When I first read The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, the idea that it
could be adapted to the screen never crossed my mind. Recently, at a
question-and-answer session in Hollywood, the audience were, I thought,
rather shocked to learn that I didn’t read books to see whether or not they
could be turned into films. When I added that I read books simply for
pleasure, the response was a murmur of bewilderment. I may be doing them an
injustice but I think not. In Hollywood, I suspect in much of the United
States, many people read only to discover if the subjects will make movies.
The book, by Jean-Dominique Bauby, had been strongly recommended to me by my
wife, who was deeply moved by this true story. Jean-Do, as he was known, was
the editor of Elle magazine. Stylish, fashionable, he led a life that
was thought glamorous and exciting. He drank moderately and didn’t smoke. At
the age of 43, shortly after leaving the mother of his two children for
another woman, he suffered a massive stroke, victim to a terrible and rare
condition known to neurologists as locked-in syndrome.
He was completely paralysed except for the ability to blink one eye. A
physiotherapist hit upon the idea of reciting the alphabet to him with the
most frequently used letters first. He learnt to blink after the appropriate
letter until he had a word, then a sentence and, finally, the book. The
result was a surprising account of what was going on in his mind, which was
unaffected by the disaster that had befallen him.
The diving bell was his metaphor for locked-in syndrome, the butterfly an
image of his thoughts floating across the landscape of his life, past,
present and imagined. I, too, was moved by this amazing testament to his
eventual triumph over appalling circumstances but it never occurred to me
that there was a film to be made from his work.
The notion, however, occurred to Kathleen Kennedy, who has produced many of
Stephen Spielberg’s films, including Jurassic Park, Indiana
Jones and Munich. We had never met but in 2003 she telephoned and
asked me, on behalf of her own company and Universal Pictures, to write the
screenplay. I did a rash thing: I said yes without re-reading the book. The
conversation was brief and to the point.
“We’ll do the deal,” she said, “and you begin.” Just in passing, in case I
give the impression of a tough, ruthless Hollywood producer, she is, in
reality, a modest, cultivated, highly intelligent woman and surprisingly
unassertive. What’s more she has very good taste in clothes, unusual for
Hollywood producers, male or female. The oddest thing was that she did not
ask what my approach would be – just as well because I had no idea – nor had
she asked me to “pitch”, or for my “take on the book”. She seemed to trust
the writer. Rum, very rum.
So, there I was, having agreed to write the screenplay of a book I had read
five years earlier. The moment negotiations were complete, my wife and I
left London for Paris, where we have a flat. It seemed the right place to be
when writing about a Frenchman. I set about reading the book again and my
mind seized up. I had no idea of how to proceed. I paced and fretted. At
night, unable to sleep, I tried to imagine what it was like to have
locked-in syndrome, able to blink only one eye. My throat constricted and I
had palpitations. The next day I’d pace again.
Although it is a short book, I did what I always do when adapting: I made an
index of the book’s contents in the hope that it would ignite my
imagination. Not a flicker. The difficulties remained. What story did I want
to tell? How could an audience look at a man in Jean-Do’s horrendous
condition for two hours? How long could they bear to see him blinking his
one functioning eye to the recitation of the alphabet? How could I make them
understand the horror of locked-in syndrome? How could I impart all the
necessary background information, capture his thoughts, anger and, most
importantly, his humour?
In danger of becoming completely moribund, I kept busy in other ways. I
consulted a friend, a retired neurosurgeon in Los Angeles, who sent me the
latest research material on locked-in syndrome. Interesting, but no help to
break the impasse. I made contact with the mother of Jean-Do’s children
whom, for convenience sake, I’ll call his wife. She said she would love to
be of assistance and would introduce me to Claude Mendibil, the woman who
took down Jean-Do’s words.
The two ladies came to see me at my flat. Both were alarmingly attractive but
in very different ways. Jean-Do’s wife is slim, elegant, tanned, chic;
Claude, demure, soulful, reticent. She did, however, recite the alphabet
that had been used – in French, of course. The sound was captivating and
haunted me. After the meeting I made a note: “Alphabet like music”.
The agony of not knowing how to proceed continued. Two weeks passed, maybe
more. I decided I had made a dreadful mistake. Nothing for it but to call
Kathy Kennedy, tell her she had made the wrong choice of writer and that I
would return the money. Now, as I have said many times before, nothing
concentrates the mind of a writer more wonderfully than the thought of
having to return the money. I was about to lift the receiver and dial her
number when, without warning an idea popped into my head. What if the camera
was Jean-Dominique Bauby? What if the camera did the blinking? What if, like
the book, the experience was entirely subjective?
I rushed to my desk and began with Jean-Do in his hospital room waking from
his coma, the vague shapes of the nurses coming in and out of focus, the
confusion of voices, sounds, images. And then I typed in bold: “The camera
is Jean-Dominique Bauby, known as Jean-Do.” At once, my spirits lifted. I
believed I had solved the conundrum.
Looking back, I realise now that the clue to unlocking another of my
screenplays, The Pianist, was to use the subjective point of view,
everything seen through the eyes of the main character. But then I had Roman
Polanski to rely on.
Of course I had second thoughts and was bombarded by myriad insecurities.
Because I have very little knowledge of cameras and lenses I had no idea
whether my approach was technically possible. I tried but failed to remember
if there were other films in which this device had been used. Oddly, only
when I had finished the screenplay, did I recall Lady in the Lake,
which I must have seen as a boy, in 1947, directed by Robert Montgomery, in
which he also starred as the private eye Philip Marlowe. The entire movie
was seen from the detective’s point of view, with occasional glimpses of him
in mirrors or reflected in window panes. I wonder now if that had somehow
influenced me.
There is only one golden rule when writing a screenplay and that is: there is
no golden rule. Every screenplay is different. Each one has its own
imperative, dictating its own construction with the characters making their
individual demands as if everything is preordained. I try to “learn” the
book and absorb its contents. Only then am I able to define the story the
book tells in the hope of translating it to the screenplay.
The story that suggested itself was to give an account of Jean-Do’s condition
from the moment he wakes in the hospital. This allowed me to choose from his
book those incidents and memories that revealed his life and personality
before he was struck down. I was also able to use his voice to comment,
inform, respond and, I believed, capture his tone, especially his humour.
The miraculous thing about Jean-Do was that he showed no self-pity. He was
angry, despairing – once he said that he wanted to die – but above all,
astonishingly, he managed to be amused by his tragedy.
My approach also meant that the visual metaphors of the diving bell and the
butterfly would mark Jean-Do’s anguish and elation. Shameful to admit but I
had no idea of how a butterfly came into the world and I wanted very much to
use that process. I had a piece of luck. We were staying with friends in
Switzerland and one of the other house guests was David Attenborough. Who
better to teach me? Over breakfast he explained to me in detail the
emergence of the butterfly with appropriate drawings. I made notes and
transferred them to the script.
And then there was the alphabet recited to me in French by Claude. I wanted to
use it, as I had first thought of doing, like a musical motif, not only as
an accompaniment but also as a constant reminder of the enormous difficulty
Jean-Do faced every moment of his stricken existence. In English it sounded
harsher than in French but, fortunately, the film was eventually made in
French which restored the lyricism and provided authenticity.
There is, I believe, a mistaken belief that the screenplay is the film. There
is a tendency for screenwriters to put down what they imagine will be seen
on the screen precisely as they have described it on the page. It is not
possible. A multitude of elements intrude to transform the finished product
- locations, sets, casting. What the screenwriter must do is make a
technical document readable, tell the story in more or less the correct
order, and develop the characters in scenes that actors can act.
In The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, I had often to extract characters
and develop situations only hinted at in the book. For example, there is
Jean-Do’s memory of shaving his father, gloriously played by Max von Sydow,
or the visit of the journalist who had been taken hostage in Beirut. And a
scene that especially pleases me, when Emmanuelle Seigner, as the mother of
Jean-Do’s children, has to interpret his responses to his mistress talking
on a speaker-phone.
The realisation of the screenplay is, of course, the job of the director.
Julian Schnabel added his own extraordinary vision that both elevates and
inspires. And it would be a disgrace not to acknowledge the contribution of
Janusz Kaminski, the cinematographer, whose artistry is apparent in every
frame he shot. Journalists and critics please note: a film is a
collaborative effort.
Films are strange animals; this one was no exception. After delivering the
first draft to Kennedy and Universal Pictures, it was “green-lit”, which
means we had the go-ahead to make the movie. It was decided that Johnny Depp
should be offered Jean-Do. His response was enthusiastic and he recommended
Schnabel, whom Kathy met and took on board. Then, Depp went off to make a
couple of films about pirates. Universal withdrew. For two years the project
lay fallow until Pathé entered the arena and agreed to provide the finance.
The idea was to make the movie in both English and French, which is why
bilingual actors were cast. Everyone secretly knew that two versions would
be impossibly expensive. Schnabel decided it should be made in French.
My screenplay was accurately translated. The subtitles, previously thought to
be anathema to American moviegoers, have been accepted without comment. The
response to the film has been encouraging, to say the least. Without
distorting or manipulating, we have somehow managed to overcome the
bleakness and infuse Jean-Dominique Bauby’s extraordinary journey with light
and, dare I say it, a degree of fragile hope.
— The Diving Bell and the Butterfly is released on Feb 8
Filming the impossible
“To be nominated for an Oscar is fantastic and a tribute to the work of
cinematographers, which can often be overlooked. Our film isn’t a big
Hollywood film and needs nominations to attract people to see it.
“In filming, I tried to see what looking at the world through one eye would be
like; you notice subtle things like a curtain move or the colour of light.
We used special filters and lenses to create the effect of things going in
and out of focus, and smeared Vaseline on the lens to get the sense of the
eye being dirty or having stuff on it. We didn’t use any special
postproduction technology. I flicked a finger or hand close to the lens to
replicate blinking and we manipulated the speed of the camera to create
effects too: 24 frames per second is normal, but at different moments we
used 6 fps (very fast) and 40 fps (very slow), and we used double exposure
to layer images”
— Janusz Kaminski, director of cinematography, The Diving Bell
and The Butterfly
