Reid Davenport/Sundance Institute
MOVIE REVIEW
I Didn't See You There (2022)
Reid Davenport’s documentary, which won the U.S. Documentary Directing Award at the 2022 Sundance Film Festival, is a tone poem about the experience of living inside a disabled body that does the neat trick of not centering the body itself. The filming is almost entirely done from Mr. Davenport’s chair-eye point of view as he navigates Oakland, Calif., where he moved especially for its public transport and the concomitant ability to be an independently mobile person (something able-bodied people take completely for granted). But his freedom exists only up to a point. Repeated shots of cars ignoring him in crosswalks and able-bodied pedestrians blocking the path make the microaggressions of existing in public with a wheelchair very clear. What’s worse are the people who offer unasked-for help or patronizing congratulations, as if they think they deserve a medal for recognizing Mr Davenport’s humanity.
The center of the movie is a circus tent that spends the summer pitched across the street from Mr. Davenport’s apartment. While he never goes inside it, and it presumably has something to do with the nearby art college, it prompts many reflections on the history of how disabled people have been treated in America, most especially by P. T. Barnum, the circus king with whom Mr. Davenport shares a hometown. That is Bethel, Conn., where Mr. Davenport travels repeatedly to visit with his family. He has long talks with his mother, filmed in such a way that only her pedicured foot appears onscreen. He hangs out with his small niece and nephew – and in fact the only time Mr. Davenport appears directly onscreen is when his niece runs off with the camera, giggling as only a six-year-old can, and climbs on a nearby rock to maximize the view. But their unconditional acceptance and love is in a place where Mr. Davenport can’t get around by himself. And so he returns to Oakland, where the infrastructure for an independent life exists, but the understanding does not. It’s the literal definition of between a rock and a hard place.
The idea that disabled bodies are a spectacle is reflected most clearly when an officious bus driver forces Mr. Davenport to park his chair facing the back of the bus, where a large group of passengers stare unblinkingly, without any apparent thought to how their regard is making Mr. Davenport feel. The repeated shots of different sidewalk textures and colors makes the nuances of traveling over them at speed almost palpable. And the slow accretion of experiences of being looked at but not seen is surprisingly affecting (which is, of course, the whole point). It’s a strong reminder that telling the truth about your existence is not merely a political act, but a gift (if we choose to accept it). By offering other people the chance to share in his existence, Mr. Davenport has made art of the most radical kind.
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