All I’m askin! Is for a little respect! Just a little bit! Hey! Baby!

I love movies. A good film can often make me laugh. It can occasionally make me jump and spill coffee all over myself. However, although I’ve heard rumour of movies that can evoke a visceral response, this rarely happens to me. It’s been a while since a film made my heart beat faster or wrung my tear ducts or contracted my sphincter – and believe me: you’re not the only one grateful for that.

On Thursday, I went to the Bridgewater in Northcote to see ‘The Diving Bell and the Butterfly’ with Shelley. Since the film is French with subtitles, it automatically qualified as a ‘wanky movie’ by Husband’s classification system. It evidently didn’t rank high on Greg’s classification system either, so it was a girlie night out.

The film is based on the book by the former editor of French Elle, Jean Dominique Bauby, who suffered a massive stroke at the age of 43. Coming out of a three week coma, he discovered he was paralysed but for use of his left eyelid. The condition is known as ‘Locked-In Syndrome’, whereby the sufferer’s senses and mental faculties are all present and correct, but the body is almost entirely paralysed.

Bauby’s therapist devised a system of communication whereby the letters of the alphabet were read to him in order of frequency, and he blinked at the required letter. With the help of an extremely patient assistant, he wrote a book about his experience over the course of 12 months.

That’s the last time I whinge about how difficult writing is.

It was the most remarkable, albeit harrowing, movie. Far from depicting Bauby as a tragic figure finding nobility in adversity, by his own account Bauby was something of a philandering, selfish, neglectful prick. This portrait of a deeply flawed man bringing these same characteristics to his illness instilled the movie with a terrifying realism.

That said, Bauby’s ferocious determination, lust for life and unwavering focus on his caregivers’ cleavages were truly awe-inspiring. If you are male, you should seriously consider falling critically ill in France. The hospitals are equipped with stunning women whose lab coats display generous measures of bosom. Just bear it in mind.

Females: French doctors tend to be old and bumbling with droopy wet lips. Get medivac.

The lead was played by a French actor called Mathieu Amalric, who was outstanding in the role although his pubic hair could do with a trim. His father was an almost unrecognisable Max Von Sydow – which was just as well. Whenever I see Max in a role, I always expect him to double-cross or poison or blow someone into vapour. Well, Max nearly broke my heart in his two scenes. Seriously, I heard it creak. Across the cinema, the audience sniffed in unison. If that’s not a visceral response I don’t know what is.

During the scene where his wife visits him for the first time, someone’s phone went off. ‘TCH!’ I thought, swivelling my head around unleashing mute fury. As the strains of Aretha Franklin’s ‘Respect’ filled the cinema, I realised it was MINE. ‘WHAT YOU WANT!’ shrieked Aretha as I fumbled for my bag. ‘BABY I GOT!’ There was a chorus of huffs and of ‘tch!’s and then, ‘Fuck!’ said someone really loudly, before I realised that was me, too.

My bag has about 30 pockets not counting secret compartments. When I realised searching was futile, I tried sitting on it, which had no noticeable effect on the volume. ‘ALL I’M ASKIN! IS FOR A LITTLE RESPECT!’ There seemed to be a lot more verses than I recall.

Sorry, Shelley – and ah, everyone else