I saw the Diving Bell and the Butterfly last night. It was fantastic. Contrasting the few moments of effective claustrophobia (when he realizes his condition and panics) were the multitudinous moments of beauty. They washed onto the screen one after another, reflecting some of the film’s overt imagery. Rapturous.
The audience seemed to agree with me. No one moved from their seat until towards the end of the song after the end title. Well, there was one older man, but I think he probably had to tinkle.
I read Jean-Dominique Bauby’s memoir last spring at the recommendation of a friend. It’s one of those books you are thankful you have read and hope that others will have read as well. But I can’t bring myself to physically recommend it to anyone.
Anyway. Throughout the film I tried to remember Bauby’s fate. Did he recover? Is he still locked in? Did he die? I could not remember. I kept on trying. Nothing, though. At the end of the film, his fate was spelled out. He had died before I had even become aware of the fact that there were books like his. How had I forgotten this? Why had I forgotten this? Protection? Hrmph.
I want to do better next time. Forgetting is wrong. Forgetting is wrong. Forgetting is wrong.
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