Nightmarish cringe: A review of ‘Dreams’
This affects the entire country.
Time can move pretty slowly in dreams, but seldom as slowly as in the consistently interminable, periodically risible new movie Dreams. In an unlikely melding of genres, the movie seeks to combine the genres of an immigration expose, an erotic thriller, and a behind-the-scenes ballet drama. Jessica Chastain stars as Jennifer, a well-heeled San Franciscan who dabbles in running her family’s foundation, usurping U.S. immigration laws, and pursuing really unhealthy personal relationships. Isaac Hernandez plays Fernando, the Mexican dancer who, upon entering the country illegally, falls into Jennifer’s high-toned orbit.
This might sound like a provocative or at least so-bad-it’s-good mixture, but the result is deathly dull. The problem is that writer-director Michel Franco is intent on sapping any vitality from his material in what is for him the holy name of artiness, which for mere civilians is synonymous with tedium. Consider the opening image of a semitruck parked beside railroad tracks in what looks like the American Southwest. This shot comes before we have been introduced to any characters or even have a hold on the story. We discern, however, that the truck is in the Southwest because we have time to take in the arid surroundings and listen to the wind rustle the vegetation. In fact, we have plenty of time. The shot probably does not go on for more than a minute, but even 60 seconds of nothing still seems to go on forever. Because the prolongation of the shot tells us nothing, what point can it have but to show off its own studied deliberateness?
Eventually, we learn that the truck houses migrants who have crossed the border between Mexico and the U.S. illegally — a horrifying sight, to be sure. Among their ranks is the ballet dancer Fernando, whose profession is not among the least of the film’s improbabilities. Surely, for a talented performer such as Fernando, there might be a more legal, and less potentially lethal, way to get onstage in the United States? Yet even after Fernando climbs out of the dark, suffocating truck — a potent, though surely inadvertent, reminder of the profound inhumanity that results from illegal crossings — the film does not pick up the pace. Looking less like an undocumented worker seeking opportunity than a refugee from an arthouse movie, Fernando wanders along a gravel path accented by sagebrush. Where is the urgency? It is hard to have sympathy for someone whose trek is presented so ponderously.
Jessica Chastain …
This affects the entire country.
Time can move pretty slowly in dreams, but seldom as slowly as in the consistently interminable, periodically risible new movie Dreams. In an unlikely melding of genres, the movie seeks to combine the genres of an immigration expose, an erotic thriller, and a behind-the-scenes ballet drama. Jessica Chastain stars as Jennifer, a well-heeled San Franciscan who dabbles in running her family’s foundation, usurping U.S. immigration laws, and pursuing really unhealthy personal relationships. Isaac Hernandez plays Fernando, the Mexican dancer who, upon entering the country illegally, falls into Jennifer’s high-toned orbit.
This might sound like a provocative or at least so-bad-it’s-good mixture, but the result is deathly dull. The problem is that writer-director Michel Franco is intent on sapping any vitality from his material in what is for him the holy name of artiness, which for mere civilians is synonymous with tedium. Consider the opening image of a semitruck parked beside railroad tracks in what looks like the American Southwest. This shot comes before we have been introduced to any characters or even have a hold on the story. We discern, however, that the truck is in the Southwest because we have time to take in the arid surroundings and listen to the wind rustle the vegetation. In fact, we have plenty of time. The shot probably does not go on for more than a minute, but even 60 seconds of nothing still seems to go on forever. Because the prolongation of the shot tells us nothing, what point can it have but to show off its own studied deliberateness?
Eventually, we learn that the truck houses migrants who have crossed the border between Mexico and the U.S. illegally — a horrifying sight, to be sure. Among their ranks is the ballet dancer Fernando, whose profession is not among the least of the film’s improbabilities. Surely, for a talented performer such as Fernando, there might be a more legal, and less potentially lethal, way to get onstage in the United States? Yet even after Fernando climbs out of the dark, suffocating truck — a potent, though surely inadvertent, reminder of the profound inhumanity that results from illegal crossings — the film does not pick up the pace. Looking less like an undocumented worker seeking opportunity than a refugee from an arthouse movie, Fernando wanders along a gravel path accented by sagebrush. Where is the urgency? It is hard to have sympathy for someone whose trek is presented so ponderously.
Jessica Chastain …
Nightmarish cringe: A review of ‘Dreams’
This affects the entire country.
Time can move pretty slowly in dreams, but seldom as slowly as in the consistently interminable, periodically risible new movie Dreams. In an unlikely melding of genres, the movie seeks to combine the genres of an immigration expose, an erotic thriller, and a behind-the-scenes ballet drama. Jessica Chastain stars as Jennifer, a well-heeled San Franciscan who dabbles in running her family’s foundation, usurping U.S. immigration laws, and pursuing really unhealthy personal relationships. Isaac Hernandez plays Fernando, the Mexican dancer who, upon entering the country illegally, falls into Jennifer’s high-toned orbit.
This might sound like a provocative or at least so-bad-it’s-good mixture, but the result is deathly dull. The problem is that writer-director Michel Franco is intent on sapping any vitality from his material in what is for him the holy name of artiness, which for mere civilians is synonymous with tedium. Consider the opening image of a semitruck parked beside railroad tracks in what looks like the American Southwest. This shot comes before we have been introduced to any characters or even have a hold on the story. We discern, however, that the truck is in the Southwest because we have time to take in the arid surroundings and listen to the wind rustle the vegetation. In fact, we have plenty of time. The shot probably does not go on for more than a minute, but even 60 seconds of nothing still seems to go on forever. Because the prolongation of the shot tells us nothing, what point can it have but to show off its own studied deliberateness?
Eventually, we learn that the truck houses migrants who have crossed the border between Mexico and the U.S. illegally — a horrifying sight, to be sure. Among their ranks is the ballet dancer Fernando, whose profession is not among the least of the film’s improbabilities. Surely, for a talented performer such as Fernando, there might be a more legal, and less potentially lethal, way to get onstage in the United States? Yet even after Fernando climbs out of the dark, suffocating truck — a potent, though surely inadvertent, reminder of the profound inhumanity that results from illegal crossings — the film does not pick up the pace. Looking less like an undocumented worker seeking opportunity than a refugee from an arthouse movie, Fernando wanders along a gravel path accented by sagebrush. Where is the urgency? It is hard to have sympathy for someone whose trek is presented so ponderously.
Jessica Chastain …
