With its piles of white sheets and whirring machines, the inside of a hospital room can feel oddly impersonal under the cold fluorescent light. Giving a poignant warmth to this sterile environment, this compelling documentary from Lebanese director Corine Shawi intimately captures how her family comes together during a time of tragedy. Struck by sudden paralysis, her father, Andre, is confined to bed and Shawi’s film grapples with this state of reduced mobility as well as her own emotional stasis, caught between the past, the present and the future.
As it examines Andre’s hospital room, the camera tenderly observes how the space is transformed into a second home. Containers of food lovingly prepared by Shawi’s mother are stacked by the bed, while the radio hums his favourite songs. The film does not shy away from moments of uncomfortable friction, either, as Andre’s frustration and Shawi’s helplessness erupt in arguments and sudden emotional outbursts. However, as Andre braves lengthy sessions of physical therapy with a smiling resilience, it is Shawi, not her father, who needs more courage to deal with this difficult new reality.
This brings us back to the film’s beautifully enigmatic title, which gets at the heart of Shawi’s crisis. During one particularly momentous conversation, Shawi’s sister advises that she should also follow her own dreams, instead of being tethered to the needs of their admirably self-sufficient parents. Like the film’s recurring images of a hand peeling off dried tree-bark to reveal a fresh surface underneath, the film appears to seek the same kind of renewal.
• Perhaps What I Fear Does Not Exist is available from 4 August on True Story.
