Andrew Lincoln's Netflix movie Penguin Bloom is voyeuristic inspiration-porn
Penguin Bloom tells the true story of Sam Bloom (Naomi Watts), a young mother whose world is turned upside down after a shocking, near-fatal accident leaves her paralyzed. Sam's husband, (Andrew Lincoln, The Walking Dead), her three young boys and her mother, are struggling to adjust to their new situation when an unlikely ally enters their world in the form of an injured baby magpie they name Penguin.
"The bird's arrival is a welcome distraction for the Bloom family, eventually making a profound difference on Sam's life, teaching her how to live again." On the face of it, this synopsis primes us for a powerful dramatic film.
However, Netflix adds: "Penguin Bloom tells the amazing true story of renewal that occurred when a woman whose life seemed shattered found hope and purpose in her family’s love — and in a bird on its own journey of recovery." It is this extra layer of forced poignancy that permeates Penguin Bloom, subsuming any organic meaning one might find in Sam's story.
This isn't to disparage Sam's true story — one of incomparable vulnerability and strength — but rather the schmaltzy lens through which her life is framed. That Penguin Bloom cast a non-disabled actor as Sam is just the latest in the continuing trend of inspiration-porn and sidelining of disabled actors and storytellers.
(And if you're trying to give the film the benefit of the doubt, there are several subtitles which read: "inspirational music plays").
The story is narrated by the eldest Bloom son, Noah, who blames himself for his mother's accident. It is Noah's voice, in all its childlike simplicity and naivety, juxtaposed against close up shots of Sam's body, lamenting the mother he lost (don't worry, he eventually tells us that he loves the mom he has gained) that results in an intimate and wholly voyeuristic approach to telling Sam's story.
Then there's Penguin. The bird is the best part about the film, and the heavy-handed metaphor is only bearable because you know that it's based on a true story of a real magpie whose presence in the Bloom home did help them heal.
The most moving parts of the film are centred on the bird and, as inadvertent as this may be, anyone who has had to nurture a sick pet will undeniably feel moved. But beyond the knee-jerk reaction to this kind of caregiving, Penguin Bloom is lacking in any deeper emotional impact.
As the 'trying his best' husband, Lincoln does well, and the tension in their marriage isn't overwrought. Watts does a solid job as a woman who can't reconcile who she is now with who she was then.
However, it's hard to watch the close-ups of her body and not feel, for want of a better word, icky about the whole thing. As a viewer, we become complicit in the taking over of this narrative by a non-disabled person.
Presumably the film tried to avoid this by putting us in the shoes of Noah through his narration, but because he's only a child, he can't express the nuance of what Sam is feeling, nor experience what she goes through once he's left for school. We see it, though, again as spies in this very intimate moment in a woman's life.
Even if a disabled actor played the role (which we'll reiterate: they should have), the film would likely have suffered from an overarching feeling of skeeviness simply because of the way the story is framed and told. Penguin Bloom is a window into Sam Bloom's life. Unfortunately, it makes Peeping Toms of us.
Penguin Bloom is now available to watch on Netflix
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