Never Call an Actress “Fat”

This summer, my sisters got me hooked on “Modern Family,” and while the addiction fizzled after two months, I binge-watched enough episodes to witness Manny’s dropping voice, Lily’s expiring talent, and Alex’s changing weight.

A quick disclaimer: when I say “changing weight,” I mean that natural part of women’s lives where we grow hips and breasts, putting on a few pounds in the process. Ariel Winter began her role as Alex Dumphee as a preteen and has, not surprisingly, grown up during her tenure with the show. I’m going to reassert that she has gained weight, but I don’t see a cause for criticism or mockery in that change.

I’ve only raised the issue at all because when a recent episode aired, my uncle dropped the F-bomb on her. “When did she get so fat?”

Fat? Wait, seriously, fat? The word and the body type it describes have no inherent negative connotations for our generation of Kind clubs and “No Fat Talk,” but in my uncle’s mouth, “fat” is an insult straight out of a one-size-fits-all fifties upbringing. And for Uncle Jim, this was the third offense: he took exception with Kaleigh Cuokoo from “The Big Bang Theory” over winter break, and when we watched “500 Days of Summer” last year, he described Zoë Dechanel as “pudgy” in the breakup scene.

Credit where credit is due: Jim has never said a harsh word about any “real” girl. But if Zoë Dechanel is “pudgy,” I’m a black hole with my own gravitational orbit. This dichotomy, where my cute little imperfections qualify as beauty while movie stars’ flaws come under fire, started me thinking. Possibly, my uncle responded not to Ariel Winter or Zoë Dechanel’s objective looks but to those looks in the context of media and film. In other words, he evaluated them as actresses before he evaluated them as people.

If that assumption holds, their shortcomings were not physical; they simply failed to live up to the standards imposed on them. They deviated from the mold, and my uncle noticed. I find it bitterly offensive that an actress’ worth lies primarily in her appearance. Male actors with no particularly handsome features—Joaquin Phoenix from “Her,” Martin Freeman in “Sherlock,” Alan Rickman in “Harry Potter,” etc.—win the hearts of their audiences by absorbing and portraying each particular character. While thirteen-year-old girls won’t cry over them at night, they get general validation from viewers who sympathize with the regular Joe. They get political points for looking normal.

Cop shows epitomize this double standard. “Unforgettable,” “CSI,” “SVU,” “Cold Case,” etc. are populated by homely, sweet, even borderline geeky male cops who belong at the wheels of family sized vans, pumping gas, not iron.

Their female partners, on the other hand, chase down the bad guys in wedge heels and slinky leather blazers, an array of would-be Bond girls who were cut in the second round of “Skyfall” auditions. Realism prevails for men in media, while women still bear the yoke of idealism.

My uncle, and doubtless many men like him, have been taught to expect this impossible beauty in actresses. When a female celebrity steps outside the lines, she is “fat,” not because of (nonexistent) ballooning physical mass, but because her rebellious psychological presence challenges the norms to which some male viewers subscribe.

I’ve had enough of the liberated feminists bellyaching about body image and media. Yes, some images are digitally enhanced; yes, the hero always gets the girl; yes, the princess never saves the day; but what strikes me more forcefully than these unrealistic standards is the helplessness of women in the industry.

These actresses can’t respond to nitpickers and critics with reason. They can’t wow the world with their talent because their audiences will be distracted by pity. In the eyes of their viewers, these women have failed their job—to uphold ridiculous sexual standards.

We pity them because we imagine that movie stars have hordes of trainers and makeup artists and stylists and nutritionists to help them join Club Double Zero. They should have no problem maintaining a “normal” actress figure. Does that mean that an entourage of beauty gurus and fab diets might not be infallible? That there is no simple, streamlined path for those of us wealthy and dedicated enough to fight for physical “perfection”? If Ariel Winter with all her army of attendants can’t ward off five pounds, are the imperfect, mortal women of the world doomed to obesity?

Underneath this incredibly selfish fear lies a far more terrible question—what if these actresses don’t want to conform to media standards? What does it mean, when women who could have any body they wanted broadcast around the world tomorrow, opt out of stick-chic?

Maybe we exclude and censure these actresses not because we disdain their looks but because we fear that their existence rattles our definition of beauty. It takes incredible guts to perform for judges as tough as middle-class Americans. Maybe it’s their courage we hate, their intrusive, bloated courage, their daring, and their unconventionality. Maybe it’s less hate than envy.