fat men

Emotional Intelligence and Fatness: Secrets and Lies (1996; dir. Mike Leigh)

Hortense (Marianne Jean-Baptiste), a middle-class black optometrist, seeks out and connects with her birth mother, Cynthia (Brenda Blethyn), a white factory worker and general hot mess, inadvertently inheriting the rest of her biological family at the same time.  Secrets and Lies received critical acclaim upon its release, including the Palm d’Or and several Oscar nominations, largely for its talented cast and nuanced characters.  This includes Maurice, Cynthia’s financially better-off brother who is trying to keep his cooling marriage alive, played by Timothy Spall (or, as nerds might know him better, Peter “Wormtail” Pettigrew).

In Fat Boys: a Slim Book, Sander L. Gilman analyzes different ways fat male bodies are used in Western cultural narratives to signify values and beliefs about human nature.  One of the archetypes he discusses is the fat detective, largely citing British characters such as Dr. Edward “Fitz” Fitzgerald on the BBC series Cracker, as portrayed by Robbie Coltrane (if this blog takes off, I’m apparently going to have to do at least one post about Harry Potter).

“His oversized body invokes… his mode of inquiry… Such an obese body seems more feminine, but certainly not female; it is expressive of the nature of the way the detective seems to ‘think.’  His thought processes strike us as intuitive and emotional rather than analytic and objective.  In other words, the fat detective’s body is read as feminine.”  (Gilman, 154, 155)

Maurice isn’t a detective, but like the fat detectives Gilman describes, he does rely on intuitive and emotional skills to navigate both his personal and professional lives.  He often becomes a paternal figure in both of these spheres.  However, instead of being cold or autocratic (or absent, like every biological father in the film) his approach to fatherly tasks is gentle and nurturing.

When we see him in his role as a portrait photographer, he is interacting in a warm manner with a diverse array of people in varying situations, from a nervous bride to a bitter plaintiff, trying to make a connection and get them to smile.  While his detached offscreen voice and constant insistence on drawing his subjects’ attentions to his camera give him an air of authority, what comes across more strongly in these scenes is a sense that Maurice can see beauty and humanity in everyone in front of his lens.  These traits also apply to his role as a businessman.

Stuart (Ron Cook), the former owner of his photography studio, pays an unexpected visit, drunk and on the verge of aggression. Maurice patiently listens to him rant about his string of bad luck, but also sets firm boundaries around Stuart’s claim to his business and the stay of his visit, while his wife Monica (Phyllis Logan) and his assistant Jane (Elizabeth Berrington) wait nervously in the next room, expecting a conflict to erupt.

Maurice is in a paternal position in his family, although given that his and Cynthia’s father is long dead and Cynthia won’t even disclose who sired her own daughter Roxanne (Claire Rushbrook), this is his place by default.  He is a provider for his sister, niece, and wife, whose reliance on him and volatile relationships with each other are reaching a breaking point.  He describes his own situation best: “I’ve spent my entire life trying to make people happy, and the three people I love the most in the world hate each others’ guts, I’m in the middle, I can’t take it anymore!”  When the film opens, he hasn’t seen Cynthia in two years; backstory that makes him seem cold at first is quickly understood by the audience during their reunion scene, where her neediness for his affection uncomfortably borders on incestuous.  (She also jiggles his belly and makes a comment about how well-off he is, connecting his fatness to a bourgeois lifestyle that separates him from Cynthia and his working class roots).  His interactions with his wife Monica are similarly nurturing but off-kilter, despite his good intentions.  In an early scene in the movie, he comes home to find her frustrated over something she won’t talk about.  He tries to take her mind off whatever it is by offering to pour her a glass of wine and make small talk; however, his indirect approach backfires and leads to her storming out of the house.

During the climactic birthday party scene, kicked into high gear by Cynthia’s ill-timed confession that Hortense is her daughter, Maurice becomes an active force for repairing communication and relationships in his family.  “We’re all in pain,” he implores his loved ones, “Why can’t we share our pain?” He tells his family that Monica is infertile when she can’t bring herself to do so.  When Hortense is nearly paralyzed by her discomfort and isolation, he praises her bravery for seeking the truth and welcomes her to the family.  His ability to wrangle the mistruths and resentment that have built up for years with honesty and love are deeply moving to Jane:  “Oh Maurice, I wish I’d had a dad like you.  You’re lovely.”  He reaches across the table to take her hand as she breaks down crying.

Gilman’s analysis of the fat detective archetype includes another trait besides emotional sagacity: feminization.  Despite the masculine attributes discussed above, Maurice could not be described as a paragon of masculinity, especially the masculinity that is often celebrated in Western cinema.   His photography relies on empathy, intuition, and patience, and often has him as witness to familial scenarios.  His caretaker role in his own family is feminized as well, such as in scenes where he cares for Monica when she is bedridden (he would probably be described as “henpecked”).  The responsibility for his and Monica’s childlessness is placed on her body, but the lack of children also detracts from his virility.  Directly after the birthday party scene, we see Maurice and Monica spooning in bed together (a setting where previously we had only seen him taking care of her).  His plea to his family for greater communication has brought them closer together, but the sexuality between man and wife is only suggested: his bare chest, her nightie, the intimacy of the closeup shot.  Compare this to the more frankly sexual scene between Roxanne and her boyfriend.  Maurice stands in even greater contrast to his sister, who is firmly ensconced in roles and character traits that are “appropriate” to her gender.  Cynthia’s history and own sense of worth is strongly tied to her attractiveness to men (her “feminine charms”), her relationships to the people in her life, and her sexuality.

Fat bodies are degendered to a certain degree in Western culture, often detracting from the fat person being characterized fully within masculine power or feminine beauty.  Even the rare image of androgyny (that isn’t played for laughs) is usually conveyed with a slender body, such as Tilda Swinton’s.  In Maurice’s case, however, the softening of masculinity and embracing of traditionally feminine characteristics put him in a position to bring about family healing, and give the emotionally fraught story of Secrets and Lies a happy ending.

Teaching and Holding Back: Strictly Ballroom (1992, dir. Baz Luhrmann)

Strictly Ballroom is Luhrmann’s directorial debut, a romantic comedy about Scott, an impatient and talented competitive ballroom dancer who gains an unlikely partner in awkward amateur Fran mere weeks before the Big Competition he’s been working towards (and groomed for) his entire life.  The story is well-trod territory: part underdog sports story, part Pygmalion, with some rage against the machine thrown in for good measure, but the film charms with its energy, sweetness, and colorful mise en scene.  Plus I’m a sucker for films that are ensconced in insular subcultures, making characters’ goals simultaneously low stakes and very, very high stakes.  I didn’t watch this movie with the intent of writing about it, but you find fat characters in the darndest places.

I would describe three of the characters in the movie as fat: Les, Barry, and Ya Ya (Fran’s grandmother).  Their fatness isn’t explicitly part of how any of them are characterized; the movie doesn’t draw attention to the size of their bodies, nor are they coded as markedly different from the thinner characters.  All three characters are of the previous generation, those who have raised the protagonists.  Their influence is that of authority, albeit in different ways.

Barry, as the president of the ballroom association and competition judge, is the most direct authority figure.  He has the power to designate who the champion is, and his rulings influence “the future of dancesport” itself.  He also cleverly manipulates the politics of the Australian competitive ballroom world.  Strictly Ballroom values veracity in artistic expression, and as self-styled puppet master of a world of sequined costumes and heavy eyeshadow, Barry is the master of the artificial.  He’s even shown to be wearing a wig, the perfect accessory for a blustering, red-faced judge who is wrapped up in the antiquated status quo and his own self-importance.

Les, although still a member of the ballroom old guard, is more balanced than Barry.  A self-described “experienced professional,” he is Scott’s teacher who encourages him to win by sticking to traditional ballroom dance moves and finding an acceptable partner for him to compete with.  While still a part of the world of ballroom artifice, he ultimately prioritizes the integrity of the competition over Barry’s machinations.

At the other end of the spectrum from Barry, we have Ya Ya, Fran’s grandmother, who embodies the veracity of dance.  She dresses plainly with no makeup or hair styling, and imparts the two central pieces of wisdom Strictly Ballroom has to offer, teaching Fran that “a life lived in fear is a life half lived” and teaching Scott that the rhythm is in his heart.  (Seriously, Scott, you’ve been dancing since you were 6 and you’ve never had a mentor or a book or another movie about a dancer teach you that?  At least it gave Ya Ya an excuse to touch his chest.)  Her approach to dance is more soulful than that of Barry or Les, but she’s also reinforcing norms. She teaches the paso doble that has the veracity of tradition behind it, a dance that is more “real” than Scott’s ballroom version.  She, along with Fran and Rico, rein in Scott’s headstrong individualism, helping him learn humility and cooperation as he corrals his flamboyantly athletic style into one (admittedly sweet) slide onto the dancefloor during the film’s climax.

So we have three fat characters who represent the authority of age and the different forms that can take.  However, their positions as elders makes their fat somewhat more acceptable, and none of them are remarkable outliers in terms of size (Barry would probably be described as “paunchy”).  If anything, the actors chosen to embody these characters are stout as part of showing their age, and perhaps as a visual counterbalance to thinner partners who represent the same point of view (Les and Shirley; Ya Ya and Rico; Barry and his blonde co-judge consort) and in contrast to the slim, young protagonists who receive their teachings.

In fact, there are plenty of movies that feature older people whose bodies are “stout” or “matronly” or “paunchy”; I’m sure that if I were to write about every one I saw, this blog would be full of those reviews, and likely say very similar things.  Barry, Les, and Ya Ya are all elders, keepers of tradition. Their fatness is somewhat incidental, something that we recognize as a common marker of age and being past one’s prime.  These three want to see the prime of their own youth repeated by their progeny and their slimmer, more relevant bodies, despite the different ways they have of achieving their goals.

II.

It took me until the day after viewing to think about the fat characters in Strictly Ballroom, because the first representation of fatness that caught my eye was a bit player.  At the beginning of the movie, Fran is at the peak of her ugly duckingness (ducklingitude?).  Not only is she insecure and unpolished (the standard trifecta of no makeup, frizzy hair, and glasses),  she is a “beginner” dancer: not only beneath the serious attentions of Scott, Les, and Shirley, but– as she repeats a few times at the beginning of the film– without a partner.

This isn’t technically true, however:  while Fran is awkwardly by herself for a few numbers during the opening scene at the dance studio, she is paired with another woman, specifically the only fat student there.  In the third act, Scott is spurred into reconciling and reuniting with Fran in part by the pity-inducing sight of her dancing at the Pan Pacific Grand Prix in the beginner’s category, with the same fat partner.  Fran is marginalized and diminished by the characters in power and the hierarchy of merit that they uphold, those who don’t recognize her as an able or appropriate dance partner for Scott.  She is placed in categories in the dance world that are wrong for her given her place in the narrative: she is  the beginner’s dance category, despite having authentic knowledge of dance that she is able to share with Scott, and she is made to dance the man’s role, despite fulfilling a very classically feminine role in a romantic story.

Strictly Ballroom: Fran and the Fat Dancer at the Pan Pacific Grand Prix

Her fat partner is a physical manifestation of this humiliation and ostracization.  Even after her skin clears up and her frizzy hair turns into curls, even after her need for eyeglasses has faded into memory, the painful relapse into being a nobody beginner is the presence of the fat dancer.  The fat dancer is a non-person, not even considered a partner by the person she’s dancing with.  She is a competent dancer (at least, to my untrained eye), but because of her body size (as in the dance studio, she is the only fat person on the Pan Pacific dance floor), she is even less a part of the world of acceptability than Fran.  Her presence is unwelcome, presenting a pathetic and humorous contrast to dreamy Scott.  The fat dancer accessorizes and amplifies Fran’s humiliation.  As we see here and in other movies– Justin Long’s cheerleader tryout scene in Dodgeball: a True Underdog Story springs to mind– slender characters are vulnerable to mocking and humiliation just through pairing with a fat person for an activity.  Straight-sized readers: consider this your warning.