The Whale (2022) - Darren Aronofsky: A Review
There was a time when Aronofsky looked to be one of the most promising directors in American cinema. His pulsating black-and-white low-budget "Pi" was remarkable in its intensity, pacing and chaotic energy. Then came the modern classic "Requiem for a Dream" in which Aronofsky somehow injected even more chaos and drama, this time coupled with stellar performances by Jennifer Connelly and Ellen Burnstyn, alongside a hypnotic, pulverising soundtrack and a general atmosphere of unrelenting anguish to unsettle the nerves of the most sanguine viewer. Since then the director has mostly floundered; yes, there have been bright sparks from time-to-time: "The Wrestler" was a worthy character study of a flawed individual, brought to life wonderfully by Mickey Rourke, while "Black Swan" provided a similar canvass for Natalie Portman to give what is quite possibly a career-best performance but at no point has the director fully capitalised on the genius that seemed inherent within his film-making almost a quarter of a century ago now.
Ironically, as the director has grown older, his films seem to have become more adolescent. In 2017 we got the utterly ridiculous "Mother!" and now, finally moving onto the subject of this review, we are presented with the only slightly less ridiculous "The Whale": a film about a morbidly obese man who is on the point of a fatal heart attack. Based on the play by Samuel D Hunter, this film almost certainly has nothing to say, but that doesn't stop it from indulgently pontificating on religion, sexuality, grief and the importance of family. Allow me to observe here that when a dramatist has no particular insight on any topic, it is a common trick for him to distract the viewer from noticing this by spreading his themes as widely as possible. One should be under no illusion that any profundity is occurring in this film and there are a number of clues to suggest this.
Firstly, none of the characters' motivations are properly thought out. We have a central character, Charlie (played by Brendan Fraser), who is homosexual (the importance of this will become apparent later) and apparently suicidal . He has developed a co-dependent friendship with the fiercely protective Liz (Hong Chau). Liz is depicted as finding value in the dependence that Charlie has on her, so much so that she attempts to prevent her friend from reconnecting with his daughter lest her role in his life be usurped. Yet, so desperate is she to maintain his friendship that she continues to feed him fried chicken and brings him highly-unhealthy snacks, all the while being acutely aware of how close this food is to killing him. It is worth noting here that Liz is also a nurse, something which might lead one to believe that her instinct would be to avoid perpetuating life-shortening habits vis-a-vis her closest friends.
Then there is Charlie's daughter, Ellie, from whom he has been estranged for almost a decade. He calls her after he realises the perilousness of his health and she comes to visit him immediately. She is standoffish and hostile but it is made clear to her that there will be a financial and possibly an educational advantage in associating with him. At times it seems as if she is motivated purely by self-interest, at other times she appears driven by motiveless malignity and then, less plausibly perhaps, she appears to be doing acts of great kindness in a roundabout and easily misinterpreted fashion. By the end of the film, all three of these interpretations could easily be true and it comes across as if neither the writer nor the director decided what Ellie's motivations actually were. You could call this artistic ambiguity, I call it a lack of interest in character development. After all, if a character is not particularly defined in any substantial way then they can behave as the writer wishes them to in order to serve the preconceived plot. The character of Ellie does this as does the character of Liz as does, most importantly, the character of Charlie himself.
Taking a closer look at Charlie we see a kind, gentle almost childlike individual. He is suffering from grief, hence his extreme comfort eating, but, as an English teacher by profession, he is still capable of being moved by beautiful, honest writing. This in and of itself appears to possess the whiff of something fay but I shall just about allow it to pass. The main issue with Charlie's characterisation is that he is far too kind, gentle and caring to ever be capable of the emotional and physical abandonment of which his character is purportedly responsible. All of the invective and hostility that Charlie receives at the hands of his estranged family in the film is utterly justified by Charlie's past actions and yet Fraser's angelic performance provides not even a scintilla of evidence of the callousness he has previously been responsible for. At one point in the film, his ex-wife says that she is aware that Charlie was only using her to have a child. The audience is unsure whether to interpret this as bitterness or honesty and, once again, I don't think either the writer or director cared to decide themselves in which category the comment belonged. However, its truth would make perfect sense since Charlie is very clearly represented as being gay in the film, right from the very first scene in fact. Yet how could such a kind, genuine man who is so powerfully moved by honesty be capable of such cynical deception? It does not fit with the character that is being projected in any conceivable way.
Focusing on the character of Charlie takes me back to my observations regarding the adolescent nature of Aronofsky's more recent cinematic fare. Too much of this film includes "fat jokes", including the film's title itself. Oh, of course, this can easily be denied: it's a reference to "Moby Dick", it's a reference to the Biblical story of Noah (there's another Aronofsky association by the way). It is also, naturally, a reference to the protagonist's size. There is also too much prurient fascination with the physical degradation associated with being morbidly obese. Virtually nothing is left to the audience's imagination in terms of Charlie's impaired physicality. This doesn't stop with his outward appearance but continues to the unfortunate condition of the protagonist's heart, something which is monitored and tracked in anxiety-inducing detail throughout the film.
The film is, quite simply, in poor taste and severely lacking in artistic merit in terms of its writing, its exposition of its themes and its characterisation; however, it would be extremely disingenuous of me to claim that I found no merit in the film at all. The acting is impeccable throughout. Give Aronofsky his due, like Stanley Kubrick, he excels in eliciting powerful, tortured performances from his cast. Fraser has rightly received many plaudits for his performance, the humanity he is able to exude is heart-warming and, at times, deeply moving but he is also ably supported by Sadie Sink, Ty Simpkins, Samantha Morton and, especially, Hong Chau as his erstwhile yet viperishly domineering side-kick. Bearing in mind that the characterisations are so poorly thought out, it is even more impressive that the actors are able to deliver such impressive work. They succeed by playing scenes as much as by playing characters, the actors being malleable and flexible enough to fully deliver to the scenes' requirements without ever appearing false in their performances.
The soundtrack is also beautiful and hauntingly atmospheric. If there is so much that is tasteless in the writing and presentation of the film, the music is the exact opposite. Rob Simonsen's tones elevate the film and provide it with an otherwise unearned dignity and grace. And then there are the visual flourishes of which Aronofsky is always immensely capable. The film's use of light in key scenes and the way in which Aronofsky is able to visually invigorate what is essentially a one-set film is commendable and adds value to the experience.
Due to the power of individual scenes, you may well leave this film quite moved by what you've watched but, if you are critical by nature and you are inclined to do the maths, you will be hard-pressed not to realise that this film does not add up. Like a number of Aronofsky's recent efforts, it's a film whose main goal is to grab you by the jugular and, in its insistence on achieving this, it is far more trivial than it had any need to be.
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