The Whale: A Sentimental Drama That Gets By On Its Performances
A reclusive, morbidly obese English teacher named Charlie attempts to reconnect with his estranged teenage daughter.
Although The Whale marks a more stylistically restrained turn for Aronofsky, it’s an otherwise typical film for the veteran filmmaker, one that finds him repeating himself in more ways than one (and to no greater effect). There’s little wonder why he was drawn to Samuel Hunter’s 2012 play of the same name: the source material kinda plays like a greatest hits of everything Aronofsky; there are themes of religion/spirituality, strained relationships between parents and their children, and a central character who’s inevitable self-sabotaging nature is at odds with their desire for redemption. It is essentially The Wrestler narrowed to a single location (like mother!), combined with The Fountain’s transcendent reach and Black Swan’s sense of fatalism, and all glued together with the dark, edgy quality that punctuates Requiem For A Dream. To an extent, it’s Aronofsky’s heavy-handed stab at a Transcendental film, but his reliance on the swelling score and his need to move the camera somewhat betray the genre’s foundation and blunt its spiritual and emotional impact.
Aronofsky and cinematographer Matthew Libatique take care to make the film as cinematic as they can given the boundaries of Charlie’s small world and the claustrophobic confines of the film’s 4:3 aspect ratio that boxes him in even more, but they can’t really escape the innate staginess of the piece, both in terms of blocking and narrative. The arrangement and movement of the actors is a minor gripe compared to the “it’s a small world after all” quality of its narrative construction and execution, which is likely to be the film’s biggest obstacle when it comes to tugging on the ole heartstrings. In particular, there’s a missionary character that’s shoehorned into the mix whose own personal story neatly and conveniently ties into that of our protagonist in such a direct way that it’s almost comical. This would be more easily overlooked when presented on the stage, but on screen, it feels so heavy-handed and tidy and contrived that it runs the risk of distancing you from the grounded sense of reality it otherwise abides.
Then there’s Charlie, our morbidly obese protagonist, who’s wonderfully enlivened by Brendan Fraser. Like Mickey O’Rourke before him, Fraser goes for broke in the role, sealing his career resurgence with an undeniable certainty. Fraser imbues Charlie with a warmth, sweetness, and humanity, making full use of his terrifically expressive eyes as the window to Charlie’s tormented soul. Fraser’s performance is astounding and worthy of the attention and applause, but the character has his own set of issues that stand outside of Fraser’s portrayal. There’s how Aronofsky photographs him, often gawking at his grotesquerie and revelling a bit too much in his degradation, which undermines Fraser’s incredible pathos, but there’s also a great deal of difficulty buying into the character’s outlandish behavior and motivation. Then, there’s the essay about Melville’s Moby Dick that further bludgeons Fraser’s performative nuance and subtlety to near death.
Does Charlie really need to eat himself to death? Yes, and no. He has his own silly reasons for it, but they don’t exactly ring true or make much logical sense. His fate is stubbornly sealed but entirely avoidable, and his want to run full-tilt into oblivion doesn’t exactly mesh with his want to mend his relationship with his daughter, Elle. In fact, the two pretty much cancel each other out; whether he succeeds or not, don’t you think his efforts would be completely undermined by his voluntary suicide? Couldn’t he just share his feelings, instead of just eating them? He does a fair bit of both, but he’s also smart enough to know which is more conducive to his end goal, but yet he strives to tie up loose ends while also eating his death cake, too.
We’re probably meant to find pity and compassion for Charlie, and to a certain degree, we do, but mostly we’re made to take away a feeling of relief, that this isn’t our life, our tragedy, or our 600-pound body. Aside from that, the film’s most palpable emotion is anger, and that comes through the strongest in the supporting performances from Hong Chau and Sadie Sink. Their presence greatly elevates the proceedings, with both offering up their own visceral shade of fury, but it’s Sink who makes her’s feel the most scorching hot.
Like Charlie, The Whale lumbers about with leaden feet and a labored sense of difficulty. When it finally stomps across the finish line, you might find your eyes rolling back into your head, instead of oozing liquid, which is a shame for a film overflowing with feelings. Unfortunately, it didn’t really make us feel any of them, but we did walk away with a renewed appreciation for Fraser, Chau, and Sink’s ability as performers, as well as the creeping feeling that we’ve perhaps outgrown Aronofsky’s artistic tendencies.
Recommendation: The Whale offers up a whopper of a performance from Brendan Fraser, but it winds up being a mediocre Aronofsky effort that recycles elements from his previous films. We’re all about the Fraser renaissance, but this one didn’t really move us in the ways we’d hope.
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