Hollywood Ditches the ‘Fat Friend’ Laughing Stock

For many years, the “funny fat friend” served as one of the limited ways plus-size women were represented on screen. Often relegated to the sidelines, these characters were typically portrayed as loud, self-deprecating, and perpetually open to ridicule. The plus-size actress was rarely the protagonist unless the central theme revolved around her pursuit of weight loss.

These characters often provided comic relief, emotional support, and even acted as a buffer to make slimmer leads appear more desirable, serious, or complete. If the character was depicted as sexual, it was usually played for laughs. If she displayed confidence, it was exaggerated to the point of absurdity. Her humour became a defence mechanism, a survival strategy in a culture that often treated her body as a problem to be fixed.

Consider Jan from the film Grease, a Pink Lady whose defining characteristics seemed to be her constant remarks about her size and her fondness for junk food. This cliché feels particularly jarring given that the actress playing her wasn’t noticeably larger than the other female cast members.

The trope is so blatant that, towards the end of the film, Putzie (one of the T-Birds) tells her, “I think there’s more to you than just fat,” and she reacts as if it’s the kindest thing anyone has ever said to her.

While plus-size men have certainly faced similar stereotyping based on their weight, larger men have historically had more opportunities in media. From Oliver Hardy to John Candy to Jack Black, larger male comedians have been presented as lovable, central figures, often even the stars. While their size might have been incorporated into the humour, it didn’t entirely define them.

Countless other examples of the “fat funny girl” archetype include characters like Fat Amy in Pitch Perfect, Melissa McCarthy’s character Sookie in Gilmore Girls, and Nancy in Stranger Things.

The Disappearance of the “Funny Fat Friend”

However, this familiar character is now becoming less common on screens. At first glance, the decline of this archetype might appear to be progress. Surely it’s a positive development that plus-size women are no longer obligated to joke about their bodies simply to be visible? In theory, yes. However, the reality is that what’s replacing her isn’t improved representation, but simply more thin people.

The Impact of Weight-Loss Drugs

The rise of weight-loss medications has significantly altered the conversation surrounding body size. More individuals than ever – particularly celebrities and influencers – are experiencing rapid and dramatic weight loss, often without fully disclosing the methods they are using. These drugs have become both a miracle solution and a metaphor: an escape from shame and a pharmaceutical reset for those who once relied on humour to navigate life in a plus-size body.

Rather than challenging the prevailing cultural narrative surrounding body size, these medications have highlighted the deeply ingrained nature of fatphobia.

This shift has been particularly challenging for advocates of size inclusivity. “It’s been hard watching people who once proudly claimed the word ‘fat’ suddenly slim down,” says one activist. “I’m like, ‘Wait, did you just want to be thin all along? Did you secretly hate yourself?’ That’s been the hardest thing to process.”

The Shifting Landscape of Representation

The list of public figures who have transformed in the age of these medications reads like a who’s who of former “fat but funny” icons: Rebel Wilson, Melissa McCarthy, Jonah Hill. While few have explicitly confirmed using medication, their weight loss has sparked speculation and shifted public perception. Comedians like Amy Schumer and Jim Gaffigan have openly discussed using weight-loss drugs, despite having built careers, in part, on humour related to their bodies.

Even for those who have genuinely lost weight through lifestyle changes, the cultural impact remains the same. It’s difficult not to wonder if the accessibility of weight-loss drugs has made thinness more attainable and, consequently, more expected. And with that expectation comes increased pressure to conform.

Often presented as personal triumphs, these transformations are frequently framed as journeys of health, discipline, or self-love – which, in many cases, they may very well be. Indeed, there’s nothing inherently wrong with someone losing weight for any reason they choose and using whatever method they deem best for them, provided they do so safely.

However, in a media landscape heavily influenced by pharmaceuticals, it’s worth questioning how much of that “health journey” and “self-love” branding is genuine and how much is a survival strategy in a world that punishes visible plus-size bodies.

Many admit to feeling pressure to try weight-loss drugs. “I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel it. I’ve had this conversation with so many others… Fatphobia is so ingrained in our culture. You can’t help but wonder if life would just be easier if you were thin.”

Compliance vs. Liberation

This isn’t just a physical transformation; it’s a narrative one. When plus-size actors disappear from screens by becoming thin, or when being plus-size becomes a temporary hurdle rather than a permanent aspect of identity, culture isn’t evolving. It’s regressing – just with a cleaner, more discreet delivery system.

For decades, humour was the most reliable avenue to visibility for plus-size women. But even when the characters were nuanced, their weight took precedence and served as the lens through which every other characteristic was interpreted.

And even those rare moments of representation came with strict limitations. The plus-size body, regardless of its importance to the story, was always the joke or the obstacle to overcome.

The body positivity movement attempted to challenge this, promoting pride, visibility, and self-love. But over time, it was diluted into marketable slogans, co-opted by brands, and rarely focused on the individuals most marginalised by fatphobia – particularly Black, disabled, trans, and very-plus-size individuals.

Now, weight-loss drugs threaten to replace that movement with something quieter and more insidious: compliance. Why accept your body when you can afford to change it? Why be the funny plus-size friend when you can become the slender lead?

But this isn’t liberation. It’s the erasure of a harmful stereotype, only to replace it with the absence of plus-size people altogether.

The Path Forward

In a culture where thinness remains the price of admission, choice becomes ambiguous. Representation rings hollow when those who once stood outside the norm quietly conform – not necessarily because they want to, but because the alternative still invites ridicule, judgment, and exclusion.

However, there are glimmers of hope. Some shows are presenting plus-size characters who are complex, flawed, and deeply lovable without constantly commenting on their weight. The camera doesn’t shy away from their softness or reduce them to caricatures. Their bodies are simply a fact, not a plot point.

These moments suggest a future where plus-size women aren’t erased, but reimagined, not required to self-deprecate to be seen, and not expected to disappear to be respected.

If being plus-size remains something we only ever see in “before” photos – or something that must be overcome for the story to begin – then we haven’t progressed; we’ve simply upgraded the tools of exclusion.

The funny plus-size girl doesn’t need to vanish. She needs to be freed from the obligation to make her own body the punchline and from the burden of being both mascot and martyr. She can still be funny, but her dignity doesn’t need to be sacrificed for the laugh.