"Who Would Want Me to Be a Part of Their Life?"
There are few filmmakers like Darron Aronofsky. His early work is sublime, his aughts work is interesting and unconventional, but his recent work has been disappointing. Noah and Mother! Are cleverly visceral and anarchic, but they're also bogged down in religious symbolism and shallow metaphor, lacking the substance of the filmmaker's greatest films. The Whale is a nice return to form, even if missing Aronofsky's trademark frenetic hysteria. Written by Samuel D. Hunter, and adapted from his play, the script is not spectacular, but it is dense, thought-provoking, and well-paced.
The film follows Charlie, a morbidly obese man who teaches English for an online college. Having recently come to terms with his own mortality, Charlie tries to reconnect with his daughter, volatile and callously apathetic Ellie. The entire story takes place within Charlie's apartment; nurse Liz and proselytizer Thomas also visit, and the film's drama is drawn from each character's unique interactions with the others.
Chamber pieces are in vogue, most likely because of the limitations presented by the pandemic. At least five films in the last three months (The Menu, Glass Onion, Skinamarink, Knock at the Cabin, and The Whale) have taken place in one primary venue. The technique is usually a mark of miniscule budgets or ambitious screenwriters, but these films (sans Skinamarink) are at least relatively expensive and reasonably conventional.
Of these five films, The Whale feels most purposeful in its use of a single location, most likely because it's adapted from a stage play, and written by a playwright. The film is an intimate story with refreshingly small but impactful stakes; it's focused and thematically dense enough to hold attention throughout, implicitly justifying its economical narrative and construction.
The Whale feels and watches like a play, for better or worse, sometimes simultaneously. Much of the early dialogue is clunkily expositional and characterizations are lean. However, there is deceptive depth to characters' conflict and relationships, leading to provocative questions posed throughout, both subtly and explicitly.
Although The Whale's plot doesn't usually unfold organically - much of its movement is spurred by someone entering or exiting a room, much like a sitcom - its scenes are impressively balanced between brevity and elongated elegance. Plotting is clunky but expedient, and the sum result has an impressive sense of internal rhythm and timing. The Whale is eventually too lumbering and overstuffed, but this is the result of an overaccumulation of sharp observations, rather than a confused, non-committal slog.
The Whale is sharp and thoughtful, but it's also abjectly miserable. It's a type of story where every character is melodramatically "broken" and searching for a new light to guide their spiritual redemption. Directors who miscalculate this type of drama churn out Noel and Simon Birch, but Aronofsky is obviously too skilled to produce such pablum.
Instead of a lighter sense of emotional misery, The Whale is dark: the apartment is dark, the script is dark, the characters are dark; any optimism springs from either regret or misplaced nostalgia. Aronofsky is often cynical, but he abandons all hope before entering The Whale's worldview, falling into cold misanthropy, even blunt nihilism. Whether or not the film's dramatic integrity is deep or focused enough to warrant such hopelessness is up to the viewer.
The general depression of the film does not overshadow its characters but springs from them. For all of The Whale's thematic probing, twisting, and questioning, there's a surprising and disappointing lack of agency to the entire affair. Charlie and friends continuously, and drearily, wallow in their own circumstances, never attempting to overcome or improve on life's knockdowns.
Admittedly, this lack of self-ownership may be the point, as all involved are either battling addictions or too young, arrogant, or naïve to broaden their perspectives, but The Whale's overwhelming feeling is one of self-pity and helplessness, both learned and innate. The film tries to abruptly reverse course in its final moments, but this mismatched contortion is not enough to wash the taste of pathetic failure out of one's mouth.
The drama of the film is solidly elevated by Aronofsky and his cast. The director restrains himself throughout, creating space and time for Hunter's dialogue to breathe. Although his technique is consistently successful, I couldn't help but wish the script allowed for greater and more frequent Aronofskyesque flourishes.
There is a point wherein The Whale seems to be lifting off, to finally be careening off its meticulously placid railing, but the attempt fizzles; in seconds, the story is back on track and its repetition resumes, as if the potential for deviation never existed. Like its story, the film's camerawork is stark and dry, a decidedly serious attempt to chisel high drama and court sophisticated audiences. Those who consider themselves highbrow will probably swoon, but I gravitate toward the raw, kinetic verve of Aronofsky's earlier work - I prefer my senses engulfed.
As mentioned, The Whale is greatly elevated by its performances, most notably Fraser's. His transformation into a 600 pound man (made possible by heavy prosthetics) is striking and absorbing, but his performance is impactful mostly because of the pain and remorse in his eyes and heart.
Fraser plays into the misery porn well, eliciting true sympathy and genuine care from the characters and audience. He's soft spoken and understands the overbearing pathos of the material, presenting vulnerabilities not typically seen from a past action hero. Aronofsky presents the material deftly, but Fraser makes it work. The rest of the cast - Sadie Sink, Ty Simpkins, Hong Chau, and Samantha Morton - play dutifully into the melodrama, portraying their corrosive sad sacks with palpable humanity.
The Whale is so stuffed with drama that it has a little something for everybody, at least those who can overlook its general misery and dour outlook. There are soulful themes of past mistakes, parental absence, and potential redemption; characters are outlined well, if not too deeply felt or particularly relatable.
The film is a nice showcase of Aronofsky's talents as a minimalist and a magnificent showcase for Fraser's maturation as an actor, but it's just too enamored with its characters' misery to give viewers the catharsis of their redemption. Fans of adult filmmaking should see it for the talent both behind and in front of the camera, but I can't pretend the average moviegoer will come away whistling and satisfied.
The film follows Charlie, a morbidly obese man who teaches English for an online college. Having recently come to terms with his own mortality, Charlie tries to reconnect with his daughter, volatile and callously apathetic Ellie. The entire story takes place within Charlie's apartment; nurse Liz and proselytizer Thomas also visit, and the film's drama is drawn from each character's unique interactions with the others.
Chamber pieces are in vogue, most likely because of the limitations presented by the pandemic. At least five films in the last three months (The Menu, Glass Onion, Skinamarink, Knock at the Cabin, and The Whale) have taken place in one primary venue. The technique is usually a mark of miniscule budgets or ambitious screenwriters, but these films (sans Skinamarink) are at least relatively expensive and reasonably conventional.
Of these five films, The Whale feels most purposeful in its use of a single location, most likely because it's adapted from a stage play, and written by a playwright. The film is an intimate story with refreshingly small but impactful stakes; it's focused and thematically dense enough to hold attention throughout, implicitly justifying its economical narrative and construction.
The Whale feels and watches like a play, for better or worse, sometimes simultaneously. Much of the early dialogue is clunkily expositional and characterizations are lean. However, there is deceptive depth to characters' conflict and relationships, leading to provocative questions posed throughout, both subtly and explicitly.
Although The Whale's plot doesn't usually unfold organically - much of its movement is spurred by someone entering or exiting a room, much like a sitcom - its scenes are impressively balanced between brevity and elongated elegance. Plotting is clunky but expedient, and the sum result has an impressive sense of internal rhythm and timing. The Whale is eventually too lumbering and overstuffed, but this is the result of an overaccumulation of sharp observations, rather than a confused, non-committal slog.
The Whale is sharp and thoughtful, but it's also abjectly miserable. It's a type of story where every character is melodramatically "broken" and searching for a new light to guide their spiritual redemption. Directors who miscalculate this type of drama churn out Noel and Simon Birch, but Aronofsky is obviously too skilled to produce such pablum.
Instead of a lighter sense of emotional misery, The Whale is dark: the apartment is dark, the script is dark, the characters are dark; any optimism springs from either regret or misplaced nostalgia. Aronofsky is often cynical, but he abandons all hope before entering The Whale's worldview, falling into cold misanthropy, even blunt nihilism. Whether or not the film's dramatic integrity is deep or focused enough to warrant such hopelessness is up to the viewer.
The general depression of the film does not overshadow its characters but springs from them. For all of The Whale's thematic probing, twisting, and questioning, there's a surprising and disappointing lack of agency to the entire affair. Charlie and friends continuously, and drearily, wallow in their own circumstances, never attempting to overcome or improve on life's knockdowns.
Admittedly, this lack of self-ownership may be the point, as all involved are either battling addictions or too young, arrogant, or naïve to broaden their perspectives, but The Whale's overwhelming feeling is one of self-pity and helplessness, both learned and innate. The film tries to abruptly reverse course in its final moments, but this mismatched contortion is not enough to wash the taste of pathetic failure out of one's mouth.
The drama of the film is solidly elevated by Aronofsky and his cast. The director restrains himself throughout, creating space and time for Hunter's dialogue to breathe. Although his technique is consistently successful, I couldn't help but wish the script allowed for greater and more frequent Aronofskyesque flourishes.
There is a point wherein The Whale seems to be lifting off, to finally be careening off its meticulously placid railing, but the attempt fizzles; in seconds, the story is back on track and its repetition resumes, as if the potential for deviation never existed. Like its story, the film's camerawork is stark and dry, a decidedly serious attempt to chisel high drama and court sophisticated audiences. Those who consider themselves highbrow will probably swoon, but I gravitate toward the raw, kinetic verve of Aronofsky's earlier work - I prefer my senses engulfed.
As mentioned, The Whale is greatly elevated by its performances, most notably Fraser's. His transformation into a 600 pound man (made possible by heavy prosthetics) is striking and absorbing, but his performance is impactful mostly because of the pain and remorse in his eyes and heart.
Fraser plays into the misery porn well, eliciting true sympathy and genuine care from the characters and audience. He's soft spoken and understands the overbearing pathos of the material, presenting vulnerabilities not typically seen from a past action hero. Aronofsky presents the material deftly, but Fraser makes it work. The rest of the cast - Sadie Sink, Ty Simpkins, Hong Chau, and Samantha Morton - play dutifully into the melodrama, portraying their corrosive sad sacks with palpable humanity.
The Whale is so stuffed with drama that it has a little something for everybody, at least those who can overlook its general misery and dour outlook. There are soulful themes of past mistakes, parental absence, and potential redemption; characters are outlined well, if not too deeply felt or particularly relatable.
The film is a nice showcase of Aronofsky's talents as a minimalist and a magnificent showcase for Fraser's maturation as an actor, but it's just too enamored with its characters' misery to give viewers the catharsis of their redemption. Fans of adult filmmaking should see it for the talent both behind and in front of the camera, but I can't pretend the average moviegoer will come away whistling and satisfied.
- mattstone137
- Feb 16, 2023