauer cuts to the Anchorage newspaper headline). These false starts are somehow exhausting, lacking in suspense. He contemplated suicide, then came to California.

The food sails by: wedges of black cod with miso, delicate plates of thinly sliced fish adorned with tweezer-manipulated herbs. All of it is crazy-making and delicious. Still, apart from former Los Angeles Times food editor Ruth Reichl, who witnessed the rise of Nobu as it happened, there are few on-camera voices who speak directly to Matsuhisa’s gifts and experimentation with form. 2011’s “Jiro Dreams of Sushi” does a better job of delivering the intimate discipline of cutting and shaping. More testimony to the experience of eating at Nobu would have helped this feel less like a commercial.

“Nobu” is a film oddly unconcerned with the communal experience of dining. We hear about the way his sushi workstations are elevated (a “stage,” Matsuhisa calls them) and that’s central to the performance going on here, also the remove. Something clicks when the film heads to Nobu Malibu and visits the table of supermodel Cindy Crawford, whose “Cindy rice,” a dish he invented for her, adorns the menu. There’s a deep mutual gratitude between them that goes back years. An appreciation of the finer things? No doubt. Game recognizing game? Definitely.

It takes a little over an hour for “Nobu” to marinate long enough to approach a point of complexity, not exactly bitter but no longer cloyingly sweet. Nobu Matsuhisa, the celebrated sushi master, is running quality-control checks in one of his restaurants. A poor chef is sweating the test so badly, he won’t need soy sauce soon enough. His dish keeps being sent back: Chop the chives finer. Why is this pile of raw crudo smaller? Why did you paint a line of salt instead of a dot? The scene goes on, excruciatingly. A few minutes later, Robert De Niro — an early investor and co-founder — dominates a private board meeting with concerns about too-rapid growth. It’s not quite the ominous Waingro showdowns of “Heat” but in the ballpark.

Fastidiousness, precision and a kind of reputational exclusivity are at the heart of Matsuhisa’s enterprise. These are hard things to make a documentary about. But it’s also why Nobu needed to come to Beverly Hills for his concept to take root — not just any Los Angeles but the ’80s-era boomtown of power lunches and spend-to-impress dining. Spago’s Wolfgang Puck makes an appearance in director Matt Tyrnauer’s half-interesting film, fawning over his longtime friend sitting next to him but not quite articulating the essence of their revolution: high-end branding. You wish more time was spent on that conceptual idea, enabled by celebrities throwing around money on food they barely ate.

The kind of doc that “Nobu” more often resembles (as do most foodie-targeted profiles) is a gentle chronology of a humble genius and everyday guy who just happens to fly private. Matsuhisa bows to euphoric local fishmongers, does a lot of hugs and selfies with his staff, visits his roots in Japan and Peru. There are family interviews and a detour to Alaska, where, years before he had a 300-person nightly waitlist, an early restaurant of his caught fire — in the bad literal way (Tyrnauer cuts to the Anchorage newspaper headline). These false starts are somehow exhausting, lacking in suspense. He contemplated suicide, then came to California.

The food sails by: wedges of black cod with miso, delicate plates of thinly sliced fish adorned with tweezer-manipulated herbs. All of it is crazy-making and delicious. Still, apart from former Los Angeles Times food editor Ruth Reichl, who witnessed the rise of Nobu as it happened, there are few on-camera voices who speak directly to Matsuhisa’s gifts and experimentation with form. 2011’s “Jiro Dreams of Sushi” does a better job of delivering the intimate discipline of cutting and shaping. More testimony to the experience of eating at Nobu would have helped this feel less like a commercial.

“Nobu” is a film oddly unconcerned with the communal experience of dining. We hear about the way his sushi workstations are elevated (a “stage,” Matsuhisa calls them) and that’s central to the performance going on here, also the remove. Something clicks when the film heads to Nobu Malibu and visits the table of supermodel Cindy Crawford, whose “Cindy rice,” a dish he invented for her, adorns the menu. There’s a deep mutual gratitude between them that goes back years. An appreciation of the finer things? No doubt. Game recognizing game? Definitely.

It takes a little over an hour for “Nobu” to marinate long enough to approach a point of complexity, not exactly bitter but no longer cloyingly sweet. Nobu Matsuhisa, the celebrated sushi master, is running quality-control checks in one of his restaurants. A poor chef is sweating the test so badly, he won’t need soy sauce soon enough. His dish keeps being sent back: Chop the chives finer. Why is this pile of raw crudo smaller? Why did you paint a line of salt instead of a dot? The scene goes on, excruciatingly. A few minutes later, Robert De Niro — an early investor and co-founder — dominates a private board meeting with concerns about too-rapid growth. It’s not quite the ominous Waingro showdowns of “Heat” but in the ballpark.

Fastidiousness, precision and a kind of reputational exclusivity are at the heart of Matsuhisa’s enterprise. These are hard things to make a documentary about. But it’s also why Nobu needed to come to Beverly Hills for his concept to take root — not just any Los Angeles but the ’80s-era boomtown of power lunches and spend-to-impress dining. Spago’s Wolfgang Puck makes an appearance in director Matt Tyrnauer’s half-interesting film, fawning over his longtime friend sitting next to him but not quite articulating the essence of their revolution: high-end branding. You wish more time was spent on that conceptual idea, enabled by celebrities throwing around money on food they barely ate.

The kind of doc that “Nobu” more often resembles (as do most foodie-targeted profiles) is a gentle chronology of a humble genius and everyday guy who just happens to fly private. Matsuhisa bows to euphoric local fishmongers, does a lot of hugs and selfies with his staff, visits his roots in Japan and Peru. There are family interviews and a detour to Alaska, where, years before he had a 300-person nightly waitlist, an early restaurant of his caught fire — in the bad literal way (Tyrnauer cuts to the Anchorage newspaper headline). These false starts are somehow exhausting, lacking in suspense. He contemplated suicide, then came to California.

The food sails by: wedges of black cod with miso, delicate plates of thinly sliced fish adorned with tweezer-manipulated herbs. All of it is crazy-making and delicious. Still, apart from former Los Angeles Times food editor Ruth Reichl, who witnessed the rise of Nobu as it happened, there are few on-camera voices who speak directly to Matsuhisa’s gifts and experimentation with form. 2011’s “Jiro Dreams of Sushi” does a better job of delivering the intimate discipline of cutting and shaping. More testimony to the experience of eating at Nobu would have helped this feel less like a commercial.

“Nobu” is a film oddly unconcerned with the communal experience of dining. We hear about the way his sushi workstations are elevated (a “stage,” Matsuhisa calls them) and that’s central to the performance going on here, also the remove. Something clicks when the film heads to Nobu Malibu and visits the table of supermodel Cindy Crawford, whose “Cindy rice,” a dish he invented for her, adorns the menu. There’s a deep mutual gratitude between them that goes back years. An appreciation of the finer things? No doubt. Game recognizing game? Definitely.

It takes a little over an hour for “Nobu” to marinate long enough to approach a point of complexity, not exactly bitter but no longer cloyingly sweet. Nobu Matsuhisa, the celebrated sushi master, is running quality-control checks in one of his restaurants. A poor chef is sweating the test so badly, he won’t need soy sauce soon enough. His dish keeps being sent back: Chop the chives finer. Why is this pile of raw crudo smaller? Why did you paint a line of salt instead of a dot? The scene goes on, excruciatingly. A few minutes later, Robert De Niro — an early investor and co-founder — dominates a private board meeting with concerns about too-rapid growth. It’s not quite the ominous Waingro showdowns of “Heat” but in the ballpark.

Fastidiousness, precision and a kind of reputational exclusivity are at the heart of Matsuhisa’s enterprise. These are hard things to make a documentary about. But it’s also why Nobu needed to come to Beverly Hills for his concept to take root — not just any Los Angeles but the ’80s-era boomtown of power lunches and spend-to-impress dining. Spago’s Wolfgang Puck makes an appearance in director Matt Tyrnauer’s half-interesting film, fawning over his longtime friend sitting next to him but not quite articulating the essence of their revolution: high-end branding. You wish more time was spent on that conceptual idea, enabled by celebrities throwing around money on food they barely ate.

The kind of doc that “Nobu” more often resembles (as do most foodie-targeted profiles) is a gentle chronology of a humble genius and everyday guy who just happens to fly private. Matsuhisa bows to euphoric local fishmongers, does a lot of hugs and selfies with his staff, visits his roots in Japan and Peru. There are family interviews and a detour to Alaska, where, years before he had a 300-person nightly waitlist, an early restaurant of his caught fire — in the bad literal way (Tyrnauer cuts to the Anchorage newspaper headline). These false starts are somehow exhausting, lacking in suspense. He contemplated suicide, then came to California.

The food sails by: wedges of black cod with miso, delicate plates of thinly sliced fish adorned with tweezer-manipulated herbs. All of it is crazy-making and delicious. Still, apart from former Los Angeles Times food editor Ruth Reichl, who witnessed the rise of Nobu as it happened, there are few on-camera voices who speak directly to Matsuhisa’s gifts and experimentation with form. 2011’s “Jiro Dreams of Sushi” does a better job of delivering the intimate discipline of cutting and shaping. More testimony to the experience of eating at Nobu would have helped this feel less like a commercial.

“Nobu” is a film oddly unconcerned with the communal experience of dining. We hear about the way his sushi workstations are elevated (a “stage,” Matsuhisa calls them) and that’s central to the performance going on here, also the remove. Something clicks when the film heads to Nobu Malibu and visits the table of supermodel Cindy Crawford, whose “Cindy rice,” a dish he invented for her, adorns the menu. There’s a deep mutual gratitude between them that goes back years. An appreciation of the finer things? No doubt. Game recognizing game? Definitely.

It takes a little over an hour for “Nobu” to marinate long enough to approach a point of complexity, not exactly bitter but no longer cloyingly sweet. Nobu Matsuhisa, the celebrated sushi master, is running quality-control checks in one of his restaurants. A poor chef is sweating the test so badly, he won’t need soy sauce soon enough. His dish keeps being sent back: Chop the chives finer. Why is this pile of raw crudo smaller? Why did you paint a line of salt instead of a dot? The scene goes on, excruciatingly. A few minutes later, Robert De Niro — an early investor and co-founder — dominates a private board meeting with concerns about too-rapid growth. It’s not quite the ominous Waingro showdowns of “Heat” but in the ballpark.

Fastidiousness, precision and a kind of reputational exclusivity are at the heart of Matsuhisa’s enterprise. These are hard things to make a documentary about. But it’s also why Nobu needed to come to Beverly Hills for his concept to take root — not just any Los Angeles but the ’80s-era boomtown of power lunches and spend-to-impress dining. Spago’s Wolfgang Puck makes an appearance in director Matt Tyrnauer’s half-interesting film, fawning over his longtime friend sitting next to him but not quite articulating the essence of their revolution: high-end branding. You wish more time was spent on that conceptual idea, enabled by celebrities throwing around money on food they barely ate.

The kind of doc that “Nobu” more often resembles (as do most foodie-targeted profiles) is a gentle chronology of a humble genius and everyday guy who just happens to fly private. Matsuhisa bows to euphoric local fishmongers, does a lot of hugs and selfies with his staff, visits his roots in Japan and Peru. There are family interviews and a detour to Alaska, where, years before he had a 300-person nightly waitlist, an early restaurant of his caught fire — in the bad literal way (Tyrnauer cuts to the Anchorage newspaper headline). These false starts are somehow exhausting, lacking in suspense. He contemplated suicide, then came to California.

The food sails by: wedges of black cod with miso, delicate plates of thinly sliced fish adorned with tweezer-manipulated herbs. All of it is crazy-making and delicious. Still, apart from former Los Angeles Times food editor Ruth Reichl, who witnessed the rise of Nobu as it happened, there are few on-camera voices who speak directly to Matsuhisa’s gifts and experimentation with form. 2011’s “Jiro Dreams of Sushi” does a better job of delivering the intimate discipline of cutting and shaping. More testimony to the experience of eating at Nobu would have helped this feel less like a commercial.

“Nobu” is a film oddly unconcerned with the communal experience of dining. We hear about the way his sushi workstations are elevated (a “stage,” Matsuhisa calls them) and that’s central to the performance going on here, also the remove. Something clicks when the film heads to Nobu Malibu and visits the table of supermodel Cindy Crawford, whose “Cindy rice,” a dish he invented for her, adorns the menu. There’s a deep mutual gratitude between them that goes back years. An appreciation of the finer things? No doubt. Game recognizing game? Definitely.

It takes a little over an hour for “Nobu” to marinate long enough to approach a point of complexity, not exactly bitter but no longer cloyingly sweet. Nobu Matsuhisa, the celebrated sushi master, is running quality-control checks in one of his restaurants. A poor chef is sweating the test so badly, he won’t need soy sauce soon enough. His dish keeps being sent back: Chop the chives finer. Why is this pile of raw crudo smaller? Why did you paint a line of salt instead of a dot? The scene goes on, excruciatingly. A few minutes later, Robert De Niro — an early investor and co-founder — dominates a private board meeting with concerns about too-rapid growth. It’s not quite the ominous Waingro showdowns of “Heat” but in the ballpark.

Fastidiousness, precision and a kind of reputational exclusivity are at the heart of Matsuhisa’s enterprise. These are hard things to make a documentary about. But it’s also why Nobu needed to come to Beverly Hills for his concept to take root — not just any Los Angeles but the ’80s-era boomtown of power lunches and spend-to-impress dining. Spago’s Wolfgang Puck makes an appearance in director Matt Tyrnauer’s half-interesting film, fawning over his longtime friend sitting next to him but not quite articulating the essence of their revolution: high-end branding. You wish more time was spent on that conceptual idea, enabled by celebrities throwing around money on food they barely ate.

The kind of doc that “Nobu” more often resembles (as do most foodie-targeted profiles) is a gentle chronology of a humble genius and everyday guy who just happens to fly private. Matsuhisa bows to euphoric local fishmongers, does a lot of hugs and selfies with his staff, visits his roots in Japan and Peru. There are family interviews and a detour to Alaska, where, years before he had a 300-person nightly waitlist, an early restaurant of his caught fire — in the bad literal way (Tyrnauer cuts to the Anchorage newspaper headline). These false starts are somehow exhausting, lacking in suspense. He contemplated suicide, then came to California.

The food sails by: wedges of black cod with miso, delicate plates of thinly sliced fish adorned with tweezer-manipulated herbs. All of it is crazy-making and delicious. Still, apart from former Los Angeles Times food editor Ruth Reichl, who witnessed the rise of Nobu as it happened, there are few on-camera voices who speak directly to Matsuhisa’s gifts and experimentation with form. 2011’s “Jiro Dreams of Sushi” does a better job of delivering the intimate discipline of cutting and shaping. More testimony to the experience of eating at Nobu would have helped this feel less like a commercial.

“Nobu” is a film oddly unconcerned with the communal experience of dining. We hear about the way his sushi workstations are elevated (a “stage,” Matsuhisa calls them) and that’s central to the performance going on here, also the remove. Something clicks when the film heads to Nobu Malibu and visits the table of supermodel Cindy Crawford, whose “Cindy rice,” a dish he invented for her, adorns the menu. There’s a deep mutual gratitude between them that goes back years. An appreciation of the finer things? No doubt. Game recognizing game? Definitely.

It takes a little over an hour for “Nobu” to marinate long enough to approach a point of complexity, not exactly bitter but no longer cloyingly sweet. Nobu Matsuhisa, the celebrated sushi master, is running quality-control checks in one of his restaurants. A poor chef is sweating the test so badly, he won’t need soy sauce soon enough. His dish keeps being sent back: Chop the chives finer. Why is this pile of raw crudo smaller? Why did you paint a line of salt instead of a dot? The scene goes on, excruciatingly. A few minutes later, Robert De Niro — an early investor and co-founder — dominates a private board meeting with concerns about too-rapid growth. It’s not quite the ominous Waingro showdowns of “Heat” but in the ballpark.

Fastidiousness, precision and a kind of reputational exclusivity are at the heart of Matsuhisa’s enterprise. These are hard things to make a documentary about. But it’s also why Nobu needed to come to Beverly Hills for his concept to take root — not just any Los Angeles but the ’80s-era boomtown of power lunches and spend-to-impress dining. Spago’s Wolfgang Puck makes an appearance in director Matt Tyrnauer’s half-interesting film, fawning over his longtime friend sitting next to him but not quite articulating the essence of their revolution: high-end branding. You wish more time was spent on that conceptual idea, enabled by celebrities throwing around money on food they barely ate.

The kind of doc that “Nobu” more often resembles (as do most foodie-targeted profiles) is a gentle chronology of a humble genius and everyday guy who just happens to fly private. Matsuhisa bows to euphoric local fishmongers, does a lot of hugs and selfies with his staff, visits his roots in Japan and Peru. There are family interviews and a detour to Alaska, where, years before he had a 300-person nightly waitlist, an early restaurant of his caught fire — in the bad literal way (Tyrnauer cuts to the Anchorage newspaper headline). These false starts are somehow exhausting, lacking in suspense. He contemplated suicide, then came to California.

The food sails by: wedges of black cod with miso, delicate plates of thinly sliced fish adorned with tweezer-manipulated herbs. All of it is crazy-making and delicious. Still, apart from former Los Angeles Times food editor Ruth Reichl, who witnessed the rise of Nobu as it happened, there are few on-camera voices who speak directly to Matsuhisa’s gifts and experimentation with form. 2011’s “Jiro Dreams of Sushi” does a better job of delivering the intimate discipline of cutting and shaping. More testimony to the experience of eating at Nobu would have helped this feel less like a commercial.

“Nobu” is a film oddly unconcerned with the communal experience of dining. We hear about the way his sushi workstations are elevated (a “stage,” Matsuhisa calls them) and that’s central to the performance going on here, also the remove. Something clicks when the film heads to Nobu Malibu and visits the table of supermodel Cindy Crawford, whose “Cindy rice,” a dish he invented for her, adorns the menu. There’s a deep mutual gratitude between them that goes back years. An appreciation of the finer things? No doubt. Game recognizing game? Definitely.