directed by Julian Schnabel
written by Ronald Harwood
novel by Jean-Dominique Bauby
France, USA 2007
The first act feels abbreviated, as if Elle editor Jean-Dominique Bauby could actually will himself into acceptance of this condition on the strength of his considerable charisma. The man rocketed through an explosion of prestigious fame and fortune before his stroke, and in an inspiring way, rather than a rock star sequence coming to a crashing halt, this momentum seems to carry him through the initial shock and adjustment process, the Dark Passage of dealing with a delibitating event. Spielberg's photo man Janusz Kaminski shoots from a one-eyed perspective with mesmerizing focus pulls and pivot games. His and director Julian Schnabel's emphasis throughout these tender opening scenes is so obviously focused more on a visceral delivery of the Bauby experience than anything else, perhaps in hopes of somehow bringing to life that connection between sensory perception and imagination, body and mind. The man's body, though--as is revealed in the (frustratingly mostly expository) subsequent scenes--is secondary to what has formed him as a professional and as a man. A debilitating condition has the effect of bringing issues of human composition to the table. With such limited expressive capabilities, what is it that makes up the man? Schnabel's butterfly theme crowds the frame with light, pretty people, poetry, and an array of the Sun King extravagance of Versailles. Distracted from the more human attention usually given to cinematic in-patients, one must assume that Bauby's verve and consequent success, both post- and pre-trauma, can be attributed merely to his acceptance of the aristocracy. Before the sickness, rich people danced pirouettes around him, and after the sickness, rich people continued the act.
Schnabel's first film, 1996's Basquiat, told a similar story from a different perspective. Jean Michel Basquiat encountered that same doting personality upon his entry into the New York Gallery scene. A nobody to begin with, and a natural iconoclast, Basquiat eventually rejected the aristocracy that wanted nothing more than to buy and sell him in the name of humanism. Jean-Do Bauby's success, though, was built on harnessing this energy and putting it up at retail prices. A speedy and opportunistic adjustment to a life-changing event, something Basquiat failed to achieve, marks Bauby's saga. It's a fine story, even inspirational, but isn't it just the aristocrat in all of us that can appreciate it on that level?
