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Director: Ruben Östlund

Writer: Ruben Östlund

Stars: Thobias Thorwid, Harris Dickinson, Charlbi Dean

Synopsis: A cruise for the super-rich sinks thus leaving survivors, including a fashion model celebrity couple, trapped on an island.

Ruben Östlund’s Palme d’Or-winning and laughing-gas-covered Triangle of Sadness might not have the sharpness and insight that his previous features contained, but it entertainingly tackles economic disparity and the “entitlement” of the super-rich by dwelling on poisonous folly and drenching their prerogative in raw sewage.

Swedish filmmaker and curator of darkly comedic mischief cinema, Östlund has always found ways to play with satire and the themes of privilege amidst the super-rich. His cinematic canvas is ambitious, and it has earned him not only critical acclaim but also top festival awards, such as the Un Certain Regard Jury Prize in 2014 for Force Majeure (his best feature to date, in my opinion) and a Palme d’Or win in 2017 for The Square. Östlund exposes human frailty in its many guises, like cowardliness, emasculation, hypocrisy, insincerity, and privilege, by constructing various well-timed and executed comedic setpieces. Sometimes it feels as if his films contain too much fat and feel bloated, but, for the most part, the excess adds an element of surprise and restless folly. He doesn’t want to let his audience rest or feel relaxed as his film is running, upping the comedic ante while exposing people’s weaknesses and idiosyncratic impolitic behavior. 

His directorial antics are crafted by the fact that he thinks, as said during his Cannes 2022 press conference, that the “arthouse cinema” being made during his stay in film school was boring. So, he wanted to put the important topics occurring during our day and age into a context that we, the viewers and audience, like to click on. Although one might disagree with his sentiment that the arthouse films being made are monotonous (as there have been plenty of brilliant films that have been made in recent years), his statement towards bringing to a setting in which they would want to spend some time and forcing them within that exquisite (ski resort, art museum, mall, etc) setting to discuss important subject matters. Now, to follow his Cannes top-prize-winning film, the art world satire The Square, Östlund arrives with Triangle of Sadness, which provided him his second straight Palme d’Or, having its North American premiere at this year’s TIFF. 

If you’d thought that his previous 2017 feature lacked any sense of subtlety and had the fitting division between brilliant and baggy, then in his latest, Östlund takes the emergency break altogether – delivering a takedown of the 1% by combining the savvy oddities of Luis Buñuel with slapstick-like comedic set-pieces, gross-out humor, and a not-so-rich yet vastly entertaining subtext. With an almost three-hour runtime, Triangle of Sadness, named after the fashion industry’s expression of the wrinkles between a person’s eyebrows, is divided into three parts: the young lovers in the fashion world, the multi-million-dollar luxury yacht, and the deserted island – all of which end in catastrophic ways, escalating its comedic and narrative absurdity by the minute. For the entirety of the film, you spend time with an array of successful and outlandish rich people, which might seem like an irritable experience. Instead, the film develops into a crude, ostentatious, and sidesplitting rinsing of wealth, self-importance, vanity, and those same human beings who think they are the last coca-cola in the desert, ending as an uproarious jet-black comedic farce that knocks the rich down into their lowest levels imaginable. 

Triangle of Sadness begins as a story of romance, showered in satire (of course), where a young model, Carl (Harris Dickinson), and his influencer girlfriend, Yaya (Charlbi Dean), are in a money-orientated relationship. Yaya may be in it for the likes on the various social media platforms. Still, Carl is genuinely in love, or so he asserts – as he’s petty, jealous, and dishonest with himself and the newly developing fashion world around him. Yaya’s social media fame lands the couple two tickets on a 250-million dollar luxury yacht, where we meet an array of immensely wealthy characters and crew members that feel as if they came from a malicious version of an Agathe Christie novel. Some of these characters are a Russian capitalist who sells shit (stated multiple times), Dimitry (Zlatko Burić), a Marxist captain and drunk, Thomas Smith (Woody Harrelson), and an elderly couple who made their wealth from the arms trade (grenades included). 

During this point, the tables are turned for the first time of many in the narrative. Although the film begins concentrating on Carl and Yaya, its focus shifts to the wealthier people on the yacht. This puts the young couple in the middle of a privileged sandwich, as they are the representation of the “middle-class” amidst the luxurious bunch, even if they are also wealthy themselves. They are outcasts one way or another but still have the gold-plated fortune attached to their backbone. The rest of what happens in Triangle of Sadness shouldn’t be spoiled, as it might ruin the experience for you. All you need to know is what started as a funny kickback (to some point) transforms into a poisonous mad-house of outrageous delights with a laughing gas haze. It takes its time before it reaches its crudeness, but it is sure worth the wait. Like The Square, multiple occasions are a tad uneven due to Östlund’s bloated nature of unpacking the material. 

As he keeps concocting one film after the other, Ruben feels as if he shouldn’t hold back; his gut says to keep pushing forward to see how far he can disorientate (or break) the audience. You begin to question whether it has more to say since some of its ideas aren’t explored to their fullest extent and subtlety doesn’t exist at all, to the point where you’d think that a Vera Lynn’s ‘We’ll Meet Again’ needle drop will arrive sooner rather than later once the turmoil begins in the style of Stanley Kubrick’s Dr. Strangelove. Actually, there are a lot of Vera Lynn songs that fit within the confines of Triangle of Sadness’ comedic trajectory: “Remember, Remember”, “Again”, “Each Moment I Live”, amongst other of her classic and beautiful tracks. You’d think it would reach a high level of scripted aggravation or pretentiousness, but it never actually does. Everything is in your face, and Östlund won’t restrain himself once he has his gears rolling. This is both a good and bad thing. 

It lacks the insight and sharpened-teeth comedic brilliance of Force Majeure and doesn’t dwell enough on the themes it covers; it feels like its targets are low-hanging fruit. On the other hand, this maximalist and over-the-top approach does present these concepts of wealthy hierarchies being broken down to their lowest degrees in a vastly entertaining fashion. There are instances in which you might feel as if this will become an exasperating experience. Still, your worries are torn down seconds after due to Östlund’s knack for blending the provocative with the hysterical and intelligent. The perfect word to describe the “key” situations that happen in Triangle of Sadness is schadenfreude, which is German for experiencing pleasure or joy from learning of or witnessing the imperilments, failures, or humiliation of another – in this case, the rich and wealthy. There is a large amount of sympathy towards them, as they just want to be free of misery. As the story develops, we all know that this is their turn to pay their comeuppance. 

The Swedish director wants to outdo what he did previously in The Square with an uncomfortable and lengthy comedic scene. He’s putting himself to the test since it is hard to do so after he has Terry Notary’s impeccable scene to square off with. Although none of the comedic set pieces reach that status, most of them are well-constructed and timed – becoming some of the most memorable scenes of the year, comedy-wise. One specific scene almost reaches this point: the seafood dinner scene. This is where the gross-out humor arrives; bodily fluids are all over the pristine yacht floors, and the wealthy are rolling down with it. I’m not a fan of said gross-out humor, which in this case, relies on the coarseness of bodily fluids. Initially, I thought that the use of such comedy was a tad lazy when I first saw the trailer and read reactions. However, as I kept thinking, I came across a thought about the juxtaposition between luxury and vulgarity, which had been slightly remarked upon during that specific scene’s buildup. 

Even though that bit goes on for far too long (and the film takes its time to reach that point), it adds to the theme of breaking down the hierarchies and putting the highly arrogant super-rich in their rightful place by dunking their prerogative in raw sewage.  They are experiencing the worst time imaginable while they are rotting in their own filth, and what a disgusting joy it is to see it. Although the performances throughout each of the comedic sequences or conversational set-pieces are what make them essentially tick, due to the physicality of their work and trusting Östlund’s wicked mind, these scenes are elevated by the excellent cinematography of Fredrik Wenzel. He captures every piece of shine and glamor, as well as the atrocities and excrement, in sheer clarity to portray the wealthy’s ignorance – with a swaying from left to right when things are going under, both literally and figuratively. There is no disguise for what Östlund wants to say; the social reversal allegory leads a predictable, albeit diverting, path. 

Triangle of Sadness is not as sophisticated as its contemporaries (although it doesn’t want to be), nor is his best work (not nearly a masterpiece, as I have heard some people say). Still, this satirical late capitalist parable about the rich’s intolerant food chain and gender roles is never detained by the sledgehammer procedure of its creator. So what holds it back from being a magisterial work of modern satirical mockery? It is a little too long, and more insight would have added a more significant pull than it has. The reason why Triangle of Sadness ultimately succeeds is due to the panache of Östlund’s writing, the excellent work by the cast (especially Dolly De Leon, Charlbi Dean, Zlatko Burić, and Woody Harrelson), and the laughing gas-perfumed atmosphere. This movie will have audiences howling like hyenas from its comedic quips and refrains, as well as baffled at the absurdity of it all while later pondering on the aftermath of these prosperous people’s lives. In the end, the character’s decisions and philosophies are what lead them to their tragic fate. 

It is not a revelation of the satirical arts, a didactic story of the rich paying their dues, or a crown jewel of risible compositions, but Triangle of Sadness is just amusing enough to deal with the issues that arise from the somewhat-lacking philosophies of  Ruben Östlund’s starving mad mind. It takes its time to get into the madness, yet it is all worth it in the end because Östlund’s latest is so much fun. Should it have won the Palme d’Or? In my opinion, no. There were far more better choices to pick from (Pacifiction, Decision to Leave, or even R.M.N.). Regardless, it made me cackle more times than I would have anticipated since the trailer didn’t do much for me, and I enjoyed it extensively, even with its faults, lack of thematic weight, and little perspicuity. With the news of his next feature being about passengers being stuck on a ten-hour flight with any technological distractions, and Harrelson returning as a possible captain again, titled The Entertainment System is Down, I’m excited about Ruben Östlund’s future as he keeps polishing his directorial hand and creating ridiculous scenarios.

Grade: B+

Director: Charlotte Wells

Writer: Charlotte Wells

Stars: Paul Mescal, Frankie Corio, Celia Rowlson-Hall

Synopsis: Sophie reflects on the shared joy and private melancholy of a holiday she took with her father twenty years earlier. Memories real and imagined fill the gaps between as she tries to reconcile the father she knew with the man she didn’t.

Charlotte Wells’ debut feature, Aftersun, is the festival season’s talk of the town, and it deserves to be. With enigmatic performances from its leading duo of Mescal and Corio, as well as a personal and sincere script, the film strives as it reflects on past experiences while filling their gaps in the future – a reflection of childhood and a celebration of fatherhood.

Plenty of writers begin the process of their following script with a story in their head, no matter the genre. However, ultimately, they tend to lean toward a more personal side to the script – managing to write about themselves as they continue. And although sometimes that can backfire, turning into a pretentious slope, great and touching stories can arise from those personal anecdotes. This is what happened during Charlotte Wells’ process of scripting her debut feature, Aftersun; over the course of writing, she wrote herself more and more into the characters.. You get the sensation of attachment as each line is delivered, which is one of the multiple aspects that makes this film a heartbreaking and vibrant experience. Aftersun deserves numerous rounds of applause, not only because of the mature portrayal of its contents (family dynamics; specifically, it is young and fragmented), but also the way it is crafted, humanistically and with elegance. 

With a simple yet multilayered story set in the 90s, Wells takes us on a journey of reflection and exploring the possibilities of reconciliation between trauma and bliss. As an adult, Sophie (played by newcomer and standout Francesca Corio when young) reminisces on a summer holiday at a Turkish seaside resort that her father, Calum (Paul Mescal, tied with Normal People for the best performance in his young career),  took her twenty years earlier. There’s sadness and happiness intertwined with one another at all turns; holidays are moments where either one feels their most alone or accompanied – a time of both introductions and farewells. A saddened sensation is felt during Aftersun’s entirety, but it is hard to pinpoint where it comes from since it arrives on various ends. However, there are moments of pure love, as seen in a scene where Sophie questions why Calum says “I love you” to his ex, her mom. He replies by saying even if they aren’t together, she is family, breaking millions of hearts with a response so humanistic and hard to accept for many. 

In addition, the screenplay is filled with funny and endearing moments, which helps the film not to tend to melodramatic tendencies or highly sentimental indulgences; it is purely humanistic, honest, and pensive – straight from an old VHS with recordings of the past. It feels like a foggy haze covers the film, where two distant yet different emotions (joy and sorrow) fight with each other because of the nostalgia and longing juxtaposed with youth and innocence from both versions of Sophie (as an adult and child). Aftersun begins with Sophie filming Calum on a handheld video recorder. This frequent motif happens throughout the film, asking him about what he would like to be when he grows up. The response and reaction showcase that something is wrong, and the premonition for something worse is amidst. And when Calum misses the mark on his parental duties, his apologies feel as if he’s apologizing for something more than just screwing up with simple tasks – adding to that element of not being able to pinpoint the longing sadness that breaks our hearts slowly. 

Aftersun is, on paper, a coming-of-age story that reflects on Wells’ childhood and the events that transpired during it; however, there’s more than that. It is about those memories replayed in your mind from time to time, which bring a sense of nostalgia and sentimentality. It also makes you ponder about your preadolescence and the decisions you or your parents made through it. The duality of Sophie, in two different stages of her life, is presented through quick reflections on the past. She remembers that her father was going through a melancholic phase at that time caused by a divorce, a recent injury, and flashes of his drug-pierced youth. But, of course, she was a youngling and didn’t understand the reasonings for her father’s occasional gloomy behavior or the masking of such. So, as it runs its course, Sophie fills in the missing pieces to complete the whole picture of the trip that remains stuck in her head. It may sound like the afterburn of a troubling decision, but it culminates as a story that celebrates fatherhood amidst the issues that arise through it. 

All of these thematic elements are elevated for plenty of reasons, which vary from the sincere script by Wells and Blair McClendon’s acute precision in the editing to the excellent performances by its leading duo of Mescal and Corio, whose impressive (and stands out completely) given that she wasn’t an actress before this. Paul Mescal keeps impressing us as he crafts an excellent repertoire for his young career; only years in between each of the projects, Mescal convinced us that he was a teenager, and now with Aftersun, he is a young father. Mescal presents the convictions of Calum’s past and the reflections of the future with ease through “embarrassing dad” moments and lingering scenes that portray his saddened yearning. The cinematography helps to elevate the body language of Mescal’s performance, even if his facial expressions are also crucial. One aspect that might pass through people’s minds is Wells’ framing and use of the 90s setting. 

The two fit into the texture of the picture, where it is limited to a point, but captures the decade precisely amidst those limitations by showing pay-phones, including MiniDV footage, and its excellent jukebox soundtrack (which includes REM’s ‘Losing My Religion’, Catatonia’s ‘Road Rage’, and even some tracks by Blur and Alanis Morissette – as well as the Macarena, which was brought back to life by Julia Ducounau in Titane). Charlotte Wells’ directorial debut may not be autobiographical, but there are intricate emotions that feel near and dear to her heart, resounding and pulsating from beyond the frame. Aftersun contains unease, but not in a horror picture way; it uses this to get a grip on themes of pondering about memories – rethinking them and seeing new layers years later. It is about the creation of memories that our parents help forge, hence us getting a nostalgic sensation when thinking about it or being in the presence of something similar. In addition, there’s a dark side to all of this; you begin to remember the darkest of memories – the ones you try to avoid. 

There is no such thing as a perfect childhood,, so the memories we keep when young are the highlights; yet, as time passes, you re-evaluate them and learn more about the sacrifices your parents made for you to be where you are. The light and dark of remembrance are intertwined in Aftersun, which helps it excel. As you grow older, your view of what happened in the past changes. You start to notice the details, the things you were too young to understand. As it unfolds, the more it hurts. Yet, at the same time, it helps us heal by reevaluating our own past experiences as the adult version of Sophie did. I cannot wait for what Charlotte Wells has to offer on her next piece of work; the hype around this feature was legitimate, and more so.

Grade: A

Director: Joanna Hogg

Writer: Joanna Hogg

Stars: Carly-Sophia Davies, Zinnia Davies-Cooke, August Joshi

Synopsis: In this ghost story from acclaimed filmmaker Joanna Hogg, a middle-aged daughter and her elderly mother must confront long-buried secrets when they return to their former family home, a once-grand manor that has become a nearly vacant hotel brimming with mystery.

I consider Joanna Hogg to be one of the best current British acts to pierce the screen, as her craft gets better and better with each movie. What makes her pictures so tantalizing and magnificent is the tactility and gracefulness of her pen intertwined with the distinctive and acute style of her directorial hand; both of which leave several wistful markings on the viewer. Although the features that came before it are great pieces of work (Unrelated, Archipelago, Exhibition), her name was brought into the spotlight via her duology of personal films that retell her past experiences while adding bits and pieces of fiction, The Souvenir Pt. I and Pt. II, the latter being her best work to date. However, for her latest feature, Hogg remains with the grounded fashion of presenting her meta-textual semi-introspective narratives. Yet, this time around, it has a more haunting tone, though still equally personal and touching. 

Joanna Hogg’s latest is a ghost story titled The Eternal Daughter – which could also be named “The Souvenir Pt. III” in essence, which was quite a surprise to me since I didn’t expect her to continue that tale. However, this isn’t a direct sequel; it is more of an extended side story of what the film’s lead character would be like decades later, which, coincidentally, is a version of the director. It contains the aspect that’s repeated across her latter work of being haunted by her recollections. Yet, that doesn’t mean she isn’t reinventing herself. This time around, it brings a further melancholic hew to the mix instead of the dreamy haze of her previous film. Much like David Lowery’s A Ghost Story, the purpose of Hogg’s latest isn’t to scare you (this isn’t a horror picture). It is all about reflection rather than atrocities (contemplation over torment). The Eternal Daughter is all about the mystery of our parents’ lives – the secrecy kept hidden during the times that we are with them and the ones without them – and the reflection of how time passes slowly during pained moments and quickly during instants of happiness. 

Childhood nostalgia is a factor that’s at play here, but, at the same time, it makes us think about the lives our mother or father had before we were born. Although Honor Swinton-Byrne isn’t in this feature, that doesn’t mean that the character of Julie Hart (Hogg’s surrogate in The Souvenir films) can’t be in the movie. Her own mother, Tilda Swinton, not only plays the part of Julie but also reprises her own role as Rosalind (Julie’s mother). In a dual role, Swinton breathes new life into both characters and adds self-referential layers to Hogg’s semi-autobiographical stories. The Eternal Daughter follows her journey decades later and in a different phase of her life. She’s a childless filmmaker that’s still dealing with feelings of remorse. Julie has brought her elderly mother, Rosalind, to a country house hotel in North Wales, which her Aunt Jocelyn once owned, for her birthday. Ross reminisces about her time at the country house as a child. 

There weren’t many happy memories; they mostly revolved around her family’s evacuation from London during the Second World War and the dread that transpired as she looked at the catastrophes from afar. Rosalind keeps the pain all bottled up inside, and Julie is immensely angered that, even to this day, she isn’t telling her how she feels. Meanwhile, Ross is saddened that she won’t have a granddaughter and that Julie will remain eternally her daughter and nothing else – hence the title. As Rosalind remembers the day they told her that her older brother Peter was killed, Julie contemplates whether she’s trespassing on her mother’s life retellings as she writes them down in hopes of making a film about it. The ghost story elements arrive through two different means. One of them is the duality of the character that Swinton plays, which adds reflective details to the film’s backbone. The other arrives from its setting: the hotel. 

Problems arise as soon as they arrive; issues with their booking (even though they are the only guests staying there), banging noises caused by the other rooms are keeping Julie awake at night, and the attendant’s attitudes vary – the receptionist (Carly-Sophia Davies) is rude, while the concierge is quite welcoming and hears Julie’s pains. It almost does turn into a horror picture with these elements. Still, its slowly flowing self-reflection ravishes the viewer with themes like the connection between mothers and daughters, as well as the separation that comes while aging. This could be described as Joanna Hogg’s rendition of The Shining, with its semi-haunted rooms, empty hallways, and somber atmosphere. With The Eternal Daughter, Hogg experiments with her ambition to explore how memories affect a person, both in assuring and destructive ways, especially if it ties to a close one – a family member or a mother. Heartbreaking and transient with its themes of secretiveness in relative bonds and the emotional wrath of remembrances when confronted in nostalgic settings, this film delivers playfulness in its keen attention to detail, from the posture and movements to how they express themselves in its key moments. 

By looking into Julie Hart’s soul, Hogg is actually writing about her own pains and potential frustrations. The Eternal Daughter is about Hogg reflecting on her present and what may arise in the future, either with her family or career. Hogg writes her characters in a humanistically elegant way and poised while leaving the right amount of ambiguity so that the audience can relate to them. It’s a thing of beauty how Hogg concocts her scenes of emotive dialogue due to her intricate footing in delivering dramatic efforts. Seeing her changing her style by applying horror-esque elements as if the characters are always in the presence of a ghost from the past via dim lights, creaking sounds, and Ed Rutherford’s hazy cinematography just makes me love her more because Hogg’s interpretation of this story about haunting memories is utterly remarkable. She has plenty of tricks up her sleeve that give The Eternal Daughter a mysterious, eerie atmosphere that’s equal parts haunting, hallucinogenic, and heart-rending. 

Although all of the cinematic aspects are thriving, the film wouldn’t work without the majestic talents of Tilda Swinton aka Hogg’s long-time muse, whose dual-performance is hefty enough that you feel as if you aren’t watching a film in which she plays two characters. The nuance in her two performances makes the characters feel separate. This cinematic element would have been a gimmick in the hands of another director and actress, but you can trust Hogg and Swinton to sell this transient experience. The Eternal Daughter is a lovely and cathartic ghost story in grounded measures, which helps it not sway into illogical directions. What could have been an artistic experiment turns out to be yet another ravishing addition to the English director’s astonishing filmography. 

Grade: A

Director: Darren Aronofsky

Writer: Samuel D. Hunter

Stars: Brendan Fraser, Sadie Sink, Hong Chau

Synopsis:  A reclusive English teacher living with severe obesity attempts to reconnect with his estranged teenage daughter for one last chance at redemption.

If you could describe the films of Darren Aronofsky in two words, it would be polarizing and agonistic, in a good way. His features have a rough and self-destructive demeanor that makes it a harrowing experience but primarily worth it once it reaches its climax. This somewhat belligerent behavior creates an atmosphere of sheer tension, no matter the theme being tackled. You get the sensation that his films are reaching the end once it all comes crashing down for the main character, a cataclysmic ending that stays on your mind for a long time. However, he doesn’t stick with the same shticks or techniques. One way or another, Aronofsky finds ways to reinvent himself, whether it is a parable of the bible and mother earth or the tales of broken humans trying to reach their goal, no matter the cost. Although he has received critical acclaim and various nods from the awards circuit, primarily in his dramatic ventures, Aronofsky has had his array of pans from critics, like The Fountain, Noah, and mother! – the latter doesn’t deserve such hate, as I think it is his best feature to date. 

Six years have passed since delivering his best work, and now Darren Aronofsky is back with a film that feels different from the rest of his filmography; a more restrained and less aggressive piece of work than his other features. Of course, it still contains the sensations of despair, paranoia, and self-destruction that we are used to seeing from the acclaimed director. Still, this time around, it is a more theatrical experience than a cinematic voyage – a choice that hurts the overall project. The reason is because his latest is an adaptation of Samuel D. Hunter’s 2012 stage play, “The Whale”. This movie marks not only the return of Aronofsky to the big screen but is also being recognized as Brendan Fraser’s comeback, and everyone is ecstatic for him (the movement is named the Brendanaissance). If one director could concoct a project that would be a challenge worth taking for Fraser to show us his acting chops, it would be Aronofsky, as he did in the past with Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler – which should have won him an Oscar. However, unlike the aforementioned film, The Whale feels lacking and poorly translated onto the big screen from its stage play origins. 

The Whale, as a whole, is not the total riveting success that plenty of people expect it to be, but it does demonstrate Fraser’s acting capabilities. And it is evident since his performance is the backbone of this project. Unfortunately, it can’t elevate the derivative aspects that its director orchestrates. Fraser plays Charlie, an English teacher running an online college study course via Zoom. There’s darkness amidst his subtle voice filled with empathy. He is mourning the death of his departed lover, whom he left his wife and young daughter for, by slowly eating himself to death. He’s stricken with guilt, indulging in excessive amounts of food to fill the gap in his broken heart, which, for him, seems unrepairable by the point that we see him. Although inconsolable to the point of self-destruction, Charlie is gentle with the people in his life. He sees the light in people, hence trying to help people in the ways he can, in the closedness of his claustrophobic apartment. As Fraser often described his character: “his superpower is to see the good in people”. 

The Whale begins by presenting a form of darkness, as Charlie doesn’t want to show his face to the class by stating that his camera doesn’t work – creating a blank for his visage. As soon as the course ends, we get our first glimpse; the first view of Charlie is of him masturbating, which causes a heart attack that almost kills him. His only friend, Liz (the consistently excellent Hong Chau, who delivers acute fierceness to balance out Charlie’s self-disdaining yet caring demeanor), points out that he has incredibly high blood pressure and should go to the hospital. Instead, Charlie refuses, creating this anguish of misery and self-disgust that is hard for the audience to watch, especially in the scenes in which he eats large amounts of food (fried chicken, take-out pizza, candy). Other than Liz, who both share a tragic connection, there is a trio of characters in his life: his ex-wife Mary (Samantha Morton, who kills her brief scene – the best in the film by a mile wide), his daughter Ellie (Sadie Sink), and a young missionary named Thomas (Ty Simpkins). 

Death is looming, but there’s no specific time frame for when it will arrive. So, before he passes, Charlie wants to reconcile with his daughter sooner rather than later. This creates dynamic scenarios which balance an array of emotions. On the one hand, the aggressive bashing that Ellie delivers toward her father comes so that she can express her inner pains of abandonment and the emotional unavailability of her mother. Conversely, Charlie counter-balances with gentleness and understanding because he regrets the choices he made in the past. If something can hold Charlie’s heart together, it would be the faith in his daughter to change her ways. He sees the good in people, even in his state of self-disgust. Although these characters hold their hearts together by the thinnest cover, The Whale is a story about a man providing the tools so that they can be saved, even if he is in a worse situation. Charlie is the vessel to help the people in his life get a chance at redemption. 

He knows that he is on his last leg; body and soul are separated. Yet, Charlie remains optimistic that his words might impact Liz, Ellie, or Mary to the point of personal metamorphosis, not forgiveness. This is a more dialogue-driven feature from Aronofsky, centering on broader, albeit thematically narrow, conversational set-pieces. It doesn’t contain his chaotically stylistic sequences since he has chosen a more closed-down approach to filmmaking. The main problems with The Whale don’t come from this stylistic departure. The issues arise from the fact that outside of Brendan Fraser’s performance (and two supporting players, Chau and Morton), which is tremendous (no other words can describe this transformative portrayal), there’s nothing else to be in awe or impressed about; even Matthew Libatique’s cinematography leaves a bit more to be desired. At least Brendan Fraser delivers. In scenes of self-loathing, you just can’t escape the fact that Fraser plays Charlie in the other parts of the feature, full of soul and belief in others. Much like The Wrestler was a redemption arc for Mickey Rourke, this is clearly the comeback tour for Fraser, and he deserves much love and praise for his excellent work here and his entire career. 

Even the weakest Aronofsky features have uniqueness and creativity in their showcasing. In The Whale, he decides to contain his creativity visually and aesthetically, to pursue a melodramatic pulse. Forget the overly-edited psychedelic montages of Requiem for a Dream, the cataclysmic approach to mother!, or the disorienting nature of his debut feature, Pi. Instead, there’s claustrophobia galore but shot in a way that isn’t narratively pleasing. The single location The Whale is set in doesn’t allow much space for inventiveness; its translation from stage to the big screen falters because no cinematic tricks are being pulled, and most of its lines aren’t rendered as well as writer Samuel D. Hunter might have thought it would. This is unlike Florian Zeller’s The Father, which played with the production design, costumes, and editing to make us feel like we were inside the head of its lead character. There’s no outside world. People just come and go in Charlie’s apartment, which isn’t a bad thing. The issue comes from the fact that they are only declaring wants and needs repeatedly, feeling unrealistic and non-humanistic. The Whale tackles the pet themes of Aronofsky with his usual small amount of “shock factor”. 

Still, one wishes that he would expand them further since this is almost exactly like The Wrestler, but with a narrower complexity in its narrative presentation. The backgrounds of every single character are revealed in a messy way that takes you out of the potential melancholic rollercoaster because you start thinking about the winding plot. Like its cinematographic frame, everything feels cramped, both thematically and narratively. If one thing could preserve it, it would be the performances; they are the key, not the salvation. The rest needs to work in order to be a total success. Aronofsky faces an unpredictable twist of bland and lacking character portrayals. The actors helming those roles are the ones doing the heavy lifting (with no help of the screenplay or direction), which rarely happens in the projects he’s involved in. It is intellectual to a fault and lacks the visceral strengths that Aronofsky offers in his previous features. There are horrific scenes and others that break your heart, but it doesn’t lead to much in the grand scheme of things. It is a person’s journey to sheer cataclysm and obliteration with a beating heart in Fraser, which somewhat helps elevate the lackluster elements in the film’s infrastructure. I just wished that the film overall was as strong as Brendan Fraser’s acting comeback.

Grade: C