The Cinematography of “The Suicide Tourist”
By Ian Kerr csc
“A man has given us permission to film his suicide. When can you travel?”
Those words from producer Terrance McKeown shouldn’t have jolted me. Months into the making of a documentary, I’d already visited and pre-lit the deathbed and consulted a criminal lawyer. Then my son was born. Five days later, Terry shared these words and I realized I’d failed to emotionally prepare for an act that might condemn a soul and land me in jail.
I had first met Terry in 2005 at director John Zaritsky’s home in Vancouver, interviewing for a job on their intimidatingly titled film. “The Suicide Tourist” would explore the controversial work of the Swiss group Dignitas who provided assisted suicides to foreigners. During a time when most of the world criminalized the act, the big question was whether I’d join Terry and John and risk filming an assisted suicide in its entirety. As I sat down in John’s living room I noticed a somewhat tarnished Oscar statuette nearby, reminding me who I was dealing with.
John Zaritsky had won that Academy Award for Best Documentary in the 80’s before directing a series of provocative films and leaving behind him an impressive collection of burned bridges. Never one to suffer fools or interference, John was a short man in his 60s with a bald head and a love of garish footwear and marijuana. An impish, charming and often belligerent character, John rightly deserved to be the subject of his own documentary and I remember him as always wearing a purple sweater and/or cowboy boots. His barking laugh was contagious and I’ve never since worked with a director who asked so few interview questions yet captured exactly what he wanted.
While he had his detractors, few will dispute that John was a passionate filmmaker. During our meeting, I grew convinced that his goal of capturing a suicide was a principled one, reflecting a tradition where documentaries challenge orthodoxy through the observation of real-life processes. John wanted to normalize assisted suicide by making it less mysterious and more relatable; he considered this as a noble goal rather than a sensationalist one.
John’s argument was reinforced by Terry whose physicality and character contrasted sharply with John. A tall, thoughtful and calm presence, Terry would later be described by our Production Manager Laurie Case as the film’s “moral North Star”. Terry would guide us forward, smoothing the waves that John would create, while protecting the crew from John’s occasional excesses. Inspired by John and Terry’s shared passion and commitment, I joined the project as the cinematographer.
A documentary cinematographer acts an agent for for the eyes of the audience while being invisible. I’m sent to amazing places to witness incredible things, but I remain sharply aware that I’m not there as a tourist- I’m there to find things for you. My focus is on absorbing the environments I’m working in and then use my tools to construct images that support the director’s vision and capture real-life truths, both within and outside the camera’s frame-lines.
Truth is a slippery prize however, and the camera is a well-known lier. While the audience is dimly aware that a filmmakers mere presence is influencing events as they unfold, the most damning criticism of a documentary is that it was “faked”. Hidden beneath much of our work is an ethical struggle between how to plan and capture factual processes. Between the banality of a locked-off security camera and the gross manipulations of the Real Housewives lies a sweet-spot where a principled crew captures a compelling story without unduly disturbing the truths and characters within it. Locating and staying within that spot of reality vs Reality requires remarkable discipline, both individually and as a team. I had experienced my challenges.
My documentary camerawork was known to be “cinematic” and I had won awards by crafting images in the real-world that felt, stylistically, like a feature film. I had been criticized, however, for using my subjects as “architecture” within my frames- prioritizing the cinematography over the following of a natural process. I’d had experienced heated discussions with NFB producers who told me that real documentaries were only shot handheld and naturally lit. Much of my work, in contrast, followed the Robert Flaherty (Nanook of the North) school of thought “One often has to distort a thing to catch its true spirit.”
I preferred a process where I might stack the visual deck in my favour so as to capture compelling visuals of real-life events; shooting a scene at sunset rather than midday, or turning off the lights in a room to create silhouetted characters against a window These manipulations complete, I would then do my best to disappear from the scene underway and perform “cinema verite”, the ad-lib handheld camera performance which is the pinnacle of my professional experience. I become the eyes of the audience and must respond to the scene playing out before me. It’s a challenging, unpredictable journey, often exhilarating and terrifying. I still love it.
Days after the telephone call from Terry, I joined him and sound recordist Patrick Brereton on a flight from Vancouver to Heathrow. Mission Impossible 3 was the second in-flight movie and, as I watched Tom Crusies’ death scene play out on the screen above me, I reflected on the firm set of cinematic conventions that govern the end of a hero’s life:
-The hero dies with his eyes closed.
-His death is meaningful, often self-sacrificing.
-There’s a tearful farewell with his romantic partner and
-A slow motion sequence.
If cinematography is a language, then cinematographers rightly fear clichés. Disconcertingly, I had already planned a slow-motion sequence for the upcoming suicide sequence and watching Agent Ethan pass away, I felt exposed to the dangers of imposing a Hollywood standard on this unknowable real-world scene about to unfold. In my defence, my planning was a way of coping with the stress I was feeling. By visually treating this man as a hero I might protect against criticisms that we exploited him, but I also really didn’t want to let this future dead man down. There didn’t seem like much chance he’d ever see the film, but I needed to know that he would approve. These thoughts swirled around in my head as we loaded our kit into the rental van at Heathrow and drove north to Harrowgate.
HARROWGATE, UK
John had arrived in Harrowgate days earlier and introduced us to Craig Ewart, a 52-year-old American who lived with his wife Mary in Harrogate, England. A father of two adult children, Craig taught computer studies at a nearby US airbase until he began to suffer from tremors. Diagnosed with motor neurone disease (Lou Gehrig’s Disease) he had rapidly lost most of his ability to move and became a shadow of his former robust self. Craig could still speak—but only between gulps of air pumped into his lungs by a ventilator. Craig was our “Suicide Tourist”.
I had planned on making an early, genuine connection with Craig as a hedge against the future fear that my camera might have encouraged a form of “Kodachrome Courage” that haunts our business. This fantasy is quickly discarded. The Ewarts are focussed on the task at hand, and the last thing Craig needed was a new buddy.
Craig is largely trapped in his wheelchair. Mary packs suitcases for the flight to Switzerland. They both seem exhausted and I creep around the house, feeling like a ghost, searching for shots that show a tenderness and intimacy between Craig and Mary. These images don’t readily appear and I begin to notice my own anxiousness- what I’m seeing isn’t what it was “supposed” to look like.
Privately, Mary shares with John that there has been a “long goodbye” since Craig’s diagnosis 6 months ago. She has already done her crying. Perhaps that’s why her movements around Craig are somehow swifter and more efficient than seems proper to me.
One of the major challenges of my role is that, like quantum mechanics, my observation of an event inevitably changes how it occurs. People usually act differently when I show up with a large box of glass and aluminum on my shoulder to “capture” their lives. To observe real and candid moments means my subjects need to be distracted from or bored with me and it can take days or weeks of constant, quiet exposure to shrink my 6’4” frame into a fly-on-the-wall. With the Ewarts we had only a few hours before they depart for Switzerland.
Uncomfortable and feeling overly large, I back off into the hallway and compose telephoto shots through doorways, isolating Craig and Mary with foreground. The look feels sad, lonely and appropriate but this technique also allows me to keep my distance and hide in the shadows.
John announces that it’s time for an interview with Craig who quickly reveals his tormented emotional state. The government and church have denied him a suicide at home and his anger towards them is ferocious. During the interview, Craig opens his eyes wide in emphasis in a manner he once may have used his hands to do.
This passion is perhaps why Craig has agreed to turn his suicide into the most powerful of weapons—a story. He and Mary are offering their last intimate moments to John, who will then fashion them into the building blocks of a narrative bomb that will land at the feet of the government and church after Craig’s death. I frame Craig against the window with his ventilator in the foreground and later wish I had a more powerful lamp to combat the twilight within the room.
Emotionally exhausted after completing the morning, the crew rallies for lunch at a nearby pub. The waitress messes up the food order however, and John blows up at her before storming outside for a smoke. Through the restaurant window we watch him pacing on the sidewalk, wrestling with his rage. My angst looks easy by comparison.
We return to the Ewart’s, who have finished packing. John reiterates that our goal is to document their journey, not any specific destination. Should they change their minds at any time, this development would work equally well in John’s film. We were also prepared to leave whenever they asked, without question. Hearing and recording the discussion and the Ewart’s appreciation reassures the crew that there isn’t any pressure applied by us. Mary arranges a taxi to the airport.
The Ewart house lacks a ramp, so the crew help the driver carry Craig in his wheelchair down the back steps. This makes everyone nervous because its technically criminal—“aiding a suicide”—and we’ve been warned against documenting anything like this for our own protection. I can feel Craig’s thin arms and bones through his shirt. His scent reminds me of my grandfather’s in his last days. Pat and I retreat to a corner of the back garden on a telephoto lens as Mary pushes Craig in his wheelchair.
Craig looks at his home for the last time and his eyes drift up toward his wife. The wireless microphone clipped to Craig picks up his murmur “I’m scared…” I glance at Pat. He’s focussed on his mixer but feels my gaze and nods slightly; he’s recorded the line and I was rolling. This was the intimate moment between them that I needed, both for the film and for myself. I’m happy we’ve caught it while not intruding as they rolls past us to the waiting taxi.
At the local airport, an awkward ground crew help load Craig into a chartered twin-engine aircraft. A prominent English doctor has recently committed suicide with Dignitas in Zurich and the UK papers were filled with her story. These folks see their passenger is very sick, going to Zurich and being followed by a film crew. Most of the ground crew avoids eye contact with us.
We have filled the plane to capacity and some of our equipment must be left behind, including a robotic camera system. The robotics gave us the option to film Craig’s suicide without physically being in the room with him, theoretically reducing the legal or moral liability we face for “encouraging” his death. John waves away my concerns and I realize he is right- Craig has clearly made his decision a long ago and, if anything, we are slowing things down. It’s decided; the robotics stay behind. Pat and I will be in the room for the suicide.
We fly across the channel into the evening and spend some time getting to know each other. Mary asks about my new son and my older child. Craig suffers quietly and I steal the occasional shot of him against the window. We touch down in Zurich at night and have an awful time getting Craig out of the plane. Greeted by cheery Swiss border guards who wish us well with no sense of irony, we then meet the Ewerts’ driver, a man who has become a bit of a specialist with Death Tourists. He warns me not to film his licence plates but shares the story of his extravagant anniversary trip to New York City. The Ewarts disappear into his black Mercedes and then into the night.
ZURICH, SWITZERLAND
Months earlier, we had visited Zurich to shoot background interviews for this film and visted The Apartment, a site that has hosted hundreds of assisted suicides. Although it once belonged to the mother of the Dignitas founder, it’s not a particularly cosy space nor was is it intended to be; Dignitas states that they do not encourage suicide, but specifically offers basic assistance so that members (generally suffering from a terminal illness) can commit the act themselves. The Apartment feels a bit like a lower-end Air B&B.
John and I had looked at the bed and the layout of the room. I pre-visualized the shots—a mystery person dying in the bed--perhaps the window behind him/her rather than the blank wall? We rotated the bed to the other side of the room and set up some Ikea paper lights we had purchased to augment the limited lighting in the space. I cut, spliced and duct-taped basic dimmer controls into power cords to make a three-channel dimmer pack for these lamps. This bundle of wire would allow me to unobtrusively alter the lighting in the room during shooting. I tucked the dimmers under an upholstered chair in the corner
Before leaving, I asked Pat to act as “stand-in” and lay down in the bed. I played with the dimmers and looked at the lighting through the camera—soft and warm on Pat’s face but with a suitable contrast. I suddenly realize that Pat is lying on the bed where hundreds of people have taken their last breath and the pained look on Pat’s tells me he’s thinking the same thing; Pat is an outstanding soundman.
Now, months later, we have returned to The Apartment with Craig and Mary. Following the couple from the street, we’ve quietly observing their process with a minimum of chatter. I’m very nervous. Arthur Bernhard, the chief assistant from Dignitas, sits at a small table with the couple across from a pile of paperwork. No strength remains in Craig’s hands and the Swiss apparently have a form for everything. Mary guides Craigs limp hands as he signs away his life.
As I watch, I feel strapped to an accelerating process and I’m anxious of what comes next. In response, I use my best trick. I shut my left eye and disappear into the black and white viewfinder, moving around the three of them trying to anticipate what is coming next—another signature here, a question there.
Craig’s ventilator is on the table and emits a loud whirring sound. I glance at Pat and see he’s sharing my concern. We break the wall between us and the group and quietly interrupt, requesting to move the ventilator. There is a shocked silence in response and Arthur gives us a searing look. We have broken the rules: we are supposed to be invisible.
I don’t remember if anyone moved the ventilator but their process proceeds as Pat and I recede back into the room. Being here feels increasingly wrong. This scene is becoming so intimate that my presence and the camera on my shoulder seems almost profane. Later, watching the footage, I’ll see that I reframe too quickly, twitching, my sense of time thrown off by the emotions in the room. I have often felt the eyes of the audience with me in a scene but now I’m feeling them directed AT me.
Events are now moving very quickly. Arthur offers Craig an anti-nausea drink to smooth the digestion of the poison that will follow. Craig finishes it, chasing with apple juice. Minutes later, Arthur gently asks if Craig is ready for the final drink of sodium pentobarbital - “The Medicament” which will induce a coma, then death. Craig agrees. I feel a surge of panic.
We had been told the process generally lasted hours. Expecting a slow buildup, I had prepared hours of blank video tape and batteries under the upholstered chair with my dimmer controller. Craig is still in his wheelchair, not the bed. I’m concerned how he will look should he die slumped in the chair and the effect on the film. Then I feel concerned by my concern, shouldn’t I just be documenting this? Have I already tainted the truth of this process through my lighting and the rearranging of the bed?
Confused, I slide outside into the kitchen where John and Terry are waiting anxiously. I share my concerns. John enters the room where he tactfully requests if Craig “might be more comfortable” in the bed. I cringe, anticipating outrage.
The room seems to defer to John’s personal investment in this story; Craig and Mary’s trust in him is different. They seem to understand that John’s request will impact how Craig’s story will be perceived. In his last moments of his life, Craig slides over into the bed for the final act.
My cinematography plan now back on track, I slink into a corner feeling simultaneously relieved, manipulative and a little sick. I still feel those feelings as I write these words.
Craig bites down on a timer switch offered to him. The time will turn off his ventilator in 40 minutes, finalizing his journey.
Arthur approaches with a simple disposable plastic cup filled with The Medicament. It looks like a hospital cup. There’s a straw in the cup. I tense up. As Arthur steps forward, he blocks my shot of Craig. I scramble from the profile shot and re-position myself at the foot of the bed directly in front of Craig and tighten up on the lens into a close-up on Craig.
“Mr. Ewart, if you drink this… you are going to die” says Arthur, holding the cup. I’m still holding a closeup of Craig and tilt up to capture Arthur’s line but too late and miss it. Someone walks through my shot, blocking it for a moment. I pump the zoom trying to find a frame that makes sense but everything is feeling wrong. “Yes” Craig says with a roughness in his voice and then, with effort, he dips his head forward and begins to sip from the straw. The room focuses on the pool of disappearing medicament as it sinks into Craig’s body. There’s a slurping sound and Craig falls back into his pillow. Shakily, he asks for “the music”. Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9 fills the room.
In the film, the music swells to covers Craig’s last words before we dissolve into a montage. In the room however, Craig is momentarily startled as he feels nauseous from the poison. Should Craig vomit, he might ingest an inadequate level of poison and wake up suffocating when his ventilator stops. I feel the nightmare I’ve been anticipating approaching and this is the most frightening moment of the entire event for me. It feels like our fault.
Arthur leans over and soothes Craig while he and Mary rub Craig’s chest. The moment lasts seconds and Craig’s panic fades. They both say goodbye to Craig as he calms and settles back into the pillows. His head nods and he falls asleep.
I move back to the chair in the corner of the room and Craig and Mary are profiled against the window. I switch the camera into slow motion and search for frames: a close-up of Craig’s watch ticking on his dying arm; Mary holding his hand; Craig asleep; Mary silhouetted against the window, the wheelchair soft in the foreground. Now I’m gratefully looking for comforting clichés: the stoic but heartbroken wife, the heroic dying Craig but this reality refuses to be softened.
I look up and check if Pat is following me, but something’s wrong. Pat is almost 50, gruff, tall and looks like a bearded roughneck or a cowboy. He’s holding his boom microphone and doing his job, but his eyes are all messed up. I realize he’s crying.
The curse of the soundman is that in the most extreme and even silent moments, they are watching and listening intently. Burdened with all my angst, I remain the most insulated from the emotions in the room. I’m experiencing the scene largely through a viewfinder, focussed on focus, iris, composition. Pat tells me later that the scene reminded of his father’s death, decades earlier. In the moment I want to give him a hug and get really drunk.
Now comes an awkward time. Something seems to change. Craig’s body looks empty. His chest still moves but he doesn’t look like he’s sleeping, but rather that a piston is forcing his shirt up and down like he were a puppet. 40 minutes seem a long time away. There is hushed conversation. I change a tape and battery. We all know Craig is somewhere between life and death. I run out of compositions. I put the camera down and realize I’m breathing in time with the pulse of the ventilator.
An alarm screams out and we all startle. It’s the ventilator, alerting us that it’s power has shut off. The timer has done it’s job. I’m momentarily afraid Craig will wake up but as I move with the camera to a position at the foot of his bed I see his relaxed, still face- his eye lids slightly open.
Our hero has died.
Mary kisses pale Craig’s cheek. John and Terry enter the room and we all take a moment. Terry tells Pat and I to pack up. Arthur gives a routine phone call to the police to inform them of the suicide. We’ve been told that the police might not understand or appreciate a TV crew’s presence and we leave before they arrive. Pat goes back to take the wireless mic off Craig’s body and this moment is what he remembers most years later.
Pat and I later realize that neither of us said goodbye to Craig before he died. We were doing our best to be invisible.
**
“The Suicide Tourist” was broadcast in Canada, Switzerland, the UK and the US (on PBS’s “Frontline”). The film was re-titled “Right to Die?” in the UK and was the subject of debate in the House of Commons hours before it first aired.