Darren Aronofsky’s latest film The Whale is an endeavour 10 odd years in the making. Inspired by a play of the same name by Samuel D. Hunter, who also wrote the film’s screenplay, it went unmade for as long as it took Aronofsky to find an actor capable of embodying the film’s central character Charlie. The role, which eventually went to Brendan Fraser, is that of a roughly 600lb gay man attempting to reconnect with his daughter in what he believes to be the last days of his life, and it is around this character that the entire narrative revolves, often literally as Aronofsky and cinematographer Matthew Libatique surround him with extravagant, swirling camera movements.
It’s a setup as thorny and strange as any of Aronofsky’s works, but the question of how respectfully he would portray the body and life of this latest subject raised specific questions given the way the film aims to represent certain marginalised identities. As the film’s opening scenes seem to prod and leer at Charlie’s body, taking some strange joy in the spectacle of his size, it’s not hard to worry that the film is about to validate every concern around its approach. What follows is a film that attempts to work backwards from this initial moment of judgemental observation and produce an empathy for a subject it assumes we may not have held any for previously.
Aronofsky has always had a somewhat unkind point of view, with his films often attempting to find some poetry in the suffering of obsessives in a way that has leaned more spectatorial than empathetic. This latest film, his smallest in scale, feels like an intentional effort to challenge those impulses as he attempts to provide Charlie with a humanity that might have initially been denied. Though this approach, in its assumption that we share his camera’s disgust, can feel somewhat condescending, it at least offers the promise that Aronofsky truly cares for this subject. The real body of the story is a kind of slow suicide that happens to take the form of overeating as Charlie learns that he will be dead before the end of the week if he doesn’t seek medical care, something he refuses to do out of a combination of the fear of medical fatphobia and a desire to leave enough money to ensure his daughter’s future.
Set entirely in Charlie’s home, the story takes the form of a series of visitations and arguments. These recurring guests include Liz (Hong Chau), the sister of Charlie’s late partner, his daughter Ellie (Sadie Sink), and the young missionary Thomas (Ty Simpkins). Through these moments we are placed in Charlie’s shoes, watching people come and go and say their piece and being met with the silence they leave. It’s a setup clearly adapted from the stage but one complimented by Aronofsky’s direction and how intimately we are able to get to the film’s performances.
Those performances are as brilliant and compelling as you’ve heard — Fraser embodies Charlie fantastically with a quiet warmth that absolutely rejects the impulse of pity that initially haunts the film. Similarly wonderful is Hong Chau as Liz, who has taken up the role of Charlie’s nurse as his health has worsened following his lover’s death. The two have a dynamic founded in a closeness that’s hard to define, as the grief they share is clearly not the only reason they enjoy each other’s company. Sadie Sink takes a part that could easily feel like a cartoonish vessel for Charlie’s rehabilitation and turns Ellie into a multifaceted and complex character, perfectly playing the layers of disappointment, sadness, and anger that the character is understandably feeling and struggling to pull apart. Ty Simpkins’ role as Thomas is similarly initially hard to read, but as we watch him pester and preach his way into Charlie’s life, we come to realise that the two have more similar goals than we might have thought. Though the character is grating by design, Simpkins offers a weaselly, curious presence that means you’re never too mad to see him walk through the door.
At the film’s LFF premiere, director Darren Aronofsky concluded a long, personal explanation of the film’s background with “it’s also a comedy,” adding that we should feel OK to laugh. Though the film is very sad, this idea that laughter is not missing the point is a welcome thought, not only in that the film is funny, but that watching it play out you are allowed to be on Charlie’s side. You can feel that the film is not laughing at him but, in a strange sense, with him. Watching these final days play out feels like making, and then losing, a friend more so than peering through a man’s window. In a far cry from the probing cruelty of the film’s earliest moments, Aronofsky’s camera comes to frame Charlie with grace.
The effort of the film will not work for everyone; even as a fan I think it occasionally veers into the condescending and for many the use of a fatsuit will make it a total non-starter. The Whale doesn’t desperately seek to change those minds but, at the very least, it feels like watching a mind change.
