Five years after the polarizing Mother!, Darren Aronofsky returns to arthouse theaters with a film that will likely be just as divisive—The Whale.  Here, Aronofsky returns to the intimate, fatalistic character study that served him so well in hits like Black Swan and The Wrestler.  Unfortunately, the movie is more effective as a Brendan Fraser comeback vehicle than as a psychologically nuanced chamber piece, frequently hamstrung by Samuel D. Hunter’s superficial script, adapted from his own 2012 play of the same name.

The film is set against the backdrop of the 2016 presidential election, which is quickly becoming lazy shorthand for ‘end times’ or ‘impending doom’ or…take your pick. Fraser stars as Charlie, a morbidly obese recluse who teaches English online—but always with his camera turned off. In a canny intro, Charlie’s black Zoom window slowly expands to fill the entire frame, taking the viewer through the looking glass into his world. The first time he stands up, he quite literally resembles the titular animal, his towering, fat suit-enhanced frame dominating the frame in all its…glory? He never leaves his apartment, though he has several frequent, and not so frequent, visitors who are, in their own way, fighting for his salvation.  The most welcome presence in the film is Liz (a virtuosic Hong Chau, making the most of her character’s simmering anger), Charlie’s friend and his visiting nurse.  Despite her entreaties, he insists on eating junk food and refuses to go to the hospital, even as congestive heart failure rears its ugly head.  His estranged daughter, Ellie (Sadie Sink), as well as a missionary from the New Life Church, Thomas (Ty Simpkins), have their own reasons for visiting his apartment. And finally, Samantha Morton makes a brief appearance as Ellie’s mom and Charlie’s ex-wife.

Let’s start with what the movie gets right.  Fraser is an unconventional choice, but is excellent in the role, displaying a sensitivity and depth of feeling that made him so captivating in turn-of-the century dramas Gods and Monsters and The Quiet American.  Though even then, there is one caveat—as devastating as his performance is here, it’s disappointingly one-note, which I blame on the script.  The psychology on display here is just too superficial to really get beneath the skin of this man who’s quite literally eating himself to death.  Think Leaving Las Vegas, but with less nuance. Indeed Fraser’s performance is more a war of attrition than anything else.  There are only so many times you can see his giant, expressive eyes well up with tears before it wears down your defenses. It’s reminiscent of Leonardo Dicaprio in The Revenant, whose performance was mistaken for excellent acting when it was really just an intensely sustained 2 hours of grunting and screaming.

Arguably the most dynamic presence is Chau, who gives the film a jolt of energy whenever she’s on screen, and whose tense, loving exchanges with Charlie are a highlight.  Chau’s range imbues her character with a sense of melancholy, of anger at being powerless to stop her friend’s decline.  It also helps that Liz has some complex motivations, which become clear later in the story.

This is in stark contrast to the rest of the cast, who noticeably drag the film down when they’re on screen.  Part of this comes down to plotting that is somehow both flimsy and unnecessary.  The script bends over backwards to try to make the audience care about a homophobic missionary with no charisma and no discernible redeeming qualities.  Perhaps most egregious is the shoehorning in of dramatic, overwrought monologues that are entirely unearned, a problem which plagues much of the proceedings.  This also sums up the brief screentime of Morton, who swoops in like a melodramatic whirlwind, full of blustery invective (and an American accent so inconsistent that even I noticed). One of the bigger drawbacks of the film, however, is Sink’s performance.  Given how thinly written her character is, the role requires an actor who can interpret and go beyond the script.  Otherwise, as is the case here, the character simply comes off as an obnoxious, budding sociopath.  During one of her many monologues, Sink almost taps into the hurt and anguish beneath her anger, but not quite.  (This is also a problem I had with her role on Stranger Things, though I admittedly haven’t seen the latest season and don’t plan to—don’t @ me). These issues are also exacerbated by the fact that the relationship between Charlie and Ellie is clearly meant to be the heart of the story.

Aronofsky mostly avoids the staginess that often befalls theatrical adaptations. The camera movements are dynamic, particularly when Ellie is on a tear.  The film though ultimately succumbs to a feeling of claustrophobia, which is not unintentional.  The movie is set entirely in the apartment, and is presented in a square aspect ratio, which feels suffocating and makes the viewer feel as if they’re cellmates with Charlie in his self-imposed prison of the mind and soul.  This is all accentuated by the cinematography and color palette, which is almost exclusively a sea of grimy, dingy greens, browns, and grays. 

It’s easy to see why Aronofsky was drawn to this doomed figure, as he has a penchant for the melodramatic, a soft spot for sad sacks.  However, his previous films had a greater sense of vitality and greater depth to the characters.  It’s unfortunate that Fraser’s fat suit does most of the heavy lifting in this film (pun intended), and does nothing to quell the accusations of body-shaming being levied by the film’s critics.  Charlie is clearly a tragic figure, but the film is either unwilling or unable to explore his motivations.  He’s eating himself to death because of guilt stemming from a trauma that happened in his past, and…that’s about it. The overall message of the film is also a bit muddled.  He frequently implores his students, “Think about the truth of your argument,” which suggests that the thesis of the film is authenticity and being true to oneself. However, so much of the film is simply about sitting with Charlie and watching him eat increasingly grotesque meals, so is the overall message instead just one of empathy and compassion?

Ultimately, the weak, one-dimensional script proves to be a poor fit for the director. He’s still a talent to watch, and undoubtedly has a masterpiece or two left in him, but this is not one of them.  The pop psych approach to the characters, combined with laughably bad, overwrought monologues that make you feel like you’re watching a hacky, off-off-off-Broadway play, are too much for the film to overcome. But credit is owed to Aronofsky for resuscitating Fraser’s career, and I can’t wait to see what the revived Encino Man does next.clan, who live on the reefs.