"Butterfly" Affects

"The Diving Bell and the Butterfly (Le Scaphandre et le papillon)" is told almost entirely (I suppose inevitably) from the point-of-view of Jean-Dominique Bauby, the late "Elle" magazine editor who in his early 40s suffered a massive stroke that left him completely paralyzed with the exception of his left eye. With a rare clarity of nomenclature, the medical profession called the disorder "locked-in syndrome". In order to communicate, a translator reads a list of letters to Mr. Bauby (Jean-Do to his friends) and he blinks when a correct letter is read. This process is repeated until a word is composed (the constant litany of letters becomes almost a soundtrack to the film). The fact that Jean-Do was able to dictate a memoir in this condition is a Herculean feat in and of itself, that it's such an arresting novel is the simply the icing on the cake. That it could be turned into an equally gripping film by the artist Julian Schnabel seems almost too much to hope for. And yet, Mr. Schnabel's film adaptation is every bit as compelling - and at times harrowing - as anyone could want.

Using a camera to literally represent someone's eyesight can be little more that gimmickry, but in Mr. Schnabel's capable hands (with the aid of renowned cinematographer Janusz Kaminski) the technique gives the viewer a unique glimpse into Mr. Bauby's condition - which the author likened to the diving apparatus of the title. Subtly, over the course of the film, the camerawork expands to include Jean-Do's immediate surroundings - perhaps mimicking how, over time, he could force slight head movements and audible grunts - but Mr. Schnabel never strays far from his subject, whose sardonic sense of humor permeates the film's narration adding a very-necessary levity.

So affecting is this technique that the morbid irony of the film is that the scenes (told in flashback) of Jean-Do in perfect health (attending photo shoots, weekending with his mistress in the idyllic French countryside) are the least interesting moments. With the exception of a gut-wrenching subplot involving his father (a well-cast Max von Sydow), these segments illuminate little about the man except for his constant appetite for female companionship (something that comes out more organically through his inner monologue). It's hard to blame him for this carousing, however, since Jean-Do's life was apparently peopled solely by attractive French women. In the film, these women are played by Emmanuelle Seigner, Marie-Josée Croze, Anne Consigny and Agathe de La Fontaine, all of whom portray exactly the type of attendants any bedridden male patient would hope for.

Jean Do is played by the Roman Polanski-esque Mathieu Amalric ("Munich") in what could easily have been a thankless role. Amazingly, the actor is able to convey a wide range of emotions through the film's well-used voice-over (much of which is culled directly from the novel by the film's writer Ronald Harwood) and that one expressive eye. The introduction of a speakerphone into Jean-Do's hospital room leads to some of the film's most memorable and unbearable scenes.

Comparisons to "The Sea Inside", "My Left Foot", and other films which depict people cut off from their bodies, are unavoidable. But Mr. Schnabel has done more than create a biopic about a man overcoming impossible obstacles. He has created a film which, for a time, creates an almost physical empathy in the audience. Locked-in syndrome, the doctors in the film remind us, is a rare affliction. A film this good is equally so.