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‘The Whale’ Wants to Be Your Worst Nightmare
The real tragedy, the film insists, is what Charlie has become.
I’m not a film buff, but trust me, I get the A24-brand of disturbing imagery and exploitation for shock value in the name of true ART. But I won’t accept art made at the expense of a queer, fat man.
The Whale is a cruel, cruel film.
If told with empathy, the film would center the tragedy: the death of Charlie’s partner, lost time with his daughter, and the religious trauma.
But instead of allowing the audience to sit with Charlie in his grief and heartbreak, the film begs us to be disgusted at every turn. The real tragedy, it insists, is what Charlie has allowed himself to become.
Look at how he eats! Look at how much! Look at the mess! Observe his size and thundering, labored steps as he moves about the apartment! Listen to the wheezing every time he laughs!
The Whale is hardly crueler than everyday folks who feel called to save fat people from themselves, equipped only with flimsy life rafts built of shame.
Every element of the production bullies the character. The camera pans in such a way that forces us to take in Charlie’s size the way we might…
