I Am Celine Dion movie review: Canadian legend’s body might be giving up, but her heart will go on

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It’s a viscerally moving scene; we watch as Dion freezes on a bed, mid-treatment, moments after complaining about something in her foot. As her doctor zaps into action, her body stops moving entirely. Tears stream down her face; a scream of pain escapes her mouth. But she cannot do anything about it. She is frozen. Some minutes later, when Dion has regained partial control of her movements, someone asks, “Do you want the cameras?” Or something along those lines. The scene raises questions about the lines that documentaries mustn’t cross in their reporting of the truth; or, at the very least, the lens that they should present certain truths through, without seeming exploitative, or worse, voyeuristic.

But her bigger pain — and she addresses this several times in the movie — is losing her ability to sing. Dion could famously bring the house down — through the sheer power of her voice. “It was the conductor of my life,” she says tearfully in one scene. Dion admits that it took her some time to surrender all power to her vocals. But as she speaks about the heartbreak of not being able to exercise her gift any more, she breaks down completely. And then, almost as if she’s tentatively checking if her voice has magically returned, she tries to hit a high note, but she can’t. And it destroys her.

Taylor intersperses these moments, perhaps a little cruelly, with footage of her old concerts. The only thing that this achieves is to remind the viewer, and Dion herself, of what she was capable of. It’s like playing a sprinter’s 100 metre dash to them after they’ve lost their legs. Surprisingly, I Am Celine Dion doesn’t feature anybody outside the singer’s immediate ecosystem. We don’t hear from past band members, record executives, or even her contemporaries. Her children appear on camera, but aren’t interviewed. No doctor explains the details of her illness for the audience’s benefit; no Grammy-winning legend drops by to sing her praises.

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In that regard, the movie is devoid of ego, even though there is a scene in which Dion, attempting to sing for the first time in two years, declares that it is all about her in that moment. Watching her repeatedly miss notes is upsetting, but not as upsetting as the several moments in which she speaks eloquently, and rather philosophically, about her predicament. Dion has a deeply expressive face; every wrinkle tells a story; every drop of moisture has character. And Taylor wisely chooses to shoot these interactions in a tight close-up. It’s impossible to not be moved.

As a film, I Am Celine Dion is considerably lacking; it is neither intimate nor sprawling, neither insightful nor particularly imaginative. But as a portrait of insecurity and female rage, it’s unexpectedly revelatory. Dion’s body might be giving up, but her heart will go on.

I Am Celine Dion
Director – Irene Taylor
Rating – 3/5