Four stars. Rated PG-13, for dramatic intensity and disturbing images
By Derrick Bang
This is — but at the same time,
isn’t — what you’re expecting.
The tagline — “With her love, he
lived” — implies a poignant drama likely to bring tears, and that’s entirely
accurate. But this also is the factual biographical depiction of Robin
Cavendish, who was anything but ordinary ... and he sure as hell wasn’t a
victim.
No matter how old I get — no
matter how much time is spent in movie theaters — I marvel at directors and
writers who keep finding amazing people who’ve thus far escaped the mainstream
attention they deserve. In this case, of course, that’s my American ignorance
speaking; I’m sure Cavendish remains a household name to this day, in his native
England, just as he must’ve been during his incredible life.
Andy Serkis — a longtime stage
actor who became best known for “performing” CGI characters such as Gollum (Lord of the Rings), King Kong and Caesar
(Planet of the Apes) — makes an
impressive directorial debut with Breathe,
the thoroughly engaging saga of Cavendish’s life. Although ample credit also
belongs to his stunning ensemble cast, there’s no question that Serkis
orchestrates the film with heartfelt respect for his subject.
Scripter William Nicholson —
Oscar-nominated for 1993’s Shadowlands,
and for his collaborative work on 2000’s Gladiator
— handles this challenge with intelligence, sensitivity and far more spontaneous
humor than one would think possible. Although Cavendish endured what most would
consider a tragedy, that descriptor does not characterize this film; it’s
astonishing, how often Nicholson evokes gentle laughter.
That must have been one of the
key goals, because — more than anything — Cavendish demanded to be accepted and
treated like everybody else ... which is to say, like “normal” people.
On top of which, Serkis and
Nicholson had the best possible guidance: One of this film’s producers is
Jonathan Cavendish, Robin’s son, who with Serkis runs the production company
Imaginarium Studios. Bringing his father’s story to the big screen obviously
was a labor of love for Jonathan, and — this, too, is a small miracle — his
devotion to the material didn’t interfere with what has emerged as a remarkably
tender and thoroughly uplifting film.
The story opens in the late
1950s. As introduced during a spirited cricket match, Robin (Andrew Garfield)
is every inch the dashing, ex-British Army officer. In a few deftly constructed
scenes, Serkis and Nicholson establish the love-at-first-sight speed with which
Robin falls for the aristocratic Diana Blacker (Claire Foy, immediately
recognized as young Queen Elizabeth II, in TV’s The Crown). She’s equally smitten, and they marry.
A trip to Kenya in 1958 ends in
chaos, as Robin is stricken — suddenly and savagely — with polio. Paralyzed
from the neck down, unable to breathe without a mechanical respirator inserted
directly into his trachea, and unable to speak because air no longer passes
over his larynx, Robin sinks quickly into depression; the agonized despair in
Garfield’s silent gaze is heartbreaking.
But Diana isn’t having any such
nonsense. With Foy displaying the quiet steel that immediately made her such a
memorable Elizabeth II, Diana calmly insists that she has no intention of
leaving her husband to die. Determined to turn lemons into lemonade, she
demands to know what she can do to help.
Get me out of here, he pleads.
That’s the challenge, because
“here” is a ward filled with other “responauts,” all confined to bed and
subject to the cruel limitations imposed by the hospital’s imperious director,
Dr. Entwistle (Jonathan Hyde, sublime as the world’s most uncaring, pompous
prick). At a time when civilians never, ever
argued with doctors who wielded full authority, Diana has a full-scale battle
while dealing with this man.
Even so, we’ve no doubt that
she’ll eventually triumph.
But that’s only the first step.
Being stuck in a bed, tethered to a respirator that must remain plugged into a
wall ... whether in a hospital or in the crumbling mansion that has become
their new home, confinement is confinement.
This is where the story takes its
unexpected and astonishing turn.
His infirmity notwithstanding,
Robin enjoys many benefits, not the least of which is the loving, patient and
resilient Diana. They’re also fortunate to have an equally devoted set of
friends, starting with Diana’s mildly twittish, identical twin brothers, David
and Bloggs. They’re a jovial but feckless pair straight out of P.G. Wodehouse,
and — here’s a delightful bit of cinematic legerdemain — both are played by Tom
Hollander.
It’s perhaps no surprise that
Serkis, an accomplished veteran of so many special-effects masterpieces, would
include some similarly remarkable trickery in his directorial debut. You’d
swear that Hollander himself must be twins, and not merely because both David
and Bloggs share the screen on multiple occasions, even when engaged at
physical activity such as moving a heavy bed — one of them at each end — down a
long flight of stairs.
Hollander also establishes
individual identities for each, while at the same time giving them the tics and
twitches that twins often share. One or both often provide comic relief, but
they’re definitely not figures of ridicule; their frequent haplessness simply
makes them more endearing.
And perhaps because David and
Bloggs are so adorable, Hollander
gets one of the film’s most powerful moments, when the twins sing a famous
WWI-era music hall ditty.
Robin’s most important friend,
however, is amateur inventor Teddy Hall (Hugh Bonneville, late of Downton Abbey). Blessed with an
insatiable appetite for solving insurmountable problems, Teddy regards Robin as
the ultimate challenge. Teddy is disheveled and a bit socially inept, in the
manner of all absent-minded professors; Bonneville makes him irresistible.
Stephen Mangan is memorable as
the compassionate Dr. Clement Aitken, defiantly anti-establishment, who becomes
important in the story’s third act. The venerable Diana Rigg, on camera for no
more than a minute, and three or four short lines, nonetheless steals the show
during her brief appearance.
Several young actors play Robin
and Diana’s son Jonathan at ages 2, 5 and 10; Dean-Charles Chapman takes over
when the boy grows into a young man. Although much of his performance is
silent, it’s no less persuasive.
Foy is a force of nature: an
actress who vanishes utterly into her roles. She’s accomplished on a level akin
to Meryl Streep, Helen Mirren and Judi Dench: like them, a master of the delicate
gesture.
Garfield, in turn, gets incredible mileage from the various
shades of Robin’s megawatt grin. Being restricted to facial expressions seems
no more a limitation for Garfield, than apparently was the case for the actual
Robin. It’s an impressive performance, all the more so for the subtlety with
which Garfield evokes so many emotions.
Although Nicholson obviously
worked hard to depict events accurately, the film glosses over the 24/7 demands
being made of Diana, in her role as Robin’s full-time caregiver. We get
glimpses of the obvious: draining fluid from Robin’s throat, and the vital
importance of the respirator. But many other essentials — meals and nutrition,
the need to knead and exercise limbs, the prevention of bedsores, and so forth
— apparently don’t exist. Ironic though it seems, Serkis and Nicholson make
Robin’s life look much too easy.
There’s also the question of
money. Diana mentions, early on, that finances are tight ... and yet the
Cavendish family spends the entire film quite comfortably. What the heck are
they living on?
Although Serkis maintains a
steady tone throughout most of the film, the final act can be accused of too
much sentimentality, particularly with the use of a lengthy (and wholly
unnecessary) set of quick flashbacks from earlier scenes. One would have been
sufficient: the quiet moment backed by Bing Crosby’s earnest rendition of “True
Love.”
On the other hand, by this point
the film has built up so much good will, that you likely won’t mind having your
tears jerked so mercilessly.
(Serkis’ use of music actually is
quite droll at times, most notably when he borrows Lee Marvin’s gravel-voiced
delivery of “Wand’rin’ Star,” from Paint
Your Wagon.)
Breathe often is disarming: simultaneously
heartbreaking and uplifting, by turns amusing and fascinating, unexpectedly
instructive and socially progressive. Rarely has the phrase “We’ve come a long
way, baby” seemed more apt.
To be sure, this is an unabashed
valentine to Robin and Diana Cavendish. But when the package is assembled with
such sensitivity and respect, who can complain?
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