I'll have to admit, I can't go completely with how the mass opinion has been about the Diving Bell and the Butterfly, the third film by painter-turned-director Julian Shnabel. I don't think it's any towering achievement overall, and if not for the experimenting with style and mood and nuance it wouldn't connect quite as much (even if, also arguably, Schanbel's own stylistic overhaul of the 'triumph-of-the-spirit' biopic goes a little too much towards the end). But this being said, I wouldn't at all tell anyone not to go see it, especially for those who want a spike of difference in a story of true human adversity and the trials and tribulations that go with something taken always for granted- communication. It's a brave effort, and one that I would probably revisit in bits and pieces when on DVD or on TV. There is a quality of artistic perseverance that Schnabel is attempting here, and it's probably just as admirable as Jean Dominique Bauby's own personal success at freedom from his own uncontrollable prison.
Bauby, an editor for French Elle, got a stroke and consequently had "locked-in" syndrome, where he could still think, remember and imagine, but had next to no physical movements. Through a system of communication by blinking, letter by letter of the alphabet, Bauby got his sanity and will to live back, and wrote a book of the film's title, where he wrote about his memories and time in the hospital. Ten days after the book released, he died. What we get right off the bat, as part of Schanbel trying out and changing to the unexpected, aside from one or two cuts to flashbacks, we don't leave Bauby's first-person POV- a fragile, out-and-in-focus view, with voice-overs of Bauby's sarcastic and impinged thoughts, and it's daring. Only when he leaves his point of view does he finally accept he needs to move on from his self-pity and thoughts of death does the point of view change (though he goes back to Bauby's one-eyed view every now and again).
From there, we see his recovery, not in the physical sense but in his consciousness, of visualizing all sort of things elsewhere in the world, and of his past faults (i.e. a trip with a girlfriend to Lourdes, where his Catholicism catches up with the awkwardness of romance there). In the emotional sense, Schanbel and Harwood do get it right, most of the time. Some of the best scenes of the film are the ones featuring Bauby's father, played by Max von Sydow, who is also somewhat locked-in, unable to leave his apartment to see his son in the hospital. If only for a few minutes, Bergmanian sorrow drifts into the proceedings. And Schnabel has two interesting cards at his disposal: Mathieu Amalric, who even with one eye often has a talent (if that's the word, 'soul' might be too sentimental) that is perfect for the part. And, Janusz Kaminski, who is up for experimenting with lighting and different lenses, and tries to keep up with Schnabel's ideas in expressing- as Herzog might put it- inner landscapes.
Perhaps it's simply on a first-viewing that certain things, for me, became too baffling or repetitive. We're given surrealistic visions of a crumbling hospital, an Empress running around, glaciers, other visions that almost stretch to be too literal coming out of the book's narration via Bauby, and during these (plus what veers to an over-the-top wavering camera leading up to Bauby's actual stroke shown while he's driving), one almost wants Schanbel to get back to the more heart-rending moments, of the nurse or other looking straight-on at Bauby, sometimes going into tears, at the words he comes out with letter by tragic-comic letter. But Diving Bell and the Butterfly works, at least, in putting a viewer through an experience that is inspiring, that does what many biopics only do in spurts or not at all, which is to use style to elevate substance to the level of art. My complains about the film are practically outweighed by the core emotional impulse of Bauby, who will live on now by way of his creativity and ingenuity- like his favorite book, The Count of Monte Cristo.
Bauby, an editor for French Elle, got a stroke and consequently had "locked-in" syndrome, where he could still think, remember and imagine, but had next to no physical movements. Through a system of communication by blinking, letter by letter of the alphabet, Bauby got his sanity and will to live back, and wrote a book of the film's title, where he wrote about his memories and time in the hospital. Ten days after the book released, he died. What we get right off the bat, as part of Schanbel trying out and changing to the unexpected, aside from one or two cuts to flashbacks, we don't leave Bauby's first-person POV- a fragile, out-and-in-focus view, with voice-overs of Bauby's sarcastic and impinged thoughts, and it's daring. Only when he leaves his point of view does he finally accept he needs to move on from his self-pity and thoughts of death does the point of view change (though he goes back to Bauby's one-eyed view every now and again).
From there, we see his recovery, not in the physical sense but in his consciousness, of visualizing all sort of things elsewhere in the world, and of his past faults (i.e. a trip with a girlfriend to Lourdes, where his Catholicism catches up with the awkwardness of romance there). In the emotional sense, Schanbel and Harwood do get it right, most of the time. Some of the best scenes of the film are the ones featuring Bauby's father, played by Max von Sydow, who is also somewhat locked-in, unable to leave his apartment to see his son in the hospital. If only for a few minutes, Bergmanian sorrow drifts into the proceedings. And Schnabel has two interesting cards at his disposal: Mathieu Amalric, who even with one eye often has a talent (if that's the word, 'soul' might be too sentimental) that is perfect for the part. And, Janusz Kaminski, who is up for experimenting with lighting and different lenses, and tries to keep up with Schnabel's ideas in expressing- as Herzog might put it- inner landscapes.
Perhaps it's simply on a first-viewing that certain things, for me, became too baffling or repetitive. We're given surrealistic visions of a crumbling hospital, an Empress running around, glaciers, other visions that almost stretch to be too literal coming out of the book's narration via Bauby, and during these (plus what veers to an over-the-top wavering camera leading up to Bauby's actual stroke shown while he's driving), one almost wants Schanbel to get back to the more heart-rending moments, of the nurse or other looking straight-on at Bauby, sometimes going into tears, at the words he comes out with letter by tragic-comic letter. But Diving Bell and the Butterfly works, at least, in putting a viewer through an experience that is inspiring, that does what many biopics only do in spurts or not at all, which is to use style to elevate substance to the level of art. My complains about the film are practically outweighed by the core emotional impulse of Bauby, who will live on now by way of his creativity and ingenuity- like his favorite book, The Count of Monte Cristo.