Breathe

It’s hard not to feel that every component of this film is geared towards snaring an award, as if the producers dipped their hands into a raffle of tried and tested Oscar-winning tricks and pulled them out at random. As a result, the warm filters for happy flashbacks and cold filters for sad moments make you feel as if you are being forced into having an emotional response, whilst the sad violin played over tear-jerker moments has all the impact of a mosquito with laryngitis.  

Breathe is a straight-forward biopic: a first kiss to last breath type of narrative. One where the set-up and denouement feel rushed and the film often teeters on the brink of becoming yet another story of Brit wit and true love overcoming catastrophe. Yet, there are undeniably ingredients that point towards a more unique tale: the innovation of respiratory chairs, the systematic neglect of polio suffers across the world and Britain’s evolving attitudes towards those with paralysing disabilities. Breathe continually treads the line between predictable cushy tragedy and something a little gutsier.  

The story is largely simplified with most morally muddying parts utterly eradicated, such as the fact that Robin Cavendish (Andrew Garfield) was a tea broker in Nairobi and worked there during the bloody civil unrest of the Mau Mau Uprising. There is no denying that his and Diana Blacker’s story is deeply moving, heroic and awe-inspiring, but when Robin’s role in colonialist trade exploitation is deliberately obfuscated and Kenya is romanticised throughout as some sunny holiday resort, then a great story becomes cheapened by a rose-tinted remembering of history.

The most frustrating thing is that, for all its offensive representation, bad script-writing and artificiality, Breathe still manages to showcase some real talent. Andy Serkis excels in this, his directorial debut, synchronising close-ups and slow-motion shots in time to Robin’s breathing to show with claustrophobic scrutiny how each breath is a struggle for survival. Claire Foy is a revelation as Diana and must be applauded for not falling into the trap of caricatured grief, instead capturing subtle layers of fierce devotion and boundless defiance for adversity. Garfield’s acting, largely limited to facial tics and head jolts is moving and nuanced and the depth of emotion he is able to communicate with just the twitch of a lip or raising of an eyebrow is, quite frankly, phenomenal.  

Whilst it makes sense that a non-disabled actor was chosen for lead role to show the transformation from able-bodied to full body paralysis, there is simply no defence for the film’s complete and total lack of representation. Whilst Robin’s son, Jonathan Cavendish oversaw the project as producer, there were in fact no sufferers of polio present amongst the creative team or cast. Consequently, the film suffered from a monochrome portrayal of the illness, whereby Robin was either a tortured soul in hospital or beaming and full of beans at home with his family. He was either ecstatic or suicidal and plenty of opportunities to take onboard the personal accounts of other sufferers and address a myriad of emotions and experiences was trampled over in a display of ableism.