Members of the small cast acquit themselves well enough with the material they’re given. Charlie is isolated and is reckoning with his mistakes as he dies of heart failure. This is not a subtle film. In his final days, he tries to reconcile with his estranged, irreverent daughter Ellie (Sadie Sink). He is cared for by his best friend and deceased partner’s sister Liz (Hong Chau), and the monotony of his life is interrupted by Thomas (Ty Simpkins) a misguided missionary who awkwardly inserts himself into Charlie’s last days.
Mr. Fraser brings pathos to this role, though I wish he was given better material, more worthy of his talent. His performance makes him a strong contender for all the major awards, and that’s a shame, not because he doesn’t deserve them, but because what’s also being rewarded is such a demeaning portrayal of a fat man. We’ll hear about how brave Mr. Fraser is for taking on a role like this, for wearing a fat suit, for being willing to embody so many people’s worst fears. Hollywood loves to reward actors who dare to take on roles that require them to abandon the good looks that enabled their careers.
At points, I was reminded of “Leaving Las Vegas” and how Ben Sanderson (Nicolas Cage) is afforded a kind of dignity as he drinks himself to death. He is a part of the world even as he forces his way out of it. Charlie is not granted any such thing. “The Whale” claims to have been told with care and grace, but it is just as exploitative as any episode of TLC’s “My 600-lb Life.”
In the opening scene, it isn’t quite clear what is happening, until everything comes into focus: Charlie is masturbating to porn, drenched in sweat, out of breath. It’s unclear what will happen first — orgasm or death. The problem isn’t that Charlie looks the way he does or struggles in his body. The problem is that the creators cannot hide their contempt anytime Charlie tries to satisfy an all too human urge.
So many other creative choices feel unnecessary. In one scene, Charlie, in a fit of emotional pain, gorges himself on any food he can find, starting with a greasy pizza. Before long, his face is slicked with grease, and he has thrown open his refrigerator desperate for anything to fill the yawning void of hurt from which he cannot escape. There is another scene in which he eats a bucket of fried chicken. And then there is his wardrobe — tent-like clothing, threadbare, perpetually soaked in sweat. The rolls of his stomach spilling over his thighs. The walker he cannot move without, always by his side as he heaves himself up each time he needs to change locations. The way “The Whale” is told reflects such a profound and pathetic dearth of imagination. At several points, both my wife and I wanted to walk out of the screening, but we didn’t want to seem rude or oversensitive.