Mark Reviews Movies: 5B

Become a fan on Facebook Follow on Twitter

Review by Mark Dujsik | June 13, 2019

People started to become ill. Most, if not all, of them were gay men. Doctors had no idea what the illness could be. It seemed, to the best of their knowledge, to be a form of cancer, and so AIDS was initially labeled, in the news and in hospital wings, as "gay cancer."

In the early 1980s, nobody understood how the disease was transmitted. It must be through sexual contact, almost certainly, but could a simple touch spread it? Was it an airborne virus?

Even as evidence arrived through the decade that the disease couldn't be spread through mere touch or in the air, people were still hesitant even to be around those who suffered from it. Surgeons would insist on blood tests, and if the patient refused, they would wear what was dubbed a "scuba suit," complete with a helmet and its own breathing apparatus (One such surgeon is interviewed here and, to this day, has no clue how her supposed belief in self-protection is founded upon a hateful misunderstanding of other people). Doctors would wear protective coverings, from gloves to masks. Nurses outright refused to go near certain patients. When the hospital pointed out that it was their professional and ethical duty not to refuse care to someone who is sick, those nurses made a labor issue out of the conflict through their unions.

This level uncertainty and fear was always present and increased as word of HIV/AIDS spread from localized communities to the national spotlight. 5B, a documentary about the eponymous ward at San Francisco General Hospital, addresses the roots and, primarily, the consequences of that fear, but the film is mostly about the men and women who volunteered to staff that ward—the first of its kind, to specifically care for those who contracted AIDS, in the United States.

What's remarkable about these people is that they volunteered to work with and care for AIDS-afflicted patients when the ward opened in 1983—when the science about the disease was still unclear, when people didn't know if simply being in the same room as someone with the disease would mean contracting it themselves, when it still didn't have a name. These doctors and nurses wanted to care for these people, because, in some cases, they knew them or at least knew of them.

Many of the staff members were gay themselves, and these men were their friends, acquaintances, former or current romantic partners, or fellow attendees at some club or party. Since the cause of the spreading of the disease was unknown at time, it may have looked like luck that they hadn't become infected. There, but for the grace of fate or some higher power, go they, and fate or some higher power put them in a position to help.

It wasn't just that, though. It was much deeper, much simpler, and much more obvious. As men and women who made it their careers to care for the sick and the dying, they felt a professional obligation to be a part of this ward. More to the point of what we see from these men and women, they felt it was their obligation as human beings to offer other human beings the care, the love, the attention, and the simple humanity that we all deserve—especially when we are in our final months, days, and minutes of life.

Directors Paul Haggis and Dan Krauss have made, above all else, an astonishingly humane film. It sets the professional attention and personal affection of the ward's caretakers against the prejudices of some, the hatred of others, the indifference of the government, and the inevitable, excruciating decay of AIDS. The prejudice, the hatred, and indifference register at an even higher level of disgust, of course, since there is no way they could not, juxtaposed as they are against the pain and suffering of those who are the target of anger or apathy.

We watch that decay in terrifying detail here. Through contemporary footage of the ward's operation, we see patients in pain, uncertain of just what will happen to their bodies and becoming increasingly aware that the end is coming, no matter what they or any medical professionals might do. Because of the stigma of the disease and the prejudice against their sexual orientation, these patients are often alone. Their families have rejected them, or only certain family members are willing to see them. Their friends might be too scared to visit. In a rather daring move for the time, the hospital allows the ward to make its own decisions about who can visit, so some partners arrive, turning the hospital into a re-creation of a home.

It seems, though, that the primary source of human contact came from the doctors and mostly the nurses. These men and women are interviewed in the present day, explaining the particulars of how the ward was run and the philosophy behind it. They are humble and straightforward during these interviews, but in their descriptions and through the footage taken during the time the ward existed, we quickly realize the unbelievable degree of courage and compassion that they possess.

They actually made contact, without gloves. They entered the hospital rooms without any protection, which seems routine now, but at the time, there was no evidence of how HIV/AIDS was spread. For all they knew, they might be putting themselves and their families (Anyone who volunteered was instructed to discuss this with significant others before becoming a part of the staff) at risk. They did anyway—not for glory or extra pay (As a group, they actually turned down a financial benefit for doing the work) but because it was the right, fair, kind, and only thing to do.

The fact that these people don't want to be seen as heroes is, perhaps, only further evidence that we should see them as such. 5B is a testament of compassion in the face of fear, love in the face of hatred, and action in the face of indifference. It's a powerful reminder that, while certain qualities are rare, there is nothing preventing us from being human and treating others as the same—and nothing to be gained from doing the opposite.

Back to Home

Buy Related Products