Remember how, for the longest time in American cinema, straight filmmakers couldn't possibly conceive of any way to plead for an audience's sympathy for gay characters outside of portraying the lives of LGBTQ+ people as unrelentingly miserable marathons of tragedy, inequity, and prejudice? Usually they had to die at the end of the movie (or maybe in the third act as the main character is hitting their low point) so that all the straight viewers could cry and pat themselves on the back for feeling human emotions for a character who WASN'T LIKE THEM. "How sad that there are cartoonish bigots in the world," they think to themselves, wiping tears from their eyes and thinking about how superior they are for deigning to view homosexuals as actual people. What important work. Not that those same people will do anything about institutionalized prejudice or believe that microaggressions are a real, psychologically damaging, self-esteem-destroying social phenomenon--anybody who complains about stuff like that is just entitled and oversensitive. Gay people aren't REALLY suffering until they're turned into martyrs--either by their own hand or the hands of bad old two-dimensional violent homophobes--and you can hold a candlelight vigil in their memory and decry the fact that nobody was doing anything to help them before it was too late. Nobody except YOU, of course, because weren't you always polite to them? And what more could you have done.
Well, nowadays we can get a few well-rounded LGBTQ+ characters in mainstream cinema, so that problem is finally and forever 100% solved. What other prejudice, wonders Hollywood, can we now turn our attention to fixing? Ah, how about Fatty the fat fat man? Here comes Darren Aronofsky to let us know that we are, indeed, FINALLY given permission to empathize with the overweight. Perhaps even--GASP!--the morbidly obese. DARE WE??
I mean...the allowance is on a provisional basis, you understand. As long as Jumbo has it REALLY, REALLY HARD IN THE MOST EXTREME POSSIBLE WAYS. You know, like their lover died and their daughter hates them and they feel like they've wasted their entire lives without doing anybody any good and they're dying. Then we can invest in their plight. Anybody who binge-eats just because they have a disorder and don't have all that external sad crap in their life, anybody who experiences even fleeting moments of happiness and self-worth, anybody whose depression isn't justified a hundred times over to the satisfaction of the most cynical person in the audience--you're free to go ahead and keep on loathing them, because they're just not doing the work.
Seriously, this movie is such buffoonish misery porn. Every single background character who sees Charlie has the most over-the-top reaction to his physical appearance. Yes, every SINGLE one. Nobody in this universe has an ounce of kindness or compassion? Nobody can even fake a decent poker face? That's how you know this movie is made BY skinny people, FOR skinny people, who just want to feel good about themselves for doing the bare polite minimum by keeping their revulsion in check when interacting with an overweight person. LIke it's IMPOSSIBLE to imagine how an overweight person can feel bad about themselves unless they're CONSTANTLY being reminded by others that they're disgusting, grotesque abominations. Is the simple act of "not gawking" really that much of a virtue? It feels like the target audience for The Whale are people who get all weepy at those awful "Random Act of Kindness" TikToks where an able-bodied person throws money at some stranger in a wheelchair and then gives an insipidly inspiring speech to their phone about going out and changing the world or whatever, but of course the real message of the video "Aren't I great? Let's all feel good about how great I am." The same audience will then get mad at the person in the wheelchair when they say something like, "Being filmed in public without my consent for an act of charity I didn't ask for just so.some content creator can reap the benefits on their social media page is actually really patronizing and quite dehumanizing to me as a person. Please don't do stuff like that." BOO HISS shut up wheelchair person we're supposedly trying to help! You're harshing our buzz. WHATEVER HAPPENED TO GRATITUDE? It's almost like the people who watch those videos don't REALLY view the disabled person as a human being, with thoughts and feelings they respect and whose opinions they actually want to hear and engage with.
NEWS FLASH: People who are overweight, gay, disabled, living in poverty, whatever it is that makes them "less fortunate" than anyone at the top of the bell curve of normalcy--they don't exist solely for privileged people to feel sanctimoniously sad about. If you perceive your ability to sympathize with Charlie as some kind of vindication that you are a good person...try harder.
Anyway. Is the movie ENTIRELY bad? No. Just a few tweaks here and there probably would have left me feeling a lot better about it, though it still wouldn't have been a masterpiece by any measure. The screenplay is of the "a bunch of archetypes get thrown together and talk a lot" variety. That's not inherently bad--I mean, The Breakfast Club does it pretty well. But that's because The Breakfast Club actually forces its characters to grow and change by virtue of their interactions with one another. Everybody in The Whale is introduced as a particular TYPE of character and not one of them ever breaks out of their standard mold over the course of the dismal running time. Nothing anybody does will actually surprise you. The script is just a wind-up toy: get everyone into position, turn their keys, and watch them totter to their predetermined destinations.
Maybe I would have liked it better if Aronofsky had leaned into his melodramatic strengths. Requiem for a Dream, Black Swan, The Wrestler--heck, even the ambitious misfire Mother! Are composed of stylistic choices that convey a heightened reality. They are subjective, impressionistic movies that use the camerawork, music, and editing to immerse you in the main character's worldview. The Whale, apart from a laughable flight of fancy at the very end, just sits outside its main subject with faux-documentarian realism, observing but not interpreting. This approach is ill at ease with the more writerly flourishes, such as scenes of Brendan Fraser staring at the ceiling from his bed and reciting an important essay out loud...to himself. Instead of just, you know, thinking about it. Come on, movie, is this supposed to mirror actual human behavior? I'm not buying it, but only because Aronofsky isn't giving me the tools to do so. (Apologies for the mixed metaphor.) The lines in this moment might as well be, "I am sad. I am feeling sad. I am full of regret and sad, and I am talking to myself about it as I stare into space." Powerful? In SOME milieu, perhaps...but certainly not a realistic one.
So what works? Well, the performances. The Whale began life in the theater, an actor's medium, and the movie respects that. It gives the performers the room they need. I'm as happy as anyone for Fraser's return to high-profile projects, and he deserves a chance to show he can do "more" than chase after Looney Tunes and slice through CGI mummies. ("More" is in quotes because I don't believe one's level of talent can be quantified by what TYPE of projects they do, but rather by how well an actor conveys everything that a particular project needs them to convey, and Fraser was always stellar in what would be considered lightweight fare like George of the Jungle or Encino Man. But a project like The Whale will certainly garner him more respect.) Hong Chau has the less showy but equally challenging role as his friend, nurse, and enabler; you can see the indecision, hope, and resignation warring in her eyes as she regards Charlie, watching him implode and trying to make peace with the fact that she cannot save him, however much she wishes to, even as he alternately ignores, deceives, and betrays her. If there's any power at all in this ham-handed wake-up slap of a film, it's due to their relationship, which somehow manages--in spite of everything--to feel authentic.
Well, nowadays we can get a few well-rounded LGBTQ+ characters in mainstream cinema, so that problem is finally and forever 100% solved. What other prejudice, wonders Hollywood, can we now turn our attention to fixing? Ah, how about Fatty the fat fat man? Here comes Darren Aronofsky to let us know that we are, indeed, FINALLY given permission to empathize with the overweight. Perhaps even--GASP!--the morbidly obese. DARE WE??
I mean...the allowance is on a provisional basis, you understand. As long as Jumbo has it REALLY, REALLY HARD IN THE MOST EXTREME POSSIBLE WAYS. You know, like their lover died and their daughter hates them and they feel like they've wasted their entire lives without doing anybody any good and they're dying. Then we can invest in their plight. Anybody who binge-eats just because they have a disorder and don't have all that external sad crap in their life, anybody who experiences even fleeting moments of happiness and self-worth, anybody whose depression isn't justified a hundred times over to the satisfaction of the most cynical person in the audience--you're free to go ahead and keep on loathing them, because they're just not doing the work.
Seriously, this movie is such buffoonish misery porn. Every single background character who sees Charlie has the most over-the-top reaction to his physical appearance. Yes, every SINGLE one. Nobody in this universe has an ounce of kindness or compassion? Nobody can even fake a decent poker face? That's how you know this movie is made BY skinny people, FOR skinny people, who just want to feel good about themselves for doing the bare polite minimum by keeping their revulsion in check when interacting with an overweight person. LIke it's IMPOSSIBLE to imagine how an overweight person can feel bad about themselves unless they're CONSTANTLY being reminded by others that they're disgusting, grotesque abominations. Is the simple act of "not gawking" really that much of a virtue? It feels like the target audience for The Whale are people who get all weepy at those awful "Random Act of Kindness" TikToks where an able-bodied person throws money at some stranger in a wheelchair and then gives an insipidly inspiring speech to their phone about going out and changing the world or whatever, but of course the real message of the video "Aren't I great? Let's all feel good about how great I am." The same audience will then get mad at the person in the wheelchair when they say something like, "Being filmed in public without my consent for an act of charity I didn't ask for just so.some content creator can reap the benefits on their social media page is actually really patronizing and quite dehumanizing to me as a person. Please don't do stuff like that." BOO HISS shut up wheelchair person we're supposedly trying to help! You're harshing our buzz. WHATEVER HAPPENED TO GRATITUDE? It's almost like the people who watch those videos don't REALLY view the disabled person as a human being, with thoughts and feelings they respect and whose opinions they actually want to hear and engage with.
NEWS FLASH: People who are overweight, gay, disabled, living in poverty, whatever it is that makes them "less fortunate" than anyone at the top of the bell curve of normalcy--they don't exist solely for privileged people to feel sanctimoniously sad about. If you perceive your ability to sympathize with Charlie as some kind of vindication that you are a good person...try harder.
Anyway. Is the movie ENTIRELY bad? No. Just a few tweaks here and there probably would have left me feeling a lot better about it, though it still wouldn't have been a masterpiece by any measure. The screenplay is of the "a bunch of archetypes get thrown together and talk a lot" variety. That's not inherently bad--I mean, The Breakfast Club does it pretty well. But that's because The Breakfast Club actually forces its characters to grow and change by virtue of their interactions with one another. Everybody in The Whale is introduced as a particular TYPE of character and not one of them ever breaks out of their standard mold over the course of the dismal running time. Nothing anybody does will actually surprise you. The script is just a wind-up toy: get everyone into position, turn their keys, and watch them totter to their predetermined destinations.
Maybe I would have liked it better if Aronofsky had leaned into his melodramatic strengths. Requiem for a Dream, Black Swan, The Wrestler--heck, even the ambitious misfire Mother! Are composed of stylistic choices that convey a heightened reality. They are subjective, impressionistic movies that use the camerawork, music, and editing to immerse you in the main character's worldview. The Whale, apart from a laughable flight of fancy at the very end, just sits outside its main subject with faux-documentarian realism, observing but not interpreting. This approach is ill at ease with the more writerly flourishes, such as scenes of Brendan Fraser staring at the ceiling from his bed and reciting an important essay out loud...to himself. Instead of just, you know, thinking about it. Come on, movie, is this supposed to mirror actual human behavior? I'm not buying it, but only because Aronofsky isn't giving me the tools to do so. (Apologies for the mixed metaphor.) The lines in this moment might as well be, "I am sad. I am feeling sad. I am full of regret and sad, and I am talking to myself about it as I stare into space." Powerful? In SOME milieu, perhaps...but certainly not a realistic one.
So what works? Well, the performances. The Whale began life in the theater, an actor's medium, and the movie respects that. It gives the performers the room they need. I'm as happy as anyone for Fraser's return to high-profile projects, and he deserves a chance to show he can do "more" than chase after Looney Tunes and slice through CGI mummies. ("More" is in quotes because I don't believe one's level of talent can be quantified by what TYPE of projects they do, but rather by how well an actor conveys everything that a particular project needs them to convey, and Fraser was always stellar in what would be considered lightweight fare like George of the Jungle or Encino Man. But a project like The Whale will certainly garner him more respect.) Hong Chau has the less showy but equally challenging role as his friend, nurse, and enabler; you can see the indecision, hope, and resignation warring in her eyes as she regards Charlie, watching him implode and trying to make peace with the fact that she cannot save him, however much she wishes to, even as he alternately ignores, deceives, and betrays her. If there's any power at all in this ham-handed wake-up slap of a film, it's due to their relationship, which somehow manages--in spite of everything--to feel authentic.
