impressed by The Diving Bell and The Butterfly

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly is the story of a man who said his imagination and his memories were the only part of him, besides his left eye, not paralyzed. Jean Dominique Bauby is capable of only blinking one eye after waking from a coma caused by a stroke. With vision that fluctuates between blurry and sharp, I see the faces of doctors and therapists as Jean-Do sees them. The colors are dull and there are a series of extreme close-up shots, when the staff speaks to him or examines him, filling nearly our entire view of the small hospital room. Images of a man stranded within a diving suit and floating in the ocean flicker onto the screen, with Jean-Do’s panicked face visible through the metal helmet and only his strained breathing heard.
When Jean-Do is introduced to a therapist who teaches him to speak with the flutter of his eyelids, indicating a letter by blinking if it is spoken, one of the first sentences he constructs is: “I want death.”
Later, this depression is contrasted by his uplifted spirits evidenced when a young woman named Claude arrives to work with Jean-Do to transcribe the book that he composes and memorizes in his mind. He made a contract to write a book before suffering the stroke and he would like to see it through.
When Claude perches beside his hospital bed with pencil and notebook in hand, the camera pans out into a long shot. We no longer feel confined by the close faces speaking within Jean-Do’s line of vision. Instead, we see the entire room which includes Claude’s full body sitting on a chair, Jean-Do’s outstretched body including his red sweater, and two vases of colorful flowers on the bureau. This is the first bright and visually pleasing scene of the film. Jean-Do finds a release through expression of his feelings and thoughts and by creating metaphors.
It is in Jean-Do’s imagination that we see color and hear excited voices and energetic movement. He remembers skiing down a mountain, visiting cities in Italy, and he envisions kissing Claude. If it wasn’t for these bursts of life and stimulation, the film might be unbearable. Jean-Do’s inner voice often speaks out in protest or answers a doctor’s question, but no one can hear him. One scene is filled with the persistent, piercing screech coming from a television station that has lost a signal. Jean-Do lies unmoving in his bed with only his eye darting around in his head. The room is dark and unmoving. He has no power to stop the noise and no way to escape it. I could barely endure it: My pulse quickened as his wide eye flickered back and forth and the deafening sound continued to buzz.
Whenever it seemed too monotonous or depressing, scenes filled with sunlight and beautiful camera angles lit up the screen.
While I found myself frustrated or even inclined to avert my eyes in scenes when Jean-Do was in the hospital bed, I appreciated their importance and the effort to include me in his personal perspective. Without them, I might look at his face with the same misunderstanding as the electricians who entered his hospital room and laughed at his condition.
The balance established by the interjection of scenes such as a breezy, sunny day at the beach was enough to lift my spirits when Jean-Do felt hopeful. I couldn’t look away as I saw the mother of Jean-Do’s children through his eyes – with her hair flipping from the ocean breeze and their kids running across the sand within view behind her face. The cinematography was enthralling, and I’ve never walked away from a movie with such gratitude for my moving legs.