But in the 1994 film Branagh's doctor is a Promethean figure, willing to go to any lengths to ease suffering, though in spite of his idealism, he destroys what he means to help. Bennett's script is strange, with a creepy sadomasochistic undercurrent. But it speaks to anyone who has ever thought his doctor was a fool. Potter must have been at the top of that list. There is something particularly humiliating about a persistent disease that not only lacks the decency to kill the patient but has embarrassing symptoms as well.
Any illness strips away dignity, but a nonfatal, messy one finally denies the sufferer any sympathy.
He becomes a bore. His doctor is the only person he can possibly hope to talk frankly to, and all the doctor does is come up with one remedy after another that doesn't work. Unfortunately, this rich story is incommunicable. In the end illness is a secret that will not be told. It takes a while to figure out, among all the sumptuous clothes and huge, beautiful houses, exactly what is striking the wrong note.