Jenny hardens her heart with only 2 stars for Breathe
I met my friend Bob at university. He had been
unlucky enough to get polio as a child – the tail end of the epidemic just
before universal vaccination banished this horrible illness in the UK. He was
in a wheelchair. His way of managing the reactions of those around him was to
refer to himself sardonically as Brave Bob. ‘Oh yes’, he’d say, ‘Brave Bob
still has a working brain’, and woe betide anyone who patronized, asked
intrusive questions, for instance about sex, what worked and what didn’t, or
made comments intended to be tremendously encouraging about how amazing it was
that he could manoeuvre his wheelchair in and out of lecture theatres. Bob
already saw the attraction of the Supercrip to the world of able bodied people.
The film will work for many people as a lovely
weepie – I heard a lot of snivels from fellow audience members, but alas, I
hardened my heart. Full disclosure: I lived with a severely disabled man until
his death 7 years ago. He was in a wheelchair for the last five years of his
life. He, too, mocked the Supercrip stereotype, refusing people’s pity. I
promise you that living with disability is nothing like it is depicted in this
film and I hated the way it fell into the easy stereotypes:
The disabled person is
always a man.
The actor is slim, able-bodied
and good looking.
He uses a wheelchair
because this is a visible symbol of disability that everyone can understand.
The man is saintly,
brave, uncomplaining and clever.
The man needs the
wisdom of a good woman to save him from a life of despair but she must
sacrifice everything because her purpose in life is to serve him.
The cost in money of
disability must never be mentioned, for instance of equipment, adaptations to
the home, special clothing, laundry, helpers.
People who oppose the
hero are creeps, jerks and bullies.
The emotional costs
to the rest of the family must never be mentioned.
The disabled person
ingeniously discovers ways of overcoming his physical handicaps through
inventions usually involving string, bells, teeth and eye movements.
Towards the end of
the film the disabled person makes a rallying speech about prejudice.
The disabled person
must die in the film, often to prevent further exploitation of their loved
ones.
Breathe falls into all of these clichés, with added heartswelling orchestral accompaniments in case we miss the point. The characters never age, except for some terrible prosthetics added to poor Andrew Garfield’s face for the film’s final sequences. A rosy glow permeates the gracious if slightly tatty home and its surrounding rural landscapes. Everyone smiles most of the time and Andrew Garfield does a lot of splendid acting with his eyebrows.
Diana appears to deal solo with Robin’s needs, but
did she really? Did she manually evacuate his bowels and change the catheter?
Did she dress him and feed him? Did she
do all the extra laundry? Did she, a slight woman, turn him, a heavy man, every
few hours on her own and deal with the ugly threat of pressure sores every day?
Did she service the respirator? Where did the money come from? How did she
manage to do all of this and care for a small child? Did the child never resent
the time and attention that his father necessarily absorbed?
No, I don’t think this would have been possible.
There must be a good documentary to be made about the extraordinary life of
Robin Cavendish which would salute his role in raising awareness and horizons
for disabled people and which would not shy away from all the things most
people really don’t want to know. We would all rather preserve our cosy
fantasies, the most malign of which, perpetuated in every feature film as in
this one, is that if disabled people try really really hard, they can overcome
their handicaps.
This film is a touching tribute by a son to his
father, but it is also a good argument for never being involved in a film where
you are one of the real life characters.
My old friend Bob lived a distinguished life as an
acerbic critic, writer and academic. His feisty wife, Marie, is nothing like
the pastel-coloured character depicted by Claire Foy. In his way Bob was as
much a pioneer as Robin Cavendish. You can read his Guardian obituary here.
No comments:
Post a Comment