Nocturnal Animals & the metaphor of fat women.
A letter to Tom Ford from a fat moviegoer.
Dear Mr. Ford,
I saw your latest film, Nocturnal Animals, this week. I love thrillers, especially stylized noirs. In the midst of holiday buildup, I found myself looking forward to disappearing into another world— somewhere beautiful, a painted place full of swelling strings.
I arrived late at the theater, taking my seat just as the lights dimmed, ready for an escape. The opening credits were anything but.
Fat, older women danced on screen in slow motion, completely nude. They looked joyful, but the slow-motion playback and turbulent score made them somehow menacing — more freak show than fandom, more spectacle than celebration. Their bellies, thighs and breasts swayed in a cloud of glitter, some puckered, others scarred. Their bodies moved the way mine does. They looked like me.
Despite the insistence that fat bodies are unattractive and unlovable, through years of work, I have come to embrace mine. I have learned to find beauty there, in the rolling expanse of my belly, the softness of my thighs, the pale pink stretch marks blooming like chrysanthemums on my tender skin. I have found that beauty, too, in my partners, many of whom have also been fat women. Ill-equipped by the world around us…
