Wellness Nathan Hill's Newest

WELLNESS (2023)

By Nathan Hill

Alfred A. Knopf, 634 pages.

★★★ 

 

 

Wellness is the second novel from Nathan Hill, whose The Nix justly won much praise. Wellness isn’t quite up that level, but give Hill credit for a second effort whose focus is quite different. Its dual protagonists are Jack Baker and Elizabeth Augustine whose 20 -year plus relationship begins in the 1990s.

 

If you suspect that Wellness is likely to be an ironic title, you’re on the right street, though you may not have the correct address. Each has fled to Chicago to reinvent themselves. They live in facing apartments in a delipidated complex in Wicker Park. Due to unfortunate urban renewal and highway construction, their section of Chicago was gritty, if not as entirely devoid of life as they later recalled. Jack and Elizabeth were mutual (and mostly innocent) voyeurs clandestinely observing each other before they actually met. Jack fled Nebraska, his sister’s death, a perpetually pessimistic mother, and a passive farmer/planned prairie fire starter father; Elizabeth three generations of often ill-begotten wealth and The Gables, an outwardly impressive mansion in Greenwich, Connecticut. Though slight in build, Jack now sports an enormous tattoo, studies photography at the Art Institute of Chicago, hangs out at seedy venues to see now-forgotten “hot” bands, and makes an unexpected splash in the art scene du jour. Elizabeth studies psychology and is mentored by Dr. Otto Sanborn, a guru of placebo studies. Jack and Elizabeth fall in love based on the idea that the other is the rebel they only pretend to be. Ha!

 

The two marry, have a difficult-to-raise son, and move away from Wicker Park until Jack’s friend Benjamin Quince can finish the New Urbanism Shipworks, which will contain their “forever home” condo. They also struggle with the slaps of adult life and the suspicion they aren’t the people they thought they’d be. Jack constantly seeks stability and Elizabeth opens a research lab called Wellness that does blind trials on placebos. On  a personal level, she’s looking for a panacea for whatever upsets her. Her greatest success, though, is in monetizing placebos. To give one example, she helps an airline develop an ad campaign to make people feel good about crowded flights and sell premium seats that used to be called coach. 

 

Wellness takes us into some weird situations. Jack touts photography without a camera; Elizabeth wonders if a woman named Brandie is onto something with her polyamorous lifestyle. Benjamin rockets from one trend to another–hypertext, gag-me diet fads, real estate development–and Jack nods knowingly though he doesn’t have the bandwidth to question whether Ben is a genius or just a moth looking for a flame. You can mix in Minecraft addiction, sexual discontent, guilt, the sophistry of positive psychology, rightwing conspiracy theories, bats in the proverbial belfry, and a whole lot more. At the heart of it all is a burning fear: If Jack and Elizabeth aren’t who they thought they were, are they terribly, terribly wrong for each other?

 

Hill gives us a deep dive into their backgrounds, mostly in flashback chapters. These serve to help us understand Jack and Elizabeth and raise questions of whether self-deception is hardwired into their DNA. In many respects, everyone in the book is selling snake-oil. The chapter titled “The Placebo Marriage” is particularly devastating and revelatory.

 

Wellness is rich in ideas, but sometimes overly so. It’s a long novel that could have been usefully trimmed. There are passages that read more as asides than as necessary to advance the plot. I understand how sections on Facebook seduction parallel those of Minecraft and other trends. I even agree with such observations, but such diversions and another involving the important question of whether algorithms are the new master need more direct connection to character development for full impact. There is another thread–whether we actually live inside a computer simulation–that is suddenly and cavalierly dismissed, so why go there at all? The book also threatens to tire readers, as its protagonists are more annoying than sympathetic.   

 

Hill redeems himself when he’s directly rather than obliquely on target. At heart, Wellness asks the right questions; among them: What is real? What is wellness? Why don’t we detect BS when we’re stepping in it? Can you really leave home? My favorite centers on how to tell the difference between a true rebel and faded tattoos, real ones and those metaphorically etched onto our skins.

 

Rob Weir

 

 

The Hero of My Book/Men in My Situation: Not My Cup of Tea

 

THE HERO OF THIS BOOK (Elizabeth McCracken)

MEN IN MY SITUATION (Pers Petterson)

 

Sometimes well-regarded books knock your socks off; sometimes you wonder what the fuss is about. Here are two recent ones that didn’t resonate with me. Maybe they will or already have with you, so feel free to let me know what I missed (if I have).

 

 

Elizabeth McCracken used to be one of my favorite writers, but I didn’t like Bowlaway (2019) nor was I fond of her latest, The Hero of This Book (2022, Ecco, 192 pages). It’s a self-reflexive work about an author who hates memoirs, tries not to write one,   though she really is writing one, and hates that. Got all that? Methinks the author doth protest too much. She’s in London, which she doesn’t seem to like very much either. She reflects upon her parents by trying not to do so, but eventually surrenders. Mainly the book is a litany of the things she doesn’t like (besides memoirs): Barbie dolls, bagels cut in half, ballpoint pens, fiction writers, inappropriate cellphone use, eavesdropping, colored hair, writers as characters in fiction, audience participation, men with long hair, Mark Rothko…. I could go on. She does.

 

I actually share some of her dislikes, but do we pick up a work of fiction­–and she is a fiction writer–to read this? McCracken is a fine writer who has things to say, when she gets around to the task. I enjoyed her wry observation of the lengths Western society goes to avoid the number 13, the contrasting uses of the word mudlark (noun and verb), and ironic sentences like this: “What doesn’t kill you won’t make you stronger, but at least you’ll recognize its face on a WANTED poster.”

 

McCracken eventually gets to the task of telling us about her mother and father, and they are characters in several senses of the word. What she doesn’t do is tell us another truth: almost no one’s actual family is as fascinating to other people as the real-life narrator thinks they are. It’s the job of a fiction writer to invent things to make them interesting. McCracken’s attempts at self-parody humor are often quite amusing, but I simply got tired of the whining. Some have hailed this as a feminist work. I hope it’s not, or other side has won. Had it been a longer book, I would have quit midstream. 

 

 

Per Petterson is a highly regarded Norwegian author, so maybe Men in My Situation (2022 in English, Graywolf, 304 pages) loses something in translation. From where I sit, Petterson made trauma boring. It follows the inactivity of author Arvid Jansen from ages 38-43, a time in which his parents die in a ferry fire, he gets divorced, picks up women he doesn’t care about in bars, smokes Blue Master non-filter cigarettes, drinks too much, and does his best to hate everything his ex-wife liked, including Morrissey and “colorful people.” (Get it? His world is gray.) He goes from one dumb thing to another, which means he, in turn, loses a lot of access to his daughters. His friend Auden is his only significant human contact and he’s not doing much to keep up that relationship.

 

The novel is told in the first person, which is a problem, as Arvid doesn’t really have a point of view on much of anything. Petterson compounds the problem with weird punctuation or lack thereof. (What does he have against quotation and question marks? Why does he love run-on sentences?) I suppose one could call this an honest look at grief, but one could just as easily call it an unexamined life. That is certainly the consensus of detractors on Goodreads, where readers have used phrases such as “pity party,” “selfish,” “cold” and “self-indulgent.”

 

My take is that it’s the kind of book that literary critics want to love so they exaggerate its virtues. Like Arvid who likes to take meandering drives, Men in My Situation has no plot. There is a lot of description of externalities, but they are in no apparent service of anything. Like the insomniac Arvid, who tries to sleep in his car, the novel tosses and turns but does not refresh. Try it if you’re curious, but whatever do, do not believe any hype comparing Petterson to Sweden’s Fredrik Backman. There’s more humanity in one of Backman’s subordinate clauses than in the entirety of Men in My Situation.

 

Rob Weir

Minyeshu: August 2023 Artist of the Month

 

 

Minyeshu (Kifle Tedla) isn’t as well known in North America as she is in Europe and it’s bloody well time to correct that. She hails from Ethiopia, where she made waves with the Ethiopian National Theatre. Alas, some of the Theatre’s work ruffled the feathers of the autocratic EPRDF government that took over in 1991. Five years later, Minyeshu was granted asylum in Europe and now lives in The Netherlands. Call it Ethiopia’s loss, as she might be the most exciting singer to come out of the African continent since Benin’s Angélique Kidjo (who also now lives in Europe because of religious and ethnic strife at home).

 

No wonder Minyeshu ‘s new album, Netsu, translates as ”Free.” She is a different kind of singer than Kidjo, but every bit as exciting. The opening track “Fidel is an earworm of the very best type, a stunning and infectious song that’s in turn catchy, growly, and soaring. (It even has a little talk-box surprise near the end.) It’s also typical of Minyeshu’s blend of West-meets-the-Horn-of-Africa. She sings mostly in Amharic and other African languages, but you don’t need to understand a word to know she’s the real deal. Plus, her blend of funk, roots music, soul, and jazz is so hip you’ll want to jump on the Minyeshu bandwagon.

 

On “Ethiyo yo yo pa” she and her backup singers warble like birds, but shift when the brass brings on the funk. It is one of several tracks in which you’ll hear ululation, a distinctive African wavering vocal that comes from the back of the throat and presses the tongue to the roof of the mouth. It’s hard for Westerners to emulate. One is tempted to leave it to the experts, but it’s just so joyous it’s hard to resist trying! “Yene Africa” is an ebullient mix of Afropop and brassy instrumentation. It backs Minyeshu’s strong lead that cues robust and percussively-timed backup vocals.

 

“Qhakaza Thando” is the jazziest track on the album, hence the most familiar in sound for those unfamiliar with Minyeshu’s repertoire. Those familiar with Ladysmith Black Mambazo might find resemblances to South African Township songs in the merged voices that that open this song. (Note: South Africa lies nearly 4,000 miles from Ethiopia and one should be aware of cultural differences.)  

 

For the most part, Minyeshu follows the rhythms of Eskista, which lends itself well to schoulder dance, a term that means pretty much what you think it does. This is a movement that originates in the shoulders and emphasizes everything from a hands-on-shoulder birdlike circular movements to a stiff-bodied shrug that is a prelude to looser movements of the neck and lower body. It can seem unusual at first, but observe how perfectly it fits the music and how much fun the dancers have with it.

 

Note: The two live tracks I posted are not from Netsu, though they serve to reinforce my comments on how Minyeshu gets in your ear. I’m betting that the feet and shoulders will follow.

 

Rob Weir

Small Towns: Paris, France?

 

Have I gone off my rocker with the above tagline? How could a place with nearly 2.2 million people be a small town? Note small towns plural.

 

City sprawl from a quiet spot in Montmarte

 

Numerous European cities differ from those in North America by not being entirely geared to automobiles. There are indeed traffic-clogged streets filled with the brash claxon peals of car horns in Paris, but much of the city consists of neighborhoods in which feet and bicycles are ubiquitous. It’s huge in area, but its neighborhoods function as villages within the metropolis, each with a distinct character. 

 

Bikes outside a major train station

 

Paris is divided into 17 districts–it used to be 20–called arrondisements. These go back to times in which most were separate villages and towns. By my count I’ve been to a dozen during my four visits, enough to offer a generalization: Paris is more human-scaled than most US cities. 

 

Off Blvd St-Michel

 

Think of places such as Atlanta, Dallas, Los Angeles, or Phoenix whose sprawl is so vast and generic that there is “no there there,” as Gertrude Stein famously observed about Oakland. Scores of others have spawned cookie-cutter suburbs and distant exurbs. In each case, public life and community identity are truncated or non-existent.  

 

Only a handful of U.S. and Canadian cities come close to offering a comparable intimate vibe to Paris. New York perhaps, though many of its boroughs are services-challenged. Parts of Montreal, Portland, San Francisco and Vancouver also spring to mind, but even they have numerous isolated neighborhoods in which stores and entertainment are distant from where the populace resides. Boston is walkable, but its traffic snarl is infamous for a reason; there’s just not much going on in most of the ‘burbs and several of its inner-city neighborhoods lack amenities.  

 

Good public transportation is rare in North American cities, though it’s not a panacea if it does exist. It takes urbanities from one place to the next–and subways are far faster than surface traffic–but it mostly moves people when they must leave where they live. That’s usually connected to work, whether we define that as where paychecks are doled out, or gathering food and other necessities. In such a setup, going to a café, seeing a movie, meeting friends, or even taking a walk becomes a “task.” That’s why so many people endlessly complain of lacking leisure time.

 

Vaneau cafe after hours

 

In June, we stayed in Vaneau, which straddles Paris’ 6^th and 7^th arrondisements. You’ve probably never heard of this quiet residential neighborhood, but it also had a nice hotel and, as my first evening’s stroll revealed, numerous green grocers, two patisseries,  several cafés, and a smelly store that proved to be a fromagerie. Within two blocks was a Bon Marché department store and a side street with numerous shops. That small street ended at large café, a new district, and the Vaneau pattern repeated. Hop on the Metro you’ll see the same elsewhere, though each neighborhood exudes its own vibe. When we went to the 9^th arrondisement for dinner, it was grittier than Vaneau but also quite vibrant. 

 

 

In the 9th arrondisement

 

 

Paris was drastically rebuilt and modernized by Baron Haussmann in the mid-19^th century. He cleaned out dangerous areas and gave it the Renaissance Revival elegance with which we today associate the city. What did not happen next is just as important: Paris did not throw its neighborhoods under automobile tires. It could have happened. Carl Benz, a German, gets credit for the first automobile in 1886, but French inventors came up with prototypes a century earlier.  

 

Even bike racks look good amidst this

 

 

Many U.S. cities used to be like Paris. In 1908, though, Henry Ford’s  Model-T rolled out of his factory and altered the course of American history. Automobiles were instrumental in creating distinct shopping and entertainment precincts: first downtowns, then further-distanced shopping centers and venues, then suburbia. Trolley lines and railroads went into deep decline and cross-street traffic made walking more difficult. Car culture trifurcates where we live, work, and play. They’re also a time suck. A London study revealed Victorians moved faster in horse-drawn carriages. 

 

Tourist area, but note who rules the streets

 

 

One of my Northampton friends is French, spent his youth in Paris, and tries new neighborhoods when he visits. He doesn’t rent a car, but he is yet to come back saying there was nothing to see, do, or eat where he’s stayed. Surface traffic in Paris can be as brutal as in any American city, but let’s hear it for cities as a collection of towns rather than a network of asphalt.

 

Rob Weir  

The Rainmaker (1956): Dress Rehearsal for Elmer Gantry?

 

THE RAINMAKER (1956)

Directed by Joseph Anthony

Paramount, 121 minutes, Not-rated

★★★

 

 

The Rainmaker was remade twice and the 1997 Francis Ford Coppola film of that name has nothing to do with this one. The 1956 film in question could be considered Burt Lancaster’s dress rehearsal for Elmer Gantry.

 

The film’s action takes place in Kansas during the Great Depression. Forget soup lines and unemployment; if you paid attention to The Wizard of Oz  (or your history instructors!) you know that a crippling drought turned farmland into the Dust Bowl. That’s one of the problems facing the Curry family headed by H.C. (Cameron Prud’Homme), a widower with two sons–Noah (Lloyd Bridges) and Jim (Earl Holliman)– and daughter Lizzie (Katharine Hepburn). Lizzie is the other problem. Although she’s sort of attracted to Howard Thomas (Wallace Ford), the local sheriff, he has the vocal skills of a mime, and other prospects have been even less promising. Middle-aged, reticent, bookish, and independent spell “old maid” in an age in which women were expected to marry. Lizzie thinks she’s plain-looking, another blow to her already low self-esteem.

 

Meanwhile, we see Bill Starbuck (Lancaster) trying to sell lightning rods to gullible farmers from the back of his carny-like wagon, though they  look like a digeridoo crossed with a voodoo staff. It’s a good day when he can hightail it out of town ahead of law enforcement. He makes his way to the Curry farm after a chance encounter with Lizzie. She and her family recognize him as a conman even before Howard and his deputy warn them there’s a huckster in the area. Starbuck doesn’t even try to deny the charge, but times are desperate and H.C. and Lizzie are intrigued by his offer to make it rain. If it does, they pay him; if it doesn’t, he’ll disappear.

 

Moby Dick readers will recognize the name Starbuck. In Melville’s novel Starbuck was a serious Quaker with deep respect for the plans of the Almighty and warns others to pay attention to God’s will. He was also cautious and quiet, something Bill Starbuck is not. Bill’s the sort who’d try to sell paint to cover vinyl siding, but he also quotes Scripture, exudes religious-like passion, and has rogue-like charm. Do you suspect that he and Lizzie will have a fling? Wouldn’t that be Lizzie’s business? H. C. thinks so, but her brothers play good cop/bad cop roles on that question. And don’t be so sure you know what their relationship will be.

 

The Rainmaker is played for laughs in a broad almost sit-com way that occasionally goes over the top. It was made 67 years ago and some of those situations and many of the social values now seem prehistoric. Hepburn was 49 in 1956, but anyone who has seen a picture of her in full bloom would find it hard to imagine that, in the film’s logic, she was always too plain-looking to attract a husband. Of course, we must also remember that woman-as-homemaker was a dominant value of both the 1930s and the 1950s. If it helps, men’s roles were often stereotypical as well. Those who worked with their hands weren’t expected to be Einsteins or worry about feelings–their own or those of anyone else.

 

What makes The Rainmaker interesting to watch in 2023 is the acting. Hepburn plays against what was by then her type: wisecracking, cosmopolitan, and tough, even if the script called for her to be clumsy or fall in love. That’s why her attempts to show deference or act the role of the perfect homemaker are funny in The Rainmaker. Lancaster is at his bombastic best as Starbuck. You can imagine how he must have been totally pumped to be offered the role of Gantry four years later. Today we find his performance histrionic, but it was in keeping with method acting techniques of his day. You don’t need to know a thing about that, though; you could just revel in the unbridled delight of watching him chew scenery like chicken wings and celery sticks.

 

I do wish the secondary characters had been as well developed as those of Lizzie and Starbuck. Several talented actors–Bridges and Ford especially–are reduced to cardboard cutouts and there’s a reason you won’t recognize the names of a few of the background characters. It’s all in good fun though. Wedding bells? Rain? Not sayin’.

 

Rob Weir            

The Hopeful World of Carrie Newcomer

 

 

I’ve known Carrie Newcomer since 1991. She’s one of the most reflective people I know and a person who puts her Quaker principles into action. Carrie will drop a new album A Great Wild Mercy later this fall–a full review will come when it’s available­–but I had a chance to speak with her in late July. That interview has been edited for space. 

 

Carrie Newcomer on empathy and A Great Wild Mercy:

 

I think that the title cut … holds a lot of the threads that that through this album. The opening image is of a woman who has a blue umbrella over her head…. She steps out into the rain, looks up, puts down her umbrella, and lets the rain wash over her.  

 

I … thought we all been longing…. for the presence of something wilder….  There's a line in the song “There's news of the world and news of the heart .” The news of the world will tell us that that we are small that we are without power in light of climate change and economic injustice. But the …  things at the heart are the great mercy.  There is an ever-present goodness still in world and that we are part of it if we choose to be.

 

On remaining optimistic:

 

I’m not the kind of person who thinks that the glass half full or half empty; I just think it's a really big glass!  My friend [author] Parker Palmer has [a] beautiful definition for hope: “Hope is holding in creative tension all that is and could be and each day taking action to narrow the distance between them.” It's not sugar-coated optimism; it's holding what is and the challenges we face.  I don’t belittle that, but … holding onto our finest aspirations … is what I do each day what in my daily action and voice. I read a quote by Rick Rubin: “The things we believe carry a charge,” and I really believe that.  What we do in our daily lives does matter and does shift something in the world….  O]ur current media system is based on  a  steady diet of fear and outrage.  It’s important for the arts to uplift another kind of voice: We are not small and are not without power.

 

On “Singing in the Dark,” co-written with John McCutcheon

 

… We are living in a vulnerable moment culturally and as a planet. We need to keep singing in the moment and in the darkness. “Singing in the Dark” happened I had gone to Gethsemane where Thomas Merton worked. The monks do something called “singing the hours.” Seven times during the day they all gather [to sing]…. One of those times is 3 AM and I [spoke] with one of the monks … and asked him how he felt about getting up every day at that time. He said [that]… he worked on a crisis hotline before [he] became a monk and … that 3 a.m. was when people hit bottom. It’s also the darkest time in the monastery, but… “the idea of faithfully putting what we do into practice and supporting others sustained me.”

 

On the collaboration process with McCutcheon:

 

…John is a writer’s writer.  [He’s] in Georgia now, so we Zoom.  John is a lyrics-first kind of guy and so we break down lyrics and shake them together. Sometimes … a quote, an idea or a poem… become[s] the basis for lyrics…. Then we take it to music, and we’ll work on the music separately.  One song that I really love that we created together is “Field of Stars, “ which came out walking to Compostela. We created the lyrics and then John wrote the music and played it for me. Sometimes I'll have the music … and we shift or change … the bridge…. but the lyrics really come together very organically in the moment.  

 

On the whimsical song “Potluck:”

 

In Joy, Robert Gay talks about a potluck where everybody brought their joys and their sorrows as a way to prayerfully be kinder to one another. I love writing with Siri Undlin [of Humbird]. We both … thought the Midwestern potluck was a great metaphor…. It’s part of Midwestern culture. You have to trust what people will bring to the table. If everyone brings chocolate cake, that’s what we have! You put it on the table next to the beer….  There's a … kind of graciousness but also the blessing of community and the care that we give one another, a “glad you're here” moment. We're coming out of a pandemic …. and we're coming back to community, [but] …. we’re a little rusty. At the same time we're celebrating connection.

 

 

On integrating poetry, music, and meter:

 

My process for songwriting is to do a lot of writing… essays, journal[ing] … a Substack page, poetry…. A lot of writing isn't a song, but … from all that writing I'll start to pull out things that become lyrics. That's pretty much the classic Carrie Newcomer process.  I definitely write prose poetry, though.

 

… I always come back to songwriting because it makes me happy. There’s something about a few verses and choruses in a compressed format…. Language is powerful, but a song also has music that must be completely entwined to be effective. In poetry there's the setup, but in a song….  you're … laying out of the story, but it can't just be documentation.

 

On the new album’s varied genres:

 

 

I've always crossed genres that way. There’s something really beautiful about a great pop song. The Beatles' [songs] are still around for a reason. The funky bass on “Start with a Stone” grew out the cushion that drummer Jim Brock [laid down] and Paul Kowert is one of the finest bass players I've ever encountered. But, I’ve never had any problem calling myself a folk artist because I don't censor my subject matter…. I write about all kinds of relationships [not just love songs]… romantic relationships… but also family relationships, spiritual relationships, and political relationships. The lack of a censor  very much puts me in the folk music [category]. The last few records were a bit more intimate, but I coproduced this one with David Weber… There are songs that are very quiet, but three of the musicians are members of Hawktail and project a bluegrass- meets-classical [feel]. My longtime creative pianist also plays Hammond organ, so it was … an interesting collaboration.  

 

On the mental shifts between genres:

 

 That's production, I guess. The songs are generally what I'm writing, so… one [might] end  up with a combination of pop longing with a kind of Americana rhythm.  But I started writing “Path Through the Evening Woods” when I was walking and there’s … Irish ethnicity entwined in the song, the arrangement, and melody.

 

On being a veteran performer in a younger profession:

 

I embrace it. In the song “Book of Questions,” every line could be a writing prompt and tell my story from it. Everything has brought me here–the seriously stupid stuff and the  transcendent. I had something important to say at every point of my career, but I couldn’t have written the last album one day before it was done or 10 years ago. I’m … grateful for who I’ve become as a writer and for the songs I write today. I … often [don’t know] know exactly what an album is about–this is like my 20^th–and when I'm recording one. I [also] don’t write songs because I have answers; I write songs because I have questions. Who was I becoming? What do I still have to offer?

 

I love … collaboration … with those in their 20’s and 30’s  but Jim Brock is 70 and we had fabulous conversations … about what art is and what is it that [we] still have to offer…. [There’s] a certain kind of soup that we're all kind of swimming in right now and I love that I get to swim with folks from different generations and think about all kinds of ways we create together. Bob Dylan said that  if you’re not growing, you die.

 

The Whale is a Big Triumph

 

 

THE WHALE (2022)

Directed by Darren Aronofsky

A24, 117 minutes, R (By idiots for: “sexual content,” language, drugs)

★★★★★

 

 

The Whale is another example of how the Oscars long ago jumped the shark (ahem!). At least Brendan Fraser, the star of the film, was chosen as Best Actor. The Whale polarized audiences. Some thought it was anti-religious–it was, but with reason– others thought it was grotesque–ditto–and the snowflake crowd said it was fat-shaming, which is certainly was not. It also got an R rating to reinforce the twisted reality that it’s fine to kill people on screen, but they can’t swear, smoke pot, or pretend to masturbate (no nudity involved).

 

Darren Aronofsky directed the film version of Samuel Hunter’s play. Play-to-screen often leads to claustrophobic filmmaking and this one never leaves the house. But if it did, you wouldn’t believe it. Fraser donned 300 pounds of fat suit and prosthetics for his role as “the whale,” the morbidly obese Charlie, who is eating himself to death. Charlie is too despondent to go on after the death of his lover, Alan. It’s implied that Alan was anorexic before committing suicide and that Charlie is atoning for Alan’s sin by eating for him. He’s also an online writing/literature instructor, so the film is bathed in white whale Moby Dick references. Charlie’s students have no idea of what he looks like; he tells them that his camera is “broken.” It’s Charlie that’s broken, though his gentle demeanor and I-believe-in-you coaching casts the illusion that Mr. Rogers might be the disembodied voice they hear.

 

Is Charlie as unhinged as we suspect? Let’s do the math. His only friend is Liz (Hong Chau), a nurse resigned to being an enabler. He lives in a downscale apartment in Idaho, not exactly a gay-friendly state. Before he met Alan, he was married to Mary (Samantha Morton in a cameo), with whom he has telephone-only contact. He’s not allowed to see his daughter, Ellie (Sadie Sink). She will see him years after Alan’s death, by which time she’s  a sullen and manipulative 16-year-old. His only other human contact is teen New Life missionary Thomas (Ty Simpkin), who wants to “save” him. Even a young guy like Thomas can tell Charlie is dying. Not much to go on, is there?

 

But here’s the deal. Charlie is hiding inside his body and through his online identity, but everyone else is running from something. Or barely moving at all in Charlie’s case. He needs a frame or an oversized wheelchair to use the lavatory, flop into bed like a proverbial beached whale, or go to the front door to pick up his pizza deliveries after the delivery guy plucks the cash from the porch mailbox. It’s two large ‘zas at a time, which he gobbles in ways reminiscent of Mr. Creosote in the old Monty Python sketch of a glutton who literally explodes. The difference is that Charlie isn’t playing for laughs. When Liz reads his blood pressure and begs him to go to the hospital, Charlie isn’t alarmed. It brings him closer to his goal.

 

The film questions whether anyone can “save” another. Thomas thinks he can redeem Charlie, Ellie might be trying to rescue Thomas, Liz has reasons to tell Thomas to stuff his salvation message, Charlie thinks he can liberate Ellie–who he insists is “amazing”– and Mary tells Charlie she’s actually “evil.” Who’s right? Believe me when I say there are other secrets and complexities I’ve not touched upon.

 

Without strong acting, most of this would be a cruel joke. As in a play, though, Aronofsky directs an actors-forward film. Fraser is startling in appearance and stunning as Charlie. He did his homework to learn how such a person would move and how people with disabilities negotiate everyday life. He also excels as a man whose calm exterior barely contains his inner guilt and rage. Sink keeps us on our toes to the point where we aren’t sure which way she really tilts, Chau makes us understand why a nurse would honor Charlie’s wishes, and Simpkin is equal parts starry-eyed, naïve, and furtive.

 

Can ugliness be beautiful? Can a tragedy be uplifting? Can the revolting be beneficent? Yes, it can. But what does it say about Hollywood that it honors a filmed video game featuring a cosmic bagel over “disturbing” movies such as The Banshees of Inisherin or The Whale?

 

Rob Weir