Review of The Diving Bell and the Butterfly (2007) by Robben M — 17 Sep 2009

Upon seeing the first image of THE DIVING BELL AND THE BUTTERFLY, that of a blurry, indistinct world where we are looking through the eyes of Jean-Dominique Bauby in his hospital bed, I was suddenly reminded of the dreamy and fantastic drama A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH, by Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger.

That film was about a highly improbably but very romantic encounter between an American radio operator who talks to a British pilot as he is about to crash. From there, they are in love, and she believes him to have died. But he doesn't, and he is now convinced that he must find the woman and love her forever. She too, believes that this is the dream. But the forces from "above", believe his time is up and have come to collect his life.

He must argue his case in a celestial court before a cosmic judge and all those that have died in both Wars. But a doctor is convinced that these visions are from a brain tumor that is lethal and must be removed immediately. In a sequence in a hospital, we see the entire thing from his point of view, on the cart, looking at the ceiling, moving to the operating room. He is put under and we see two gigantic eyelids cover the camera lens, slowly, and deliberately.

The reason for that lenghty synopsis of another movie altogether is to quell my utter dissapointment with such an un-creative film.

That is correct. THE DIVING BELL AND THE BUTTERFLY is a failure of the highest degree, and no amount of "you are there" photography can save its lack of imagination.

I do not know of Julien Schnabel, or his body of paintings or other work, but it does not matter. This film is a wasted oppurtunity, par excellence.

It tells the remarkable and true story of Jean-Dominique Bauby, the editor for the fashion magazine, Elle, and how he was struck with a stroke, rendering him completely paralyzed, save for his left eye and a little head movement.

The film attempts to put us in his shoes, by mostly shooting from his eyes, and having his inner thoughts voiced to us on the soundtrack. The cinematography is deliberately focused on one point on the screen, rendering everything else blurry, overexposed and bright, a blue hue sometimes descending on the image.

There is nothing wrong with this, but it seems this is the extent of experimental techinques Schnabel can conceive, and, instead of trying to put us in Babuy's shoes, serves to only alienate the viewer and thus robs the film of any emotional impact.

The story is that of his gradual realization that even in his locked-in state, he has to find refuge in something, so he finds it in himself and in the thought that life goes on. At first, he imagines his life as being trapped in a diver suit (the afroementioned diving bell), and at first, we are shown for a few seconds this image, fleeting and indisctinct. I thought that was quite nice, but then we see it several more times, and at that point it becomes ridiculous.

In fact, it seems utterly out of place with the mish-mash of styles that are hopelessly disconnected and serve to only drag you out of the narrative, which is the only force in the film. Schnabel may not want to "corrupt" the story, but it doesn't matter. He has nothing to contribute to the picture's style.

At the point when Bauby comes to the conclusion that he must be like the butterfly (his imagination, also very heavyhanded in practice on screen) the film's fantasies and flights of fancy are rendered so half-heartedly that they suck the joy out of you.

Michael Powell would be rolling in his grave.

Despite the raging beauties on screen, we don't much care, and in fact, Bauby is not that sympathetic in the beginning, as he comes off (in his thoughts, mind you. He can't move or speak...which reminds me...) as one of those utterly bitter and selfish people in the hospital that are unaware of all the suffering around them. He gets over it though, but the transition is clunky, almost terrible.

His liscentiousness is only matched by the pathetic attempts to characterize him. For all the inner thoughts and momentary laspes into dreams, we are kept at an arms length from Bauby. Only at the very end do we get to see the man, and even then, it is cut short when the sequence is simply a renactment of the day of his stroke.

The only actor that succeeds in creating emotion in what is a dead film, is Max von Sydow, but you should already know this. His performance is marvellous, stunning and touching.

He can conjure up emotions without even doing much, except in his delivery and the correct punctuation of tears coming down the face. However farcical that may sound, his character, (Bauby's father, a frail man who is confined to his room, much like his son's predicament) shakes you to the core.

Once he leaves the film however, so does the emotional core. Nothing is left. The film is a vaccuous piece of stylistic bravura that does nothing to impress. Nor does it seem particularly interested, despite whatever Schanbel has to say about it.

You know, for all of its melodrama and fantasy, A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH has more to say about living life to the fullest and love than any frame of this hopelessly pretentious and emotionless husk of a film.