Men in Full

Over in "another part of the forest," to quote the Bard, I wrote about my recent viewing of the 1977 movie Equus. One of the major themes in that film (based on Peter Shaffer's play about a troubled youth who mutilates six horses, and the psychiatrist who treats him) is the personal sterility and lovelessness of Dr. Martin Dysart's life, shown in the film by his nondescript, literally all-beige office. Presumably designed that way to soothe troubled patients, it also reflects his colorless and passionless existence.

The recent revival of Equus on the London stage created a bit of hoopla over Daniel Radcliffe ("Harry Potter") being cast as the imprisoned Alan Strang. But something occurred to me about Richard Griffiths being cast as Dr. Dysart.

In the film, Dysart is played by the still-handsome if slightly faded and world-weary Richard Burton. His blankness and timidity are a mystery to us. Why should this slim middle-aged man live such a life of "quiet desperation?" Unveiling the mystery that is Dysart is just as much the challenge of Equus as trying to understand why Alan has committed his dreadful crime.

What I fear is that Richard Griffith's been cast as Dysart as an oversimplistic form of "body characterization." In other words, is Dysart more believable to a modern audience as "sexless," "world-weary," or "passionless" because the actor who plays him is a fat man?

Personally, I'd love to go to London and see Griffiths in the role. He would do it justice, certainly. But I'd hate to see "the doctor's dilemma" reduced to a simplistic, "Well, he's fat, what else do you expect?"

I've been catching up with Lost on DVD, and one reason I wanted to watch was to see how the show treated Jorge Garcia's heavy-set main character Hugo "Hurley" Reyes. (Earlier I wrote about Garcia here as a perfect actor for Ignatius J. Reilly in "A Confederacy of Dunces.")

Halfway through the first season, at least, Hurley's shown compassionately. His windjammers and surfer-boy slang ("Duuuude!") place him from Los Angeles. He's kind and considerate. Immediately after everyone wakes up from the crash, he's the first person to notice and help the nine-month pregnant Claire. Physical work is initially hard for him, but he does it.

He's always alert to the "tone" of a situation. Often he acts on his own as an intermediary between two characters at odds with each other. In short, he has a high level of "emotional intelligence."

One would think that would make him a leader, and sought out. But no - because Hurley is also fat, with the pillowy, mattressy body of someone who's been big since childhood. As he remarks at one point, "I survived grade school and high school; I can survive this." Anyone who was a fat chilod knows exactly what he means.

Everyone in this story, though, has a gruesomely tormented past, and Hurley's no exception. At this point in the show we don't know of his multi-million dollar lottery win, his his burdensome guilt, the eating disorder that leads him to squirrel away food, his so-called "bad luck" and the extensive associated numerology sub-plot.

Nor have we yet seen his brief relationship with fellow mental patient Libby (who gets killed off.) I haven't seen the 'shipping scenes yet, but they sound sweet despite their brevity. Actor Jorge Garcia told the men's magazine Maxim, "I liked the relationship a lot, the romantic side of it. That's not usually a thing they let the fat guy on the show do."

Fan reactions to Hurley as a fat leading character vary. Some embrace him enthusiastically - and literally. As Garcia says, "A lot of women I don't know want to hug me. I haven't totally gotten used to that." Others are either tasteless or misguided in their actions, as Garcia remarks in an earlier article, "One lady sent me a coupon for Slim Fast along with a bunch of religious pamphlets. On another occasion, the same lady sent me dieters’ tea—but she didn’t send me the box, just a couple of bags in an envelope."

Maxim went on to ask: Have you found that chicks dig the belly?
I have this thing with my girlfriend, who lives next door to me, where we’re lying in the bed, and I just kind of collapse on her. And I’m like, “Go ahead, see if you can get yourself free. You know, just in case something happens. You’ve got to go to safety. Three, two, one.” She’s like, “Get off me!” I have to make her struggle out. That’s our little drill.

Whew. Now *that* is an interesting image.

I guess I should reserve opinion about the other plot points of Hurley's character, in particular his "secret stash," until I see them. On the surface, though, it looks like the writers wrote in Hurley squirreling away food as a response to the incessant fan question, "Why doesn't Hurley lose weight?" while stranded on the island.

Just the asking itself is telling. In the first season, Garcia apparently lost about 30 lbs. - which on his sizeable frame probably wasn't that noticeable. But it also shows a common misconception, that Hurley (and others) fat since childhood are fat because they eat a lot.

Fans ask why Hurley doesn't lose weight - but apparently don't think to ask why the other, thinner characters don't begin to look gaunt and hollow because of their initial lean rations (at least until Locke and Boone begin hunting, and the others begin foraging and fishing.) Is it only the fat man who's supposed to lose weight under privation? Actually, physiologically it's probably the other way around. It perhaps didn't occur to the writers that Hurley is most likely very well suited to the kind of extreme situation in which the survivors find themselves. He has the shape and size of a Polynesian islander - and that physique developed for a good reason. On an island with scarce and intermittent food, the "thrifty" genotype which uses relatively fewer calories proportionate to body mass, and stores any newfound calories with high efficiency would probably be far better suited to survival.

I can see why the character has appeal, and not simply to those of us who like fat men. Overlooked, the butt of jokes, simple, not perfect, Hurley is an archetypal "Hans," from the common German name for the Jedermann in the Grimms' fairy tales who goes out into the world and finds his fortune. He's the boy who would share his last crust of bread with the strange old woman in the forest, and thus win the fortune and the princess. Whether the writers of Lost recognize his archetypal attributes, use them in further stories, (or give him another girlfriend!) remains to be seen.

It occurred to me that I'm writing a lot about actors - it's not that I'm particularly star-obsessed, it's just that they're convenient "public figures" with which to illustrate points. Also, because they're public figures, there's a little less guilt for an amusing pleasure like this LJ community billy_belly, devoted to the veneration of William Shatner's tummy.

Lasse Hallström's film Casanova is a patchwork of plot twists, humorous deceptions, and mistaken identities as Casanova (Heath Ledger) weasels his way through Venice in pursuit of the lovely but skittish Francesca (Sienna Miller.) This brilliant girl, who writes philosophy and proto-feminist texts under an assumed male name, rejects him because she fears he cannot commit himself to just one woman - even though Casanova is determined to convince her otherwise.

But there's a secondary story in this movie too, one in some ways almost more romantically warming than the sometimes literal back-and-forth sparring between Casanova and Francesca. For Francesca has been betrothed to her late father's friend, the ample-bodied lard merchant Paprizzio (Oliver Platt enhanced with a fat suit) whom neither Francesca's mother Andrea (Lena Olin) nor her daughter have ever seen.

Paprizzio has come to Venice to claim his bride, docking in a ship festooned with Bacchanalian carvings of big-bellied men. Shrewd and aggressive in business but shy and insecure when it comes to women, Paprizzio feels abashed and inadequate because he knows he's not "handsome," and he begs Casanova for "help."

Hallström pulls a "bait and switch" with this character. At first we see Paprizzio as a clown, and his nadir comes when Inquisitor Pucci (Jeremy Irons) finds him undergoing a humiliating "treatment" in Casanova's apartment, where he's stretched out, rack-like, on a table and slathered with noxious goo. Pucci thinks he's Casanova, and before arresting him, sneers at his mostly-naked form, "Somehow I find it difficult to believe that ... this ... is what women want." We take the bait - obviously Paprizzio is simply a "fat fool."

The switch comes during the Masked Ball scene, the apex of the story where all hidden is revealed. Ironically, a window for happiness opens up for Paprizzio because of the very attribute which initially made him ashamed - because Francesca's mother likes big men. (As she tells Casanova while he's pretending to be Paprizzio, "I don't like thin men - Francesca's father was enormous.")

An angry Paprizzio stalks into the Ball with the cold controlled fury of the phlegmatic man. He walks slowly, ponderously, towering over many of the revellers. Whatever happens, we know it isn't going to be good for anyone who gets in his way. Then Andrea sees him, and it's wonderfully filmed. She stares unabashedly. He stops, hesitant. He can sense someone's watching him, but whom? Then he sees her, and she instinctively puts her fan in front of her mouth, that "veiling" expression to hide the well of overflowing emotion. Suddenly we see him as she does - he moves from fat and awkward to strong, powerful - and desirable.

In sweet confusion, Paprizzio thinks that Andrea is really Francesca, his fiancee. "I never imagined you would be so beautiful," he breathes. Andrea tells him that Francesca is in love with someone else, and the change in tone is palpable. You can almost see Paprizzio's heart swell with hope. When Pucci interrupts them, Paprizzio casually lifts him by the neck and in an almost-whisper says, "Why don't you stop interfering, thank you?" and so Pucci scurries off, ratlike.

For Paprizzio has escaped both racks - the rack of the Inquisition, and the rack of the desire to appear as he is not, according to some ideal of beauty which does not fit him, and which (confirmed by Andrea's love) he does not need.