The famous closing sequence of Francois Truffaut’s The 400 Blows (1959) depicts its protagonist, the newly emancipated Antoine Doinel, running towards the sea. This running sequence, filmed in one long tracking shot, (which at the time was quite groundbreaking) lasts longer than one would expect. When he gets to the sea he steps in the water, slows his pace, turns around, looks directly into the camera, the frame freezes, the movie ends. The juxtaposition of captivity, then extreme mobility followed by extreme immobility, when placed against traditional norms involving representation of masculinity, is quite telling. In the context of my argument, this scene serves as a metaphorical micro-narrative, both echoing and challenging traditional ideas about male sexuality. For example, sexual pursuit is often represented in films by some form of male physical activity. Toughness, speed, physical tenacity and of course body size, including the size of the penis where it’s shown, are all rewarded with sexual gratification.
Scenes like this rhyme with the one I mentioned insofar as they typify a climactic attempt at male validation within the narrative context. We have all seen countless films that build up to the moment when the hero wins the game, conquers the enemy, or completes the quest and gets the girl. What about the male body necessitates its use as the primary source of sexual validation and what narrative contexts attempt to change this? Just try and think of last film you saw where the hero got the girl solely by solving the puzzle, creating the masterpiece, or god forbid, communicating effectively.
When faced with the challenge of representing male sexuality outside the traditional, phallic norm, some filmmakers have turned to the loss of limb function to deemphasize the penis as a sexual necessity. These films, when stacked against one another, make up their own subgenre of melodrama: the disability narrative. Films like Coming Home (1978); Born on the Fourth of July (1989) and The Waterdance (1992) put fairly typical male heroes in positions of physical paralysis, usually from the waist down. These characters must re-learn how to “function” in all areas of life. Invariably, in each of these films a major factor of this functionality is sexual ability. This is true to the point that in this genre, it is practically a rule that at least one major plot point turn around this question: If he can’t get an erection, how is he supposed to have sex? Only the details about the answers vary. While these characters may not be able to get up, or “get it up”, they all get down or go down. In other words, the question is always answered in some kind of drawn out, pivotal scene, insistent on proving that these men can still perform.
Linda Williams, in her book Screening Sex, cites Jane Fonda and Jon Voigt’s performances in Coming Home as a departure from the more traditional depiction of “active, phallic thrusting into a passive receptacle.” In the film, Fonda’s character has her first orgasm with a man who, as far as we know, is unable to have an erection. Williams argues that this depiction breaks the normative representation of the thrusting, pounding male sex machine in favor of a softer approach; emphasizing a fuller body experience. She is right, insofar as the scene takes the sexual emphasis off of the penis as the sole provider of female pleasure. However, the film falls in line with other traditional phallic discourses, including other disability narratives, in that it rewards male sexual ability and finesse as a device for character validation and achievement. Moving the phallus from the penis to another part of the body and replacing “hard and fast” with “soft and slow” may depart from the norm and be unusual but the same narrative question is at work with the emphasis placed on the male body: “How is he going to get her off?”
Recently, Julian Schnabel’s The Diving Bell and the Butterfly (2007) appears to have revealed a new kind of disability narrative. Adapted from the autobiography of the same title, the film tells the story of the late Jean-Dominique Bauby, former editor of Elle magazine and sufferer of locked-in syndrome; a rare disease that causes almost total paralysis. Unlike the heroes of other disability narratives, Bauby does not have the use of his upper body; in fact, his only means of physical expression is the ability to blink one eyelid. Eventually, he learns to communicate by means of a scribe who painstakingly lists letters until he gives an appropriate blinking response, she writes the letter down, and so on. Corporeal point-of-view shots, vivid flashbacks and lucid fantasy sequences force character empathy and audience identification in a way that few films attempt to do. Surprisingly, unlike the disability narratives mentioned before, there is no pivotal, validating sex sequence where the question, “If he can’t get an erection, how is he supposed to have sex?” is even addressed.
This is not to say that the film caries no sexual charge. In fact, it is practically premised upon Bauby’s sexuality. However, this only makes the lack of a central, validating sex scene more interesting. Within the three main cinematic contexts that make up the narrative, patterns of sexual expression emerge which both reinforce and present new approaches to traditional notions of male sexuality. These contexts include: subjective point-of-view shots with voice-in-the-head narration; flashbacks mostly shot on hand-held; and fantasies, which mix flashbacks, subjective realism, and mashed up archival footage.
The persistent use of point-of-view camerawork in this film is so stunning because the subject is bedridden. For the first twenty minutes his view is limited, and so is ours. When one of his eyes needs to be sewn shut, we experience that visually. When he is distracted visually, so are we. Such distractions usually come in the form of two conveniently beautiful young ladies sent to assist in his recovery. As his new speech therapist and a physiotherapist introduce themselves he asks himself, “Am I in heaven?” In the first few sequences like this, the camera’s “eye” grazes their bodies shamelessly. However, as therapy continues and he begins to rely on his caregivers’ lips and the repeated alphabet for communication, this sort of optical fondling decreases and so do the point-of-view shots.
An even more interesting context for sexual discourse in Diving Bell comes in the form of abundant flashbacks. These glimpses into the past prove valuable by establishing what Bauby’s character was like before his stroke. We learn that as editor of Elle he was saw no shortage of attractive women and that he had serious relationships with at least two of them. He saw himself as, “Handsome, debonair…” One such flashback is particularly interesting for our purposes. In it, he and his statuesque lover embark on what he claims he thought was going to be a “dirty weekend.” Driving the car, she informs him that they are going on a pilgrimage for her benefit, “I want to see the Madonna and drink holy water.” Later, as they walk through the crowded street, she is noticeably taller than he is. She asks him to buy a statue of the Virgin Mary. He complies. Later that night, the two lay next to each other in bed, naked, the Virgin literally glowing over them. “I can’t make love with her watching.” Her frank refusal to turn it off comes almost as invitation for him to break up with her, which he does and she replies just as frankly, “Turn off the light, but not my Madonna.” Bauby then gets out of bed, gets dressed and goes for a walk.
If Diving Bell ever had an opportunity for something akin to one of the sexual validation sequences mentioned earlier, this would have been it. A lovemaking scene at this point in the narrative would have been a clear contrast to the next scene where he is cradled in the pool by another grown man and asked, “Are you okay? Are you comfortable?” in the most gentle of tones. Moreover, the scene did involve his former lover, someone he undoubtedly would have made love with. In other words, despite taking place in the past, during a time of mobility, this scene’s position in the narrative and the character identification that occurs therein rhyme with the sexual validation scenes in other disability narratives. When faced with this opportunity, Diving Bell opts for introspection rather than expression.
Thirdly, various fantasy sequences offer further opportunities for sexual validation. In the first of these scenes, Bauby explains, “Other than my eye, there are only two things that aren’t paralyzed: my imagination, and my memory…I can imagine anything, anywhere.” He mentions travel, adventure and of course, sex. It is worth noting that his mention of sex in this scene is just that, a mention. It comprises three brief shots of his initial fantasy montage. A lover in bed opens the sheets to reveal her breasts. They embrace and kiss on the beach, both of them only wearing bathing suit bottoms. Then, in the following shot, he continues but the woman is wearing a full body, one-piece bathing suit. It is unclear whether or not this is the same woman but the way the scene is cut suggests that it wouldn’t matter to him if it were not.
A later fantasy scene carries a greater, though less direct sexual charge. Frustrated at the repetitious “TV dinners”, he transports himself to a fancy restaurant full of lavish seafood. The only other occupant is his beautiful translator. He invites her to join him. As they begin feeding each other, quick cuts between tracking close ups of the body treat them as though they are making love. They share a few brief, yet passionate kisses. Not only is the most sensual scene in the film, it takes place in a place where anything can happen: his mind. If there should be sex scene anywhere it is here. Yet, the two come away from their kiss and Bauby sits back in his seat, content. This pause after their kiss signifies the single biggest difference between Diving Bell and other disability narratives. Here, sensuality is treated subtly and with restraint as a conscious choice by the protagonist in a setting free from boundaries rather than a sexual performance as an effort to prove that he can still please a woman. In scenes shortly following, the same woman he fantasizes, his translator, confesses that she is in fact, in love with him and puts her head on his shoulder. Nowhere is it even implied that the two become any more physical than that.
However, for all its uniqueness, Diving Bell falls in line with other disability narratives in a couple crucial ways. From the angle taken so far, these films use disability as an “opportunity” to break free from traditional phallic representations of male sexuality. However, one thing these films have in common is that they premise the experience of alternate forms of sex upon the actual, physical loss of penis function. In so doing, these films continue to privilege the penis as the source of male sexual power through its absence. In other words, these men do not choose to experiment, they are forced to by virtue of their disabilities.
Another generic convention yet to be broken, at least in mainstream cinema, is a disability narrative with anything other than a straight, white male as its subject. While not particularly surprising, this fact shows how far these types of stories have to go before they truly tap into their potential.
As mentioned earlier, sexual undertones saturate the way these movies treat the male body with regard to mobility. The portrayal of the physical act of running appears significant when viewed in light of the film’s climax. The climactic scene occurs as a flashback to the instance that put Bauby in his position in the first place: his stroke. As indicated earlier, the whole scene pays homage to The 400 Blows. It uses the theme music from the film, features a tracking montage of Paris, like the original, and sends its characters traveling through a lush field. In terms of representation of the male body, three elements tie the two films together in this sequence: captivity, escape/mobility, and immobility. While driving, Bauby asks his son if he showers with his soccer team. He then tells a story of a boy on his soccer team when he was a boy who wouldn’t take his clothes off to shower. The boy was kicked off of the team. His father threatened to punch the coach. That the story was about Bauby himself is suggested by his asking, “Not your problem? Say the word and I’ll punch…” Almost immediately after this exchange, Bauby has his definitive debilitating stroke, sending his son into a panic, running for help. As prisoner of sexual fear, he goes for a drive in the country and, like Antoine Doinel, ends up at his very own “sea” with no where to go but inside.
Diving Bell uses this homage to tie themes of sexual repression and fear into a story about a disabled former womanizer. This scene and others in the film like it suggest that despite the suave persona he appeared to have had as the editor of Elle, his ideas about sexuality were linked with bodily shame that dated back to his youth and only by becoming a prisoner inside his own body could he be truly free to explore limitless sexual expression on his own terms.
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