*spoilers ahead*
Trigger warning: ED and queerphobia
In one of the scenes in “The Whale”, Brandon Fraser’s character Charlie becomes gluttonous. He devours pizza, opens his fridge, finds everything he can to eat and gobbles it down, dumps bread on the table, and puts some meat and chomps on it. And then he vomits and cries.
I have gained around 11 kg in the past ten months. There have been moments of near gluttony in these months. I have eaten and eaten and eaten, knowing full well that there is no more space left. I have eaten even as my belly hurts, even as it feels like it would burst open. I have force-fed myself to the point of exhaustion, and yet the gaping hole in my chest would not fill.
Watching Charlie self-destruct was seeing a vision of my future.
So many times I said to myself, this is me, this could be me, this would be me. For I too am weighed down by a grief that does not let me get out of bed, for I too am interested in literature (and adore Walt Whitman), for I too am a faggot, who many believe needs god’s guidance and grace, but more importantly, I too, like Charlie believe that everyone else is redeemable, even the boy who thinks love is a mortal sin, but not me.
Charlie sees good in everyone. Even when his ex-wife tells him that their daughter is evil and shows proof (Charlie’s picture with a cruel caption) he, who does not show his face to his students, finds it honest. It is this goodness, this ultimate faith in everyone except himself that I feel such a strong resemblance with.
I believe in reformative justice, I believe that there is inherent goodness in humanity, I believe that the moral arc of the universe tips towards justice, that we will one day become better and kind and loving human beings. But I do not believe these things for me. And having Charlie personify that was jarring and disturbing. A reaffirming of all of my fears about me.
I also have issues with Charlie begging and crying to know if his daughter is the one good thing he did with his life. But going deeper into why I have issues with it would require us to delve a little bit into compulsory heterosexuality and how it shapes what we think is important.
However, I do want us to think why loving Alan was not that good thing, even when Liz tells him that he could not be saved but Charlie did add a few years, the best years to his life.
But I am not writing a film review, and if I were, I would ask why they keep making films on queer grief and never on queer joy. Because not only am I tired of such films, but I am also tired of grief. Tired of having to carry it around, having to explain it, having its shadow haunt my every step, having it linger, always, always, always in the pit of my stomach, in the centre of my chest, in the middle of my throat.
I would also perhaps question that does the film’s end mean that Charlie’s redemption lies in his death alone? In his giving up?
Though one might argue that it rather lies in forgiveness by his daughter, but then the question is, why did the daughter have to forgive? How do we ignore the societal pressure on queer people to marry and then criminalize/+ ostracize them when they succumb to it? What deep hatred of queerness does this dichotomy tell us?
But as I said, this is not a film review. I believe I am quite done with the concepts of reviews. I am exploring what cinema and literature means to me personally. What truth does it present for me? What assumptions does it question? And in that regard, The Whale kept me wondering if I am headed the way Charlie is, where is my salvation?
But then again, since I don’t believe there is redemption for me, that question remains unanswered in the most absurd of ways. It is quite impossible for me to imagine that healing could look like anything. And even though I am on therapy and medication, I have much less hope for myself.
I do not want to end this on a positive note, as much as I am tempted to do so because often there’s no light at the end of the tunnel. And from where I see it, it’s still pretty much dark.