MY LEFT FOOT (1989)

Born into a family of 15, Christy Brown (Daniel Day-Lewis) is one of many. With a severe case of cerebral palsy, he cannot speak, nor can he move his arms or right leg. If he ever wants to communicate with the world around him, he has only one method of doing so: using his left foot.

A haunting tale of a trapped soul, fighting to get out, My Left Foot remains a compelling, heart-breaking watch after 35 years. With captivating central performances from both Day-Lewis and Brenda Fricker, the drama on display is spellbinding. In a story that explores the power of art as a mode of expression, one can’t help but be moved by one person’s desire to be heard.

However, while Jim Sheridan’s writing and direction are impressive for a debut feature, he and co-screenwriter Shane Connaughton neglect to do Christy’s story true justice by excluding key facts about his life. In doing so, the film becomes mawkish where it should address the real, merciless tragedy that defined his life and death. For this reason, one can’t help but feel as though a better version of this film could have been told.

One thing that’s impossible to challenge is Sheridan’s depiction of Ireland in the mid-20th-century. As Christy was born in 1932 (with Sheridan himself being born only 17 years later), we’re given an intimate look at how the nuclear Irish family functioned in the 1940s. Indeed, much of the drama in My Left Foot hinges upon the setting, which anyone from Ireland knows all too well.

The telltale signs are all there: thick soda bread, thin porridge, and chilly houses, which stemmed from a scarcity of coal during the Emergency (the Irish term used to describe the rules, rations, and shortages of supplies experienced during World War II). There’s also the threat of misogynistic violence that simmers on the tongue of the tyrannical patriarch, Patrick Brown (Ran McAnally): “Don’t question me in front of the children.”

The endless state of emotional repression that characterised such Irish households and culture should inform the viewer’s understanding of the story. In short, there’s a reason why no one is constantly falling into a puddle of tears, despite the abject misery that surrounds them. Christy and his family are all brought up under the understanding that children should be seen and not heard; any demonstration of negative emotion isn’t taken well.

Mostly this is because Patrick is incapable of articulating his feelings. After he discovers that his son has been born a cripple, he flees to the pub to drown his sorrows. When a regular mocks his misfortune, smiling derisively, Patrick doesn’t break down sobbing—he simply headbutts him: “A closed mouth catches no flies.” Similarly, the greatest demonstration of his affection doesn’t come in words, but in actions: he builds a studio for his crippled son, though can never bring himself to utter the simple words: “I love you.”

In this respect, Sheridan’s depiction of Ireland never quite falls into a neat, little Hollywood package: our director doesn’t necessarily venerate the country, as did some American directors of the same time. Most people that I’ve spoken to who were around in that era have revealed how unpleasant it was growing up in Ireland, which challenges the romanticised depictions Hollywood has of the Emerald Isle.

John Ford’s The Quiet Man (1952), for instance, stands in stark contrast to Sheridan’s more accurate portrait of a country he knows intimately; he doesn’t regard his home as an idyllic state, and is capable of seeing the various issues that have largely defined Irish society. This includes the misogyny that was (and still is, unfortunately) endemic in Irish households, the Catholic Church’s ironlike grip over a new, immature nation, and a woefully inept understanding of convalescents.

These all appear in Sheridan’s film. Not always with subtlety, but it’s such a relief that these issues are addressed at all that one is willing to forgive that. Even though I’d like to claim some of the scenes portrayed in this film are largely stereotypical—particularly the bar-fight sequence, which looks like Sheridan lifted straight out of Blazing Saddles (1974)—it mostly is very accurate.

Especially important in this is Christy’s interaction with a Catholic priest, who warns him of the danger of falling into hell for eternity. Of course, there is a tone-deaf quality to this priest’s warning: can’t he see that this young boy is living a life of constant torment already? Incapable of communicating with those that surround him, Christy is perceived to be mentally deficient, as well as a nuisance to his impoverished, hard-working family. As one neighbour reads him the alphabet, taking care of him as his mother’s in the hospital, she says: “D is for Dunce. You poor, unfortunate gobshite.”

Her poor choice of words belies a genuine pity that she feels for Christy, as well as his family entire. But Christy doesn’t want pity—he wants to speak. In this, his condition becomes his own purgatory, one from which he believes he may never escape. That is until he picks up a piece of chalk between the big toe of his left foot. Sweating from the exertion, he places the chalk on the ground and scrawls, desperate for everyone standing around him to see that there is a capable mind trapped inside a broken body. In front of his disbelieving father, breathing heavily from the effort, he writes the word: ‘mother’.

This is only the beginning of Christy’s journey. Once he’s capable of scrawling words, he moves on to paintings. It’s been said that great suffering makes great artists, and Christy experienced far more suffering than the average person. Much as in Whiplash (2014), there is a tortured soul inside of him that’s trying to break free of the corporeal chains that shackle it. If nothing else, My Left Foot is a stirring ode to the power of art as a means of expressing inner turmoil.

Sheridan’s work is forged on the back of archetypes. Not only is Christy Brown a tortured artist, but as a chronic convalescent, his tale becomes one about the fight for life and for hope against all odds. We can see this in a number of the story’s plotlines, most notably in the family’s goal to get Christy his wheelchair. As 15 members of the Brown household choke down porridge for breakfast, dinner, and tea, it’s all done to help one of their own, and the result is very moving.

Of course, this also leads to Christy despising himself. As he has such a keen mind, he resents being the object of pity, and becomes furious with others for treating him differently. When he asks his caretaker to find him a lighter for his cigarette, she reminds him that she’s not his mother, and won’t be bossed around. His response reveals the years of pent-up frustration at being spoken to like he’s a child: “I don’t need a fucking psychology lesson, I just need a fucking light!”

This quote also reveals the presence (and importance) of the female archetype in Irish narratives. Christy’s mother, Bridget (Fricker), essentially embodies every attribute of the mother in Celtic mythology: physical strength and mental fortitude, both of which are contrasted by a soft, nurturing nature. She’s shrewd enough to deal with her temperamental husband, as well as being durable enough to temper the vicissitudes of life.

Tragedy strikes every day in Christy’s life, something which is apparent to no one more so than himself and his mother. As such, the film is ultimately about hope: it reveals how easily that candle can be snuffed out in this world, and how difficult it can be to light it again. When Bridget sees that Christy’s speech therapy is improving his mood, she becomes nervous. While Patrick is incapable of understanding what there could possibly be to fear, she reveals: “A broken body is nothing to a broken heart.”

Christy is used to being a paraplegic—it’s all he knows. But his mother understands the danger of him getting a taste of the best in life (love) and having it wrenched away from him again. It’s for this reason that Bridget laments the joyful quality in Christy’s voice: “Too much hope in it.” It can only ever make him aware of the parts of life that may forever escape him; for someone like Christy, falling in love can hurt far more than any bodily torment.

It’s also for this reason that, when Sheridan neglects to unveil the genuinely tragic end to Christy’s life, the film suffers for it. For those who know Brown’s real-life story, they’ll find the denouement vaguely confusing: there was no happily-ever-after ending. In actuality, Christy was a desperate alcoholic. He had an affair with a married woman from America called Beth Moore, who helped him finish his seminal novel, Down All the Days. She denied him alcohol until he had written a day’s work, and he credited her as being the driving force behind him ever finishing his magnum opus.

But while their relationship seemed to be taking off, he left Moore for an Englishwoman named Mary Carr. Brown’s marriage to Carr was reported to be anything but idyllic, with many even believing that his wife physically abused Christy. After Brown died at the young age of 49, after choking on his dinner, bruises were found all over his body. Christy’s brothers, sisters, and closest friends claimed they rarely ever saw him after he married Mary, who was reported to be openly unfaithful to him. Before his death, Christy apparently had descended back into heavy drinking, causing his art and personal life to suffer.

With all of this in mind, the film had an opportunity to become a little more impactful by staying true to Brown’s story. Had it revelled in the authentic heartache and loneliness that defined the artist’s life, it may have felt more powerful. Yes, it would have been utterly harrowing, but this story never required a dramatic flourish in the finale. While the happy ending is touching, it’s also untrue, and Brown’s life and story would have been better served had Sheridan engaged in a more unflinching portrayal of his suffering.

However, Sheridan does do a good job of balancing the sadder parts of Christy’s life with comedic elements. This includes a young Christy Brown being given a porno mag after a group of young boys fear they’ll be caught with it. Hiding it under Christy in his makeshift wheelbarrow, the poor boy refuses to get up to go to bed at night, fearing his Catholic parents will discover it on him, and he’ll suffer a fate worse than death. Additionally, Christy’s speech therapist telling him that he’ll be able to curse at people more clearly with training was heart-warming.

In this, Sheridan’s tale does provide an edifying perspective on the importance of life’s challenges. Christy himself becomes a mouthpiece for the majority of the film’s morals, expounding the need to act while one can. He refers to Hamlet as a cripple, referencing his debilitating inaction. When Eileen Cole (Fiona Shaw) responds by pointing out that he does finally act, he reveals phlegmatically: “Too late.” Perhaps more than anyone, Christy understands what it’s like to watch the best in life pass you by, because it’s all he’s ever watched. Witnessing someone else do it, someone with the means to capture what they want, is excruciatingly painful.

It was massive that Daniel Day-Lewis won the Academy Award for ‘Best Actor in a Leading Role’. Not only is it one of the most deserved wins in the history of cinema, but it’s especially impressive considering that he’s largely unintelligible for the majority of the film. His gruelling method-acting work paid dividends: onscreen, he is no one other than Christy Brown. Though his crew members may have been frustrated with his refusal to move around by himself, the result is sensational. Brenda Fricker also provides superlative support, becoming the first Irish actress to win an Oscar.

While Sheridan’s film never quite reaches the heights that it arguably should, it remains a haunting film nonetheless. Biopics don’t necessarily have to remain steadfastly true to the lives of those who inspired them, but when the ending of one man’s life is so different to the one depicted, it leaves an odd taste in your mouth. Still, My Left Foot remains a transfixing film by virtue of powerhouse performances and universal themes.

IRELAND • UK | 1989 | 103 MINUTES | 1.85:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

director: Jim Sheridan.
writers: Shane Connaughton & Jim Sheridan (based on the 1954 memoir by Christy Brown).
starring: Daniel Day-Lewis, Ray McAnally, Brenda Fricker, Cyril Cusack, Fiona Shaw, Hugh O’Conor, Adrian Dunbar, Ruth McCabe & Alison Whelan.