Bernardo Bertoluccis THE DREAMERS is a moody bit of erotica that devolves into a muddle. Trying as it does to mix the heady and revolutionary nature of politics and sex in the 1960s, when it is set, it fails to draw the parallels necessary to elevate the porn-lite into a more profound, not to mention potent, realm of contemplation.
He does, however, capture that brash, self-conscious feeling of films from that era, the ones that wanted to push boundaries and challenge conventional morality. To take aback a modern audience, though, one that has had oral sex and cigars as sex toys discussed on the evening news, it is necessary to do more than show full-frontal close-ups of both genders or simulate intercourse. Hence the intimations of incest. Nothing is calculated to make an audience uneasy faster, with the possible exception of cannibalism presented as a viable experimental cuisine.
In Bertolucci-land, Americans arrive in Paris in order to have interesting sex. Matthew (Michael Pitt) is no exception. Hes come to Paris to learn French, but spends all his time at the Cinematique watching American films. Its there, during a riot, one of many in 1968, he meets fellow cinephiles Isabelle (Eva Green) and Thea (Louis Garrel), ravishing fraternal twins. Shes cool and sophisticated, hes edgy and political, and they share a brand on their shoulders and a disregard for boundaries. The siblings adopt the wide-eyed Matthew and it soon becomes apparent that their attraction to him is for his potential to act as a surrogate sex partner for each other. Invited to spend a month in their apartment while their parents are away for a month, Matthew ditches his dingy hotel room for elegant surroundings and kinky adventures that begin with truth-or-dare and ends with everyone in a bathtub.
We are supposed to understand that Matthew is looking for a walk on the wild side, slowly slipping the bonds of his inhibitions, but when offered the luscious puff pastry that is Isabelle, Pitt conveys only that special all-American horn dog quality, one that is willing to having Thea look on if thats the condition for nailing Isabelle. That Thea chooses to fry up a batch of eggs while they couple on the kitchen floor is perhaps a bit of French symbolism that Im missing. And Im not sure Im unhappy about that. More obvious is the way the twins, understandably uncomfortable and secretive until now about their feelings for one another, subsume their emotions by playing out vignettes of their favorite films such as BLONDE VENUS and QUEEN CHRISTINA. Illustrated by Bertolucci with actual clips from those films, there is the devastating and unmistakable recognition that while the twins have more to subsume than most, we are all subject to a similar phenomenon, externalizing our feelings, particularly the more difficult ones, by projecting them as film clips, real or reel, thereby creating a safety zone.
There is much of a philosophical nature during the 115 minute running time. Matthews dinner with the twins and their parents at the start of the film becomes a consideration of cosmic harmonies, how all things seem to fit the one into the other. As the film progresses, other topics crop up, Keaton versus Chaplin, Hendrix versus Clapton, protesting with or without violence, dating outside the nuclear family, but no conclusions are ever drawn, and it all plays as just so much filler between sexual encounters. Meanwhile, cobblestones are thrown in the streets and the kids run out of money before their parents get home. The great turmoil of the times fails to find a mirror image in the story line. Its thrown in, apparently, so that the hermeticism of the threesome can have a special emphasis, and so that Isabelle, passing a television in a shop window on an evening stroll with Matthew, can let us know the she and Thea consider watching television impure.
There are some good performances. Pitt may not project a deep inner life, but he has the right disingenuous quality to play a kid overwhelmed with the magic of being alone in a foreign country. Green has a wonderful wanton fragility that manifests as a careful insouciance. Fittingly with a film about sensuality, the cinematography by Fabio Cianchetti is gorgeous, infused with light and shadow such that there is a subtle chiaroscuro effect that is effective without being overwhelming.
If only it all led somewhere. Instead, of a bang, though, theres a fizzle, Molotov cocktails notwithstanding, which after the fireworks that lead up to it, is doubly disappointing.
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