Mourning the Ozempification of Hollywood

I’ve been sitting with a low-level but steady sadness and anger in recent months as it’s become clear how pervasive the use of Ozempic and other GLP-1 drugs have become among celebrities.

But I think the Oscars broadcast earlier this month really put a spotlight on how much we've returned to an era of hyper-thinness: many of the nominated actresses looked gaunt and unhealthily thin, and most of the actresses we’re used to seeing in larger bodies looked noticeably smaller than before. I’m tempted to name some of these actors (some of which are men, though it’s much more noticeable among women), but really, what’s the point? It seems like everyone who wasn’t already very thin is taking Ozempic (and no, I can’t prove they’re all taking the drugs, but tell me when was the last time you saw such a widespread trend?).

This trend has evoked feelings of fear and betrayal for me, as someone invested in the media representation of fat people, particularly women. A decade ago we were starting to see greater body diversity, especially on TV, and better stories for fat characters and actors. Now, the appearance of these new “miracle” drugs means the goalposts are moving on which bodies are allowed to be represented on screen. The Ozempic craze has begun to reverse the progress we had seen, and we’re going to see the size of bodies onscreen shrink. In addition, we've seen a big uptick in A-list actors once again donning fatsuits, which has been criticized for decades by fat activists as dehumanizing.¹

I want to stress that I am a proponent of bodily autonomy and the right of each person to decide what to do with their bodies. I know what it’s like to move through the world as a fat woman, even if for most of my life I wasn’t fat enough to be subjected to overt discrimination. I can still fit into the absurdly narrow airplane seats (though not with zero physical contact with my neighbor!), and I haven’t had a humiliating experience with a healthcare professional (though several have of course suggested I lose weight). But I also know at this point that if I got any fatter, I would experience those humiliations.

The point is, being fat is really hard in our society and world. Convincing the world that fat people aren’t lazy or gluttonous is still an uphill battle. Go to any fat person’s social media account and you’ll see a litany of disgusting insults from total strangers, and I’ve definitely received fatphobic comments online if not in person. The medical community may have changed its tune somewhat and pivoted away from the message that fat people just need to work out harder and eat less (things that have repeatedly been proven to not be effective for longterm weight loss), and toward a message that the reasons for “obesity”² are complex and multi-factorial, likely involving genetics, poverty/lack of access to healthy food, and even generational trauma. However, the average American still blames fat people for our body size, assumes we cannot be healthy or active if we’re fat, and considers being fat to be a moral failing.

Having said all this, I certainly understand the appeal of taking one of these GLP-1 drugs, especially for people who have been treated like shit their whole lives and maybe even suffered professionally because of their body size.³ It’s simply a lot easier to live in a body that’s socially acceptable—or that fits into airplane seats without a seatbelt extender, or that fits into restaurant booths or on flimsy plastic chairs at public events. There are practical reasons to want to lose weight—even if these drugs come with some pretty serious side effects and a lifetime commitment to injecting yourself lest you gain the weight back.

But these reasons for taking GLP-1s all stem back to the root of the problem, which is societal anti-fat bias and the refusal to accept that body diversity is natural, and that fat people are not morally inferior to thin people. In other words, the reason people want to take Ozempic is because it helps them navigate a world that is inherently fatphobic. They may also falsely believe that being able to lose weight will solve their problems or make them happier (one of the greatest lies we tell ourselves), but as far as I can tell from my own experience on this earth, we can only be happier once we start practicing radical self-acceptance. For me, that means accepting myself in a fat body. It’s a practice, not something I’ve solved for myself. I expect it will be a lifelong struggle to try and love my body in a world that tells me everyday that it’s disgusting and unacceptable.

Now, imagine how much harder the struggle to love yourself as you are becomes when so many of the people we see onscreen are shrinking their bodies because it can now be done more easily with these drugs. Do you see how the defense of individual bodily autonomy can mask the larger systemic problem, anti-fat bias, which will continue to harm people in large bodies who decide not to or can’t afford to take drugs like Ozempic? Under the guise of individual bodily autonomy, we’re not supposed to critique people who have shrunk their bodies, even if they’re doing so in a way that’s harmful to others. Why do we so commonly see formerly fat people suddenly seem to transform into different people whose personality becomes all about showing off their body, proudly sharing the fact that they’ve reached their weight loss goals, talking about how “healthy” they now are, or sharing their “before and after” photos? Can you see how that would feel like a betrayal to other fat people?

Yes, this is a decision they have made about their own body—but they have a choice about how to speak about that decision publicly. First, they can choose to say nothing, which is always a good option, as our body sizes have nothing to do with our intelligence or abilities or who we are as people. Otherwise, they can stand up for fat people and fight for more accessible public spaces and non-biased medical care even if they don’t *need* those things anymore. Or they can take advantage of their new thin privilege and throw fat people under the bus. This unfortunately seems to be the most common choice for famous people speaking about their weight loss: they proclaim how much healthier and happier they are, or suggest that their weight loss is due to a tremendous amount of hard work. The implication of that last statement is of course that fat people who haven’t been able to lose weight aren’t trying hard enough and are just lazy. So now the discourse shifts from one individual’s choice to an indictment of an entire group of people—which, by the way, comprises a large proportion of the American population.

I’m sad to say that in recent months I had to unfollow a famous singer who used to be fiercely fat-positive and now seems to be disowning her previous, fatter self and basking in the public praise about how amazing she looks. Like, you don’t have to do this. You could simply tell the public it’s none of your business what I do with my body, and you should focus on the music I put out. You could continue to stand up for fat people who don’t have the privilege you have to hire a personal trainer and chef, or take expensive weight loss drugs. But we rarely see that happen. It’s so much easier to throw fat people under the bus and fall under the spell of all the fatphobic praise than to push back and tell your fans, hey, I’m not a better or more beautiful person just cuz I’m in a smaller body now.

Sometimes celebrities who’ve lost weight buy into the hype because they’re actually profiting off of us continuing to hate our bodies by shilling for weight loss drugs (hey Oprah). This is an issue that’s too often overlooked when we talk about how damaging anti-fat bias is. Weight loss is profitable, especially if it means people have to take these drugs for the rest of their lives. In my youth it was Jenny Craig (I did a JC program when I was 17) and Weight Watchers, which made huge profits off the pervasive body hate among women in particular. And because weight loss is rarely permanent, when we gained the weight back after finishing their programs, we would inevitably have to get on the roller coaster again and pay them more money to help us shrink ourselves (again temporarily). By the way, did you know that weight cycling (also called yo-yo dieting) is thought to be a major cause of weight gain in the long term, as well as posing other health risks? In other words, if we had never subjected ourselves to restrictive eating in the first place, we might be less fat!

I guess all this is to say that while I support bodily autonomy, I also think it’s ok to feel disappointed or betrayed when a previously fat person becomes fatphobic. I don’t care what people do with their bodies. What I bristle against is fat people throwing the rest of us under the bus for making different choices.

And all of this is why the Ozempification of Hollywood feels so bad for me. Because I know it will exacerbate bias against fat people in our society. It's a personal decision that on a large scale has harmful ripple effects. In Hollywood, the popularity of these drugs telegraphs a message to all actors that they will see more success and better parts and higher pay if they take measures to shrink their bodies, even if they have no pre-existing health problems. The end result will be less fat representation in the stories we see on TV and in film, which in turn feeds our self-hate when we see no one who looks like us onscreen.

One person I’ve been thinking about is Jessica Gunning, the actress who basically swept all the TV awards last year for her role in Baby Reindeer (which I wrote about last year). She won what I believe is her last eligible award for the role a few weeks ago at the Screen Actors Guild Awards, beating out some incredibly famous and stiff competition (Oscar-winning actresses Cate Blanchett, Jodie Foster, and Kathy Bates!). Doors should be opening up for her all over the place since that breakout role; and I should say that I think she’s well-known in the UK already, but not in Hollywood. I wonder if her star will continue to rise as a fat actress, particularly if she remains fat. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was being pressured to take Ozempic by her agent or manager in order to get better parts, or if she took it upon herself to do it. I won’t be at all surprised to see her body begin to shrink.

If that happens, I will feel nothing but empathy for her, as I know how alienating it must feel as a fat woman in Hollywood, especially when even the thin actresses are shrinking themselves further. It almost feels like she has no other choice. I will not blame her for making that decision if she chooses to do so—as long as it isn’t accompanied by a harmful media narrative about how much happier and healthier she is in a smaller body.

1. I wrote in 2020 about fat suits no longer being a trend, as well as the growing representation of fat women on TV. Little did I know they would come roaring back.

2. I put this term in scare quotes because I don’t think it says anything meaningful. Obesity is solely determined by the use of a very flawed and racist measure, the BMI, and thus does not mean anything other than that someone is “fat” or has a large body. Being classified as obese doesn’t specify anything about a person’s health, such as whether they are diabetic or have high cholesterol. The notion of an “obesity crisis” and the pathologization of large body size as a disease in and of itself has only marginalized fat people and contributed to bias against us. Medical professionals are notoriously biased against fat people and often cannot treat us adequately because of their own assumptions about our health and their tendency to ignore our reporting of symptoms. I’m not arguing that being overweight isn’t correlated with certain diseases, but rather that doctors should treat our symptoms (like high blood sugar, for example) rather than telling us to just lose weight.

3. Needless to say, there are lots of studies documenting size discrimination in the workplace, a trend that disproportionately affects women and NOT men.