Darren Aronofsky's latest film— an adaptation of the stage play "The Whale"—sits right in his wheel-house about subject matter, and could, in fact, be a thematic sequel to The Wrestler. Being stage-bound, however, the director does something unusual for him, by limiting it to a single set, and, for the most part, one room, shooting it in the restricting Academy ratio.
There's a practical reason for that; the subject ofThe Whaleis Charlie (Brendan Fraser), an online writing course instructor living in Idaho, who is the only one participating in his ZOOM courses "without a working camera". The reason? Charlie is morbidly obese, to the point where he is rooted to his central couch, where he teaches, eats, watches TV (and porn). It's easier to just stay there, set in place, rather than reach for the walker (and the grabber so he doesn't have to bend down) and haul yourself, straining the entire way, in order to be upright and shuffle off to whatever duty needs to be performed. This is the burden he must bear, given how things are...and how he is. Best to restrict what you do to what you CAN do and what you can reach. One must also pre-plan and make sure one is not in a hurry...or the near-occasion of emergency.
But, it's all an emergency. Charlie's health issues are manifold: hypertension, congestive heart failure, and a BP of 238/134—when he looks up those numbers, he is taken to this site, which advises "seek immediate help and call 911." Not to mention the trouble breathing, the danger of choking, lack of oxygen, and a constant nagging cough that clears the lungs of fluid. The immobility weakens blood flow, can cause fluids to build up, and the legs to swell to the point where they crack and flake.
How could this happen, you ask? The Whale will spend its run-time telling you, through interactions with the few people who come to Charlie's unlocked door (it's too much trouble and strain to get up and unlock it). There's the missionary from "New Life", Thomas (Ty Simpkins), who is on rounds, walks in on Charlie and decides to make him his mission, help him find God before he dies, whether Charlie wants to or not. There's Charlie's caretaker (Hong Chau), who checks on him every day, begs him to go to a hospital (he won't, he doesn't want to spend the money which he says will bankrupt him), and suffers through his constant apologizing for making her life so difficult—she'll do it anyway, because her brother was Charlie's former lover (whom he left his family for ten years ago). She genuinely loves him and Charlie's health battles are her battles, but without the burden of weight.
Then, there's Ellie (Sadie Sink), his troubled 18 year old, struggling with school and with life. She understandably is bitter that Charlie is not a part of her life, that he abandoned her selfishly. She visits him because he's reached out to her—his health is bad and he violates the "no contact" rule of his divorce from his wife (Samantha Morton) to try to make some sort of amends to the kid. But, she's challenging. Quite literally. At their first meeting in years, she's stalking to the door and turns to Charlie to the couch and says "Walk to me." And it's an epic struggle, one he can't accomplish and ends up causing damage to the world-within-arm's-reach that he perpetually inhabits. There's cruelty to something so simple. But, for Charlie, it's like he's being asked to walk across the world.
So, how is the movie? Despite it being the most succinct and fish-bowlish of Aronofsky's films, he manages to invest a lot of world-building in it. And Brendan Fraser—here's a post of my only encounter with the man—is brilliant in it. The part could literally be a wallow. Encased in the most restricting make-up since The Elephant Man, he manages to make it a physical performance while maintaining eyes constantly clouded with regret.
But, for me, it was personal. Since my last day-job, I had been "care-taking" for a guy I'd met who became a friend. The man had a congenital hip problem, which made moving around very difficult and extremely painful; this last job was the last work that he could physically do without tremendous amounts of pain. After awhile, he just couldn't sit for a few hours. Too tough.
He moved into a small, spartan "adult living facility" and he would spend his days in a single lounge-chair. He was fine for money; he was on disability. But, his world shrank as he went from needing a cane to needing a walker, and, finally, a wheelchair (which he never got to use). Being sedentary, he never really burned calories, so he gained weight, which only made his immobility—and the struggle to move around—worse (he never got to the weight of the character in The Whale, not even close). Plus, he smoked, had COPD, and his lungs would fill with fluid, his metabolism slowed, his legs and feet swelled (which only made matters worse). Finally, he was on oxygen (while still smoking, although he never had a tank, just a recycler). His world was reduced to the chair, his TV, and the meals which he had delivered. His diet wasn't the best, but he did love his fruits and vegetables.
He loved movies, but even that got affected. His time-clock went all wonky, where he'd stay up all night, sleep during the day, but his attention span started to falter (I would get texts and phone messages at 4 a.m. because he had no sense of time). Movies he would've liked in the past, he couldn't stay awake through. He particularly didn't like movies with multi-verses; one was hard enough to handle on their own. He loved Batman movies, but hated 2022's The Batman because Robert Pattinson whispered all the time. "Epic fail!!" he texted me when he caught it on The Tube (I just held my opinion, saying I was sorry he didn't like it).*And, like Charlie in The Whale, he would apologize in abundance, not wanting to be "a burden." I never considered him so. But, I wish he could've made more of an effort, even though I knew how taxing those efforts were. It's not like he gave up. It's just that he stopped trying, so sedentary had his life become. He died last year. I miss him.
And all those memories burbled up as I watched The Whale. Anybody not going through that, or knowing someone going through that, might not believe that someone could get themselves into such a state. And take that for not thinking much of the movie...or the character. It's just that grief can do some devastating things. And doesn't always make the most entertaining movies.
It's not that they don't care. Of course, they care. It's that they give up trying. Because it's so. damned. hard.
* One of many projects I have planned here are reviews of movies that he kept insisting I should see, but I never got around to. I'm going to do that this year.
If You Can't Stand the Haute, Get Out of the Kitchen
The Hawthorne is an exclusive restaurant with a very pricey cover fee. Run by the renowned celebrity Chef Julian Slowik (Ralph Fiennes), it is settled on an island, accessible only by boat. Margot Mills (Anya Taylor-Joy) accompanies foodie and Slowik fan-boy Tyler (Nicholas Hoult), who is clearly obsessed with the idea of a once-in-a-lifetime meal planned, produced and executed by his idol, but Margot is clearly underwhelmed, especially as Tyler admonishes her for smoking ("It ruins the palate") and when she finds out she is the second choice for Tyler's "plus one"—a revelation that annoys both her and the Hawthorne's captain, Elsa (Hong Chau) for disturbing the already determined guest list—she is really cheesed off. "No substitutions", evidently.
The dinner party is an odd mix of patrons and customers, all rich, influential and privileged: there's food critic Lillian Bloom (Janet McTeer)—an early champion of Slowik's work—and her editor Ted (Paul Adelstein); actor George Diaz (John Leguizamo)—"I'm in the 'presenter" phase of my career"—and his assistant Felicity (Aimee Carrero); frequent customers Richard Liebbrandt (Reed Birney) and his wife Anne (Judith Light); then there's the trio of tech investors Soren, Bryce, and Dave (Arturo Castro, Rob Yang, Mark St. Cyr) associated with Slowik's "sugar-daddy" (and the island's owner). Oh. And there's "Chef's" mother (Rebecca Koon), who doesn't get past the drinks portion of the meal (you've got to stick with what works).
Twelve guests. Same as "The Last Supper." Hmm.
Given these ingredients,The Menuis an odd little concoction, not to everyone's taste. A mixture of horror, comedy—black humor varietal—satire, social commentary, it may come across as not exciting enough for horror buffs and not biting enough for those looking for depth and some looking for escapism might find it an bit pretentious, even though pretension is one of its main ingredients and one of its main targets.
All the guests have paid thousands of pretty pennies to have such a grand meal—the market exclusivity being part of the charm and "the point" for them—even if the night's fare is a complete mystery to those paying for the privilege. But, Chef Slowik is going to be going completely off-menu for the night, his chefs and sommeliers planning something special for just these particular guests. And if you think you know what's going to happen from glancing at the trailers—trapped guests, dinner experience, weird chef—you've seen too many movies and you're wrong. The movie isn't catered by Hannibal Lecter and there are no jokes about ladies' fingers and giving someone a piece of your mind.
The horror isn't that straight-forward, but it's certainly macabre. The meals, in their courses, are edible—if not particularly palatable—certainly not poisonous and prepared with a precision that is regimental and over-the-top in its elaborateness. The presentation is impeccable, with Chef delivering a monologing introduction by way of explanation for the reasoning, if not the logic, behind each course. The price tag is part of the appeal and so no one complains if the ingredients are odd, the portions small (if non-existent), and the appetite is unsatisfied. As Chef informs one of the guests: "You'll get more than you desire and less than you deserve."
One could say the same for the audience, but I don't want to be too unfair. There are joys. Ralph Fiennes gets all the best lines and he makes the most of them, creating another lovely monster that manages to convey vulnerability and a certain piteousness. But, the film centers around Anya Taylor-Joy's Margot—some might think too much—and the actor is endlessly fascinating to watch. I won't say that she's making a career of victim-warriors, but that seems to be where she's ending up these days, one can't argue with the "deer-in-the-headlights" eyes and the rebel "attitude" the actress exudes. But, the "Margot" character becomes an integral part of the puzzle—why is she there? why does she cause such a stir among the restaurant staff? why does Chef subject her to such scrutiny and (er) grilling? Why does anyone care? About her?
The movie plays fair and doesn't pull some surprise Agatha Christie-backstory-reveal for her, but she is the movie's hinge, and appropriately so, not only in the story's unfolding logic sense (such as it is) and its underpinnings of social commentary, so it's a good thing that Taylor-Joy is so good. You keep watching her when mysteries like Chef's "No Trespassing" headquarters, and the increasingly bizarre courses make you raise doubts about what is going on. Taylor-Joy grounds it.
The movie needs her. Because with all those black humor touches, satiric thrusts, and social conceits, the movie threatens to float off in its own hot air. On the surface level, The Menu just does not work if one is looking for story sense, story logic, and any sense of realism. It's pretensions would not play out if it did. No. One has to think of the thing as an absurdist farce, the kind that if people behaved normally, nothing would happen (but because they have this "weakness" of character blah-blah-blah).
In fact, it "works" better, and even brilliantly, if one thinks of it as a feature-length version of Monty Python's "Restaurant" sketch (where the staff melts down and begin to attack the customers who complain of "a dirty fork"). Of course, the idea is absurd. Of course, things wouldn't play out like this, but the play is dependent on the contrivance if it is to exist at all. Part of that is the price we pay for "suspense" to accept the high dudgeon and heightened melodrama (staples of horror), to have the fun of the experience by suspending our belief.
Given that thought, The Menu is more than entertaining and has an interesting resolution...which...again..."shouldn't" work, but is interesting psychologically and played brilliantly...and to a thesis the film-makers are trying to make between the qualities of service-providers versus service-takers. It is satisfying, but don't expect anything that doesn't leave a disquieting taste. It just isn't on The Menu.
Short People Got...No Reason to Li-ive
or Honey, I Shrank the Expectations of Small-Minded People
Alexander Payne's new film,Downsizing, has been getting a lot of promotion, which is good...but bad. You look at aggregate scores of reviews and they're pretty low. A casual glance at comment section critiques (the unprofessional kind) reveals a lot of bitching about it not being a Disney-like film with hilarious hi-jinx, ala Honey, I Shrunk the Kids. You would think that its "R" rating by the MPAA might communicate something to these adults with children in tow, but evidently not. One is forced to conclude that the clueless don't even know what to do when given an obvious clue. Any deeper message that the film might be trying to say would be lost on such a creature, anyway, given a warning of a single letter...how much spelling out does it have to take? But, let's say it and in Bold Type:Rated R for language including sexual references, some graphic nudity and drug use. So...other than the fact it isn't Disney, how was it? Short answer: good. Paul Safranek (Matt Damon)—pronounced Sa-FRA-nek—is an occupational therapist for a meat-packing plant—he had a plan to be a doctor, but his duties as a caretaker for his mother with fibromyalgia put those plans on hold. At the time, we first meet him, something has happened that "is bigger than the moon landing"—a Norwegian team research, led by Dr. Jorgen Asbjornsen (Rolf Lassgård), has developed a process that shrinks human beings to a size of 5 inches. The purpose is to slow down the rate of resources that human beings use (and waste produced) in the hopes they'll be able to stave off the effects of global warming and maybe save the planet. Asbjornsen has undergone the technique himself and his presentation is capped with the introduction of 36 other individuals, including two children who were born small. It is seen as no small triumph.
It is ten years later, and Paul is now married to Audrey (Kristen Wiig) and they're having difficulties making ends meet. Audrey wants a bigger house, but Paul can't manage the financing for the size of place she wants. At a high school reunion, Paul runs into Dave and Carol Johnson (Jason Sudeikis and Maribeth Monroe), who have big news—they've undergone the treatment and are now small. After the reunion, Paul and Jason have a chance to catch up, and Dave reveals that he and his wife now live in a community of small people—"Leisureland." For them, there is no down-side to downsizing and Paul and Audrey travel to see a presentation of the advantages of living large by being small.
And, of course, if you're going to have a presentation, it has to be delivered by Neil Patrick Harris:
For consumers, that last part is no small matter. The amount of capital generated from their equity will turn anyone middle-class into millionaires with a desired lifestyle that full-size cannot entail. You can live like kings, albeit very small kings, with a reduced budget and life savings that might actually last a lifetime. Paul and Audrey make their plans to undergo the treatment...selling their worldly possessions, reducing their baggage. The only thing left for them to do is to take off their wedding rings and put them in a "Keepsakes" box, which will delivered to them in "Leisureland."
Leisureland—the epitome of small town life
They start to cut ties with Audrey's parents; her Mom is against the idea and won't even see her off, but her father grudgingly accepts her decision. But, they start to hear rumblings of dissent...and prejudice. It seems that enough people have reduced their assets that it is actually starting to affect the U.S. economy—the GNP has taken a traceable hit. And full-sized people still can display small-mindednesss; the local bartender grumbles that he doesn't think it's fair that just because people have shrunk doesn't mean they shouldn't pay their full share of taxes—hey, buddy, property taxes are reduced when a plot of land is reduced. But, for those still "living large," taxes are going up as compensation for the reduction of taxes of the new minority.
It's time to downsize. Paul and Audrey go to Leisureland and go through the final legalities—they understand that it is still a risky procedure with a 1 in 225,000 chance of injury, disability or death. And the process is irreversible. They both agree. Paul is taken first—no one with a prosthetic can go through downsizing and his head and eyebrows are shaved off, he's put under anesthetic and all of his body hair is removed and his teeth extracted—if they aren't his head will explode. It's run a bit like a mill, with a few dozen subject reduced simultaneously, all set to a benignly light-hearted waltz (Rolfe Kent did the music).
The subjects are then transferred from the large facility; they are carefully removed from their full-sized gurneys—with a spatula, no less—and transferred to the indentured staff who endenture the patients with new choppers and wait for the anesthetic to wear off.
But, no amount of time can get you used to lowered expectations. Audrey, it seems, has chickened out. She is full-sized, head-shaved, with one eyebrow, calling from the airport saying that she's sorry, she's sorry, but she couldn't do it. Well, that's mighty big of her, but Paul is 10 cm's high and it's the kind of discrepancy no couples therapy is going to fix. Paul moves into his big house alone, but it isn't long before he's downsizing himself, moving into a condo and trying to start a relationship with a single mother with less of a heighth discrepancy. Paul is dissatisfied, working at a call center for Lands End, where he's just a bit bitter and brittle ("Well, you don't have to be so short with me," says a customer. "What did you call me?" he unprofessionally barks back).
Where things go from there gets complicated, because Leisureland is complicated, as well. So, is this new technology. Not technologically; everything is fine as long as you don't have an artificial heart, or a stint, or pins in your leg, or something like that. But, anything that can be made for good, can be misapplied, as well. As the technology becomes more commonplace and is exported throughout the world, some troubling aspects come up. For instance, on TV, Paul hears about how the government of Vietnam is using the technology to shrink dissidents and that 17 of them were shipped to the U.S. in a television packing box—only one of them survived and she was severely injured, necessitating amputating one of her legs below the knee.
Even locally, there is disparity among the lilliputian Leisurelanders: Paul has the opportunity to meet his upstairs neighbor Dusan Mirkovic (Christoph Waltz), given to loud, debauched parties, and, after waking up in his apartment the worse for wear, sees that Dusan has his apartment cleaned by staff-workers, one of whom is Ngoc Lan Tran (Hong Chau), the very same Vietnamese activist who survived the traumatic smuggling to the U.S. After trying to attempt to help her with her uncomfortable prosthetic, Ngoc insists he follow her to her housing project to attend to a sick friend on her floor—ignoring the fact that he's not a doctor, just a therapist.
What Paul finds there is how the other half-footers live: Ngoc lives in one of a few trailers that have been converted into multi-level apartment buildings, projects basically, and it is there that the maids, domestics, nannies, orderlies, (and probably teachers) live, all crammed into tiny hovels made of scrap plywood. For them, there is no "Leisureland" merely a continuation of the hard-scrabble life and grind, the "getting-by" no matter what size you are. And before you can say "Can I help?" Paul is enlisted in the day rounds Ngoc makes as a tender of the community.
This is far from a Disney movie. There is no jocularity going on here, so I can see why the mis-informed might be disappointed. But, they're looking at it the wrong way...or let's be charitable, they were convinced to look at the film the wrong way. For them, this movie is a glass half-empty, rather than a glass half-full. The tact to take (and one I try to subscribe to) is more along the lines of what Ngoc might think: "Oh, look! I have a GLASS!" It's what you do with that glass, that opportunity, that is the point.
At one point, Paul, Ngoc, Dusan and Dusan's friend Konrad (Heavens to Warhol, it's Udo Kier!) make a pilgrimage to Norway to visit with the original high-minded small person Dr.Asbjornsen, who, having heard of Ngoc's fate and invited her there. Asbornsen has kept his community together in a sort of commune of like-minded individuals, but he is depressed, not because he is Norwegian, but that his grand experiment has not yielded the better world, the cleaner planet that he has envisaged, and, fearing that humanity will soon be wiped out by increasing methane deposits held by melting icebergs, he plans now to take his group to a secure vault that will be sealed against the coming disaster and maybe save a small sample of humanity. And Paul...wants to be a part of that.
Payne (and his regular screenwriter Jim Taylor) have been craftily planting this little conflict for the entire length of the movie. It's the conflict between selfishness and charity—whether you're going to follow Ayn Rand or Mother Theresa. It might not "play" to America because the entire fiber of our country is based on acquisition and grandiosity, of producing more and faster to attain a level of comfort, let alone stability, that the process seems to want to negate...or kill us...before it can be attained. How can we aspire to leisure if we're all working so damn hard for it? Call it the American Dream, but it's more of the American Fantasy. And it's victims can be found in the grousing bartender kvetching about his taxes or the idealist for whom nothing is quite satisfactory enough. It seems to fly in the face of the pooled resources intended for a democracy when everybody is looking out for themselves. But, when nobody, left or right, has their heart in the right place, where do you put it?
It's a matter of give and take, and deciding which side of the fence—green or not so green—that you're most comfortable with. There's a lot of bosh going around that Damon's character is a white savior...of what? He's just helping, like he has all his life, no matter what career-field he picks, and it's part and parcel of his not wanting to feel helpless. I've also heard criticism of Hong Chau's playing of her character—too brittle, too difficult to understand (well, maybe Margaret Cho would get more laughs playing it...). And then, there's the Disney-crowd.
Personally, I like the choices that were made, and I would suggest that the spirit of the movie should be embraced—don't look at it for what it isn't (and you think it should be—I mean what are you, a Star Wars fan?), look at it for what it is.
