Two recent depictions of the binge-and-purge cycle, both graphic and set in decades of the (somewhat) recent past, combined with a network sitcom featuring a very possible anorexic (self-described “picky eater”), illustrate how trapped a person with disordered eating can feel when pressured to consume excessive amounts, be they unnecessary and uncalled for or merely perceived as such.
No one should ever be made to feel forced to eat beyond an appropriately-rationed, rationAL need. It’s to me a major red flag in a relationship — a vigorously-waving indicator that begs the question of WHY the food is seen as a requirement in the given circumstances and whether it is being leveraged, possibly weaponized. First, is there even a desire to participate by everyone involved? And what is the intention? If the answers to these questions are “yes, it is enjoyed by all” and, to the second, that eating in the given case is in response to a simple metabolic need (i.e. energy to sustain, a naturally occurring, universal requirement so often miscast as a weakness), then it’s generally safe to proceed without second thought.
As we are taught intuitively from the day we are born, semi-regular caloric nourishment, at minimum, is a requirement of the human animal and necessary in our body’s upkeep. This should not be a source of guilt perceived as an indicator of “good” or “bad” behavior, of virtuous restraint or sinful indulgence. Yet, so often the act is loaded with the added baggage of observed ritual (prime example being holidays and other traditions of cultural significance), elevating the process to something so much more. An essential, inherently basic animal behavior gets elevated, rising it above raw quotidian level. Yes, it is in many ways a valiant gesture to tie eating with some other context, to instill it with greater meaning, an appreciation and mindfulness perhaps of metaphoric significance. Some might argue that doing so is an important aspect of what separates us from other sentient creatures. But when we ALWAYS aggrandize food —and its power to reliably provide both physical and emotional response (an essentially change, be it in weight, mood, energy, strength, or mere blood sugar regulation)— something once so simple becomes so much more. Now it is an unshakable preoccupation. An art form at best, obsession at worst; you become only comfortable with/capable of an established pattern and approach. Whether you are sticking to this regimented routine with an unhealthy degree of inflexibility is determined by your response should anyone or anything threaten to disrupt the dining norm(s) you view as “safe.” With food —and the behaviors connected to consuming it— a precious and unrivaled priority, ability and willingness to adapt —be it for one meal or many— is now a fairly accurate gauge of how much your adherence to routine is ruling over and determining your schedule, holding you back from surviving in alternate situations (should they arise). Whomever, or whatever, challenging you to “change things up” now wields immeasurable power, which you likely and understandably resent because it is different and strange and therefore uncomfortable, mentally and/or physically. For those with less of an immutable stance on this issue, such a “holiday” from the norm is a welcomed event because it offers to spice up life when it has become boring routine, representing something different, fun, even special. When we are asked to engage in a way of eating that for some reason causes distress, it comes to communicate who has control in the situation, although the very meal itself has more symbolic power than either of its preparer or receiver.
If one is fortunate enough to count on a galley of sensitive and understanding friends, relatives, and, often, doctors, a person’s fragile sense of security in regards to disrupted eating patterns will be approached gently and handled nimbly, perhaps through education, so as to reduce hostility from those requiring intervention. Unfortunately, be they cruel or clueless (or a bit of both), the party aiming to metaphorically, if not literally, stir a new pot can become perceived as a meddling “enemy” of the lifestyle most adhered to and now threatened. For when eating is controlled with thought and carefully premeditated preferences, it helps us form an identity as a certain “type” of person within a tribe of the like-minded, often of those who fancy or renounce similar fare, thus distinguishing our place in uncertain world by way of joining-in with a culture and recognized delineation. To challenge that sense of selfhood it to potentially upset a person’s entire worldview —and sense of secure footing within it. When one’s approach to food carries such pronounced ramifications upon disruption, it is extremely likely that you are living, to a functioning degree or not, within the confines of an eating disorder. And whether recognized or not, whoever controls the eating operations within that life is to yield ultimate authority.
With this in mind, imagine what could constitute a nightmare scenario for those so controlling over —and thus controlled by— what they eat. Last year’s Oscar-nominated Spencer, headlined by an uncanny Kristen Stewart, is an abstract two-hour portrait of Princess Diana’s final Christmas holiday spent within England’s Royal Family before seeking marital separation. Rather than a conventional, straight drama, it is nuanced and layered with many elements traditional to the abstract horror picture. In the quarter-century that has unfolded since her untimely and tragic death, it has widely become common knowledge that Diana —ever an icon of fashion and the gold standard for an English beauty— struggled immensely with bulimia. What could possibly be more terrifying for an individual afflicted with such an agonizing condition than being scrutinized on the world stage by not only one’s stuffy, unsympathetic in-laws (an extended clan who happen to also represent your country’s most powerful dynasty) but also by a sea of Royal Watchers transfixed by and obsessed with every detail of your life? Then imagine being rigidly observed at a lavish, grandiose, and unavoidably mandatory catered affair in which it is made clear that there will be enough ongoing engorgement, from Christmas Eve through Boxing Day, to gain a minimum of three pounds by all included? And to further seal the deal, in keeping with “tradition,” every guest shall be weighed by staff, ex-military, before and after coming to the Sandringham country estate, itself remotely located and difficult to escape? (There, even the window blinds are to be stapled shut.) This is the claustrophobic nightmare Chilean director Pablo Larraín proposes in this recent quasi-biopic. The shaming by her husband, Prince Charles (a taciturn Jack Farthing), is certainly callous enough without the additional pressure of The Queen Mum. Based on true accounts, he venomously suggests that Diana should for once keep her bulimia at bay out of respect for the chickens who laid her morning eggs: “They all made such an effort to bring you breakfast. Please do them the courtesy of not regurgitating it all into a lavatory bowl before the church bells ring."
Later on, she apologizes to the chief chef for not trying a soufflé prepared especially for her, adding: "It would only have been wasted on me anyway." This can be compared with a telling statement provided to manipulative BBC reporter Martin Bashir in the bombshell program An Interview with HRH The Princess of Wales, a seated one-on-one that aired in late-November 1995 to 1/3 of UK households: "You have to know that when you have bulimia you're very ashamed of yourself and you hate yourself, so—and people think you're wasting food—so you don't discuss it with people." In her most secret and isolated private moments it is suggested by the screenplay that Diana comes to see herself in the company of Anne Boleyn, Henry VIII’s second wife who he beheaded and moved on from with a series of several others, most immediately Jane Seymour. In Spencer we see Diana acknowledge the lingering presence of Charles’ ex Camilla, who she dubs “Jane Seymour”, implying that she will be similarly replaced. I doubt it is a coincidence that “Boleyn” sounds so close to “bulimia,” as it is not unusual for those seriously entwined with an eating disorder to refer to their affliction as if a close companion, assigning nicknames as in “Anna” (for anorexia) or “Bella” (in the case of bulimia). Weirdly enough, Kristen Stewart first achieved fame as heroine Bella Swan in the Twilight movie saga.
This notion of an ED as an “other” who has a separate voice and character from its host is one of the most noticeable narrative choices of the darkly-comic Apple+ series Physical, which only this Friday wraps its sophomore year on the streamer. In this half-hour dramedy, set in the early 1980s San Diego, we follow the perspective of beautiful and impossibly fit housewife Sheila Rubin (Rose Byrne) who, for most of the 19 episodes-and-counting, is a closeted and mercilessly self-critical bulimic with a raging aerobic exercise addiction. (As implied by the series’ name, the latter is something she then harnesses in the spirit of Jane Fonda or Richard Simmons to star in commercially trafficked, spandex-and-neon workout videos for the then-burgeoning VHS market.) The internal dialogue we hear in her head is brutal —all scathing put-downs and sarcastic asides, barbs intended for not only herself but the (many) people she loathes, including her clueless, narcissistic husband.
Some reviewers may not see much humor in this setup, but I, for one, can relate. In truth, I am not myself a binge-eater, although the last meal of my day is what would be considered large, perhaps even extravagant, prompting me to dine privately, sequestered, out of self-consciousness and shame. I do not purge in the form of vomiting, but instead “redeem” my caloric intake with nonnegotiable daily power-walks, which I am now significantly dialing-back (much to the frustration of my at times scathing internal critic). Honestly, if I had the strength, fury, and resolve to shadow Sheila’s advanced level of exercise devotion I might, but after 3/4 of a lifetime listening to my ED voice I am now focusing on other priorities, being physically and emotionally spent. Towards the second half of Season 2 Sheila’s bulimia is found out and she pursues treatment measures —mostly to appease her husband and mounting fandom, each “betrayed” by her projected, branded image as a female paragon of confidence & health. And so the fledgling aerobics guru begrudgingly drags herself into a cozy and holistic rehab clinic for eating disorders, mostly submitting to its recovery process for surface-level appearances that placate those who, in truth, she internally resents. Time will tell (or at least we’ll hopefully learn in a third season) whether Sheila found legitimate benefit in this not-entirely-voluntary decision, for it was unquestionably an overdue intervention. Nevertheless, we do witness sage advice administered there that even she cannot help but pause and yield to. In a telling aside, the program director Luanne, herself in recovery, shares an observation to the collected patient company that eerily reflects Princess Di’s BBC admission: “You know what’s cruel about this mental disorder? It’s that there’s nothing anyone could have said to you, however vile, that you haven’t already said to yourself.”
That being said, what other people say can of course still sting. Take, for example, what we observe in ABC’s mockumentary-style half-hour comedy Abbott Elementary. You might expect with a name like that that children at this Philadelphia public school would be the ones doing any taunting, but the twist here is that we follow the crew of adults employed there —along with any juvenile behavior or emotions they may at times mirror. Albeit intended to be funny, I was made a tad uncomfortable by the staff’s response upon learning that lean, stoic, and regimented first-grade substitute teacher Gregory (Tyler James Williams) did not want to participate in a communal meal break involving each staff member’s pizza-of-choice. In Episode 9 (“Step Class”), Greg is taunted and shamed when he declines to indulge along with everyone else in these various styles of pie, and even put on the spot at one point to sample the “Baltimore” variety after he scrambles to name a type he prefers. In truth, none of these he wants anything to do with, and thus misses out on the bonding experience that, like so many in life, revolve around what dish is being served. (I can recall a similar situation from my own past, roughly thirty years ago, when the other students in a fourth or fifth grade field trip elected to stop into Kentucky Fried Chicken where, unlike McDonalds in later years, there were no salad options beyond a thick, fatty coleslaw. I *may* have picked the skin off a fried breast and tried my best, but I still recall the anxiety and isolation and disappointment of not feeling heard or seen.) As for Greg, his peers jeer and dismiss him with “you don’t like food,” addressing him with “Hey, weird eater!” In Physical, a rough-edged bully character at the Episode 9 rehab dismisses a malnourished patient’s opinion who is trying to discuss Sheila’s recovery by writing her off as someone whose meals consist of zero-calorie condiments, and thus of no to little authority on healing: "You eat mustard packets for dinner. What do you know about healthy?" The mousy anorexic immediately pipes down and of course becomes acquiescent in response. Conversely, the response from Gregory is more typically defensive. Feeling cornered and attacked, he raises his voice in natural objection: “It’s not my fault! I was born like this!” Now alienated, this otherwise confident person resorts to eating a bland lunch of boiled chicken alone in his car, the cameras trained on him also revealing he takes robotic bites while doing sit-ups in the reclined front seat. “I have four or five things that I like and I stick to those,” he tells the anonymous film crew. “It feels like a personal attack.” While such intake inflexibility and compulsive exercising is certainly characteristic of a disordered eater, I cannot claim to know for sure if he is genuinely, certifiably anorexic and preoccupied with food and fitness to the level of unhealthy obsession. Instead, more likely, he is reflecting the self-discipline adopted after being reared on a military-style regimen by his strict, commanding father —who he refers to as “Sir” and is briefly shown to be recognizably cutting, insensitive, unsupportive, and authoritarian in their shared video calls. More obvious is how Gregory’s food dislikes are used as an effective narrative shorthand to express how much he is coyly crushing on Abbott Elementary’s upbeat second-grade instructor Janine (Quinta Brunson, also the series creator) as the episode closes on him being open to “getting pizza” with her, which the audience now knows is a strong personal dislike, something even possibly feared.
Both Physical and Spencer depict the wretched agony of a heroine when she is similarly put on the spot, at not only friendly gatherings but —most especially— when pressured to take part in consuming decadent celebratory desserts. In the latter, it is a Christmas soufflé; in the former, the rich chocolate birthday cake of her clingy acquaintance/not-quite-friend Greta just beyond midpoint of the second season. (Greta, it is worth noting, is herself overweight and therefore off-putting to Sheila, who secretly sneers at her appearance, if not pities her for her evident lack of control.) “Is this what drowning feels like?” the caustic voice in her head deadpans to the viewer. If the torture of eating against one’s compliance is not spelled-out enough in these occasions, Spencer also includes a dinner scene when Diana imagines ripping off the sizable pearls that Charles has flatly bestowed upon her (having simultaneously gifted the same necklace to his mistress Camilla, which she is aware of) and slurping them down, painfully, with her pea-green bisque. In Physical, the real panic for Sheila arrives when her clueless husband Danny teases her about “fattening her up” while she is on forced bedrest after emergency surgery for a twisted ovary. He goes as far as to also express his desire for her to have another child with him, further adding to her deep-seated fears of weight gain and being restricted (per medical advice) from further aerobic activity, at least during the period of healing. Both women are being told to do something they don’t want for their body. In fact, in one excruciatingly tense scene set in the Sandringham billiards room, Charles ventures so far as to tell the woman he (begrudgingly) married: “You have to make your body do things you hate.” The implied subtext here that he very well might be referring to is that he must engage in the off-putting task of having sexual relations with Diana, but for her it is also about cooperating with —if (not more accurately) submitting to— the Christmas family feasting. The film draws parallels between her, in so many ways tied down, and the domesticated wildfowl shot for sport on the estate, which are kept from escaping too far by their clipped wings. Ironically, Spencer includes a passing moment from the Queen’s annual Christmas Day television address, in which she encourages her subjects to celebrate having “broken free of dictatorship." For both Diana, the “People’s Princess,” and Shiela, the public face of a popular exercise program, being trapped is being asked to no longer find comfort and freedom in their bulimic behaviors. The world never got a chance to learn if William & Harry's mother overcame her affliction, having perished at the tender age of thirty-six before realizing her full potential. For Sheila Rubin, of course, there could yet still be the opportunity. That is, should Apple+ grant us a Season 3.
