The Whale (2022)

Darren Aronofsky’s The Whale is a film that thrives on emotional weight—both figuratively and literally. At its core, it’s a small, intimate character study of Charlie, a reclusive, morbidly obese man played with heartbreaking sincerity by Brendan Fraser. His performance is, without question, the film’s crowning achievement. Fraser disappears into the role, not just through the physical transformation but in the way he carries Charlie’s pain, guilt, and quiet hope. It’s no surprise that his comeback was met with overwhelming praise; it’s the kind of raw, deeply human performance that sticks with you long after the credits roll.

The rest of the cast also delivers strong work. Sadie Sink as Charlie’s estranged daughter is volatile and angry, Hong Chau provides a much-needed counterbalance of warmth and frustration as his caregiver, and even Ty Simpkins and Samantha Morton make their brief moments count. The dialogue, adapted from Samuel D. Hunter’s stage play, keeps the film feeling like a theater piece—confined, claustrophobic, and sometimes a little too on-the-nose. That being said, the cast does its best to keep the material from feeling overly melodramatic, even when it teeters dangerously close.

But there’s something about The Whale that feels like it was designed, if not outright engineered, to capture Academy votes. A morbidly obese protagonist dealing with loss, redemption, and deep personal trauma? Check. A story that leans into modern identity struggles, religion, and societal alienation? Check. A big, transformative lead performance that screams “Give this man an Oscar”? Check. It’s not that any of these elements are inherently bad—many great films tackle similar themes—but there’s an undeniable sense that The Whale is acutely aware of how to position itself in the awards circuit. It feels like it’s playing to a very specific crowd, knowing exactly what buttons to push to elicit maximum critical adoration.

That being said, the film isn’t a cheap ploy—it has genuine moments of beauty, and its emotional beats land more often than not. The film’s stage origins give it a tight, focused narrative, and Aronofsky does a solid job of translating that into a cinematic experience, even if it’s mostly confined to one location. It’s easy to see why audiences were divided, though. Some will see it as an earnest, deeply affecting portrait of a man at the end of his rope, while others will see a movie that’s leaning a little too hard into its own self-importance.

In the end, The Whale is neither a masterpiece nor a misfire. It’s a well-acted, well-crafted drama that occasionally feels like it’s working too hard for prestige recognition. Fraser’s performance is worth the watch alone, and the film certainly has moments of real emotional impact. But it’s also hard to shake the feeling that it was tailor-made for awards season. Whether that makes it more admirable or more calculated depends on how much you’re willing to buy into its earnestness.