The Whale review — Brendan Fraser makes a splash in Darren Aronofsky’s obesity drama

Body horror takes a new form in Darren Aronofsky’s The Whale, which chronicles the long, slow suicide of a morbidly obese man with pitiless candour but an abundance of empathy. It opens on a crass note: Charlie (Brendan Fraser) is pleasuring himself to porn in his squalid apartment, the wheezing climax interrupted by an unexpected visitor and the first signs of cardiac arrest. (If you are of a queasy disposition you may want to look away, not just now but altogether.) The antidote is an unexpected one: hearing the opening lines of an essay about Moby-Dick, the title’s second meaning now loudly apparent.

The fact that the entire film takes place mostly in this one room reflects both its origins as an off-Broadway play and the fact that Charlie, who gives online writing courses, has become unable to haul himself any further. There on his straining sofa he subsists on a strict regime of delivered pizzas (never less than two), meatball subs and barefaced lies (24-hour TV politics, “diet” soda). Tiny tasks are like mountains to climb, even the simple act of laughing bringing pain; distinctly nautical sounds can sometimes be heard on the over-insistent soundtrack.

The only visits come from his straight-talking carer Liz (Hong Chau) and a persistent young missionary (Ty Simpkins), until Charlie’s estranged daughter (Sadie Sink) re-enters the picture, having matured into a ginger ball of teenage rage. We learn of his past wrongdoings and failings as a father, but the film’s compassion comes to the fore. As much as Moby-Dick is repeatedly evoked, the ur-text here is surely Jonah, who, driven by fear, initially thinks only of himself, before finally sacrificing himself for a higher purpose. The film’s final destination is a redemption of sorts, the schmaltz level getting dangerous by the end.

From Black Swan to The Wrestler to this, Aronofsky clearly has a penchant for pushing the human body to violent extremes. In 2017’s repellent and vacuous Mother! he wallowed in suffering for no good reason. Here, constrained perhaps by the limits of the play, he reins in his tendency towards excess and is well served by a uniformly excellent cast. Chau in particular wrings authenticity from every word (often four-lettered), recognising the humanity in Charlie long before we do.

There’s a pathos in seeing Fraser, once the lean leading man of The Mummy, now trapped in a grotesque fat-suit, especially when in actuality he has been battling weight gain and depression. It’s a credit to his undimmed abilities as an actor that he emotes so effectively through the layers of prosthetics, his eyes alone conveying bottomless depths of vulnerability, self-loathing and hope.

★★★★☆

In US cinemas from December 9. Festival continues to September 10, labiennale.org