For the New York coterie of film critics, bloggers, and anyone else who can make a reasonable case for a press or industry pass, the first day of New York Film Festival press screenings every September is something akin to the first day of school. (That is, for people who really, really liked school.) But it’s also kind of like embarking on a four-week vacation right in the middle of the city. Screenings are held at Lincoln Center on the Upper West Side, a part of town that I personally rarely have occasion to visit, and once you’ve made your way through a maze of construction and up a hidden escalator to the Walter Reed Theater, it’s difficult to hold on to everyday concerns and not get completely wrapped up in the excitement of what is about to unfold.

NYFF press screenings are perhaps most appreciated for their leisurely schedule. Each day starts out with a fair amount of breakfasty schmoozing over the bagels, juice and coffee provided every morning by the press screening sponsor. There are generally just two screenings a day, five days a week, for four weeks. Most screenings are followed by a lengthy press conference; this year, the only American filmmaker whose work is in the fest who is conspicuously absent from the press conference schedule is Gus Van Sant. It’s the rare film festival that’s actually possible to cover in the nooks and crannies of a normal day job––although, having tried that last year, I have to say that I far prefer camping out at Lincoln Center for full days to sneaking in screenings here and there during lulls in the odd work day.

Because I’m still working on some Toronto odds and ends, I was only able put in a half day at yesterday’s NYFF 2007 opener, but I’ll be able to catch the afternoon film, Masayuki Suo’s I Just Didn’t Do It, when it re-screens later in the fest (if you can’t wait, Keith Uhlich has already reviewed it here). In the morning, I did catch Julian Schnabel’s The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. More on that after the jump.

Julian Schnabel’s third feature is an almost excessively beautiful aestheticization of misery. Based on the memoir of Jean-Dominique Baudy, a 40-something magazine editor who suddenly suffers a massive stroke and wakes up with a fully-functioning brain trapped in a body fully paralyzed save for his left eye, the film is strikingly painterly in a way that Schnabel’s actual paintings often aren’t. Baudy’s story gives Schnabel an excuse to delve deep into impressionism, while relying on narration lifted wholesale from the memoir for structure. The first section of the film is seen entirely through Baudy’s one good eye, obfuscated a bit by his soon-to-be sewn-shut bad eye, and as Schnabel and cinematographer Janusz Kaminski lovingly pour on the blurs of color between Baudy’s blinks, it becomes clear that this is the film every painter secretly wants to make.

But while Diving Bell never fails to visually excite, the screenplay is often a little too good at conveying Baudy’s isolation within his own head. There’s no argument that Diving Bell succeeds as fusion between form and content, but as Baudy retreats further into his memories and imaginations, as a viewer it’s easy to drown in the melding of flashback, fantasy and present-tense incident. Baudy’s tart internal monologue is, early on, both desperate and defiant, and as a measure of Baudy’s self-awareness, it keeps the first couple of acts grounded. But as the film wears on, and especially as the character inches closer to his inevitable demise, a sense of fight drains out of even his private voice. The character succumbs to a kind of self-pity that he earlier swore he’d avoid, and Schnabel lapses into intermittently successful self-indulgence.

Others will surely praise Schnabel’s lyricism and sensitivity, and will champion the grace with which the film handles impending death. I loved the first half hour, but found the last half hour both disappointing in its disposal of an earlier thread concerning Baudy’s various regrets over his less-than exemplary nature, and visually disorienting to the point of exhaustion. Tomatoes, tomahtoes.

Paul saw the film at Telluride and interviewed Julian Schnabel. You can find that here.