: 24 February 2004 :

(I went to see The Dreamers a while back. Started writing a review of it to post, and left it to one side thinking I'd go over it and edit it a bit, tart it up, maybe write a bit more. Didn't get round to that, so I'm just going to whack it on here. It's as incoherent as the rest of the entries, so it'll fit right in.)

Written Friday 13th Feb, just after getting home from the cinema. An unlucky day...

I went to the pictures tonight – couldn’t decide what to see, and I plumped for The Dreamers. Big, big mistake. I’m genuinely angry at how bad it was. In fact, I’m even more angry than I would have been, because I was so busy being angry on the way home from the cinema that I forgot to buy milk. So not only have I just wasted two hours of my life (though it felt more like three), I’m out of milk. Angry, angry, angry.

Normally, if I was going to write about a film in this kind of depth, I’d issue a spoiler warning – but that won’t be necessary. Not much could really spoil this film, and if you go and see it you deserve everything you get. I would have walked out, but I was sat right in the middle of the row. I did consider leaving by walking over the back of the seats to get out. The resultant scene would have been more entertaining than anything going on on screen. It occurred to me, though, that I should stay and watch till the end, so I could properly kick Bertolucci’s arse when I got home. (Though Gilbert Adair’s got to take some of the blame, too. He can’t argue that his original novel was mauled by the scriptwriter who adapted it, because he did it himself.)

Read on, MacFuck.

Paris, 1968. A young dweeb from San Diego called Matthew goes to university to study French and to hang out with film geeks at the film-geek multiplex. He meets Théo and Isabelle, who are brother and sister. Twins. They’re film geeks too. What’s worse, they’re commie film geeks. (Are there no depths to which the Frog will not stoop?) Anyhow, because Matty Boy’s got no friends, he ends up moving into their house while their parents are away, and gets sucked into a ménage à trois. When the three of them aren’t talking about Théo and Isabelle’s overwrought incestuous desire for each other, or about the dysfunctional love affair between Isabelle and Matthew, or about the fact that Matthew clearly wants Théo, they’re having mind-numbing conversations about left-wing politics or film history.

A film about film buffs could have been interesting, with a few choice subtle references and understated metaphors. Unfortunately, BB chooses to beat us all over the fucking head with how clever he thinks he is. So when the three of them try to beat the record for running through the Louvre, like in Bande à Part, we get clips from the Godard film intercut with them running. And immediately afterwards, Théo says of Matthew, “We accept him, one of us...” Now this is a pretty famous line. But apparently not famous enough, because we then have to watch a ten-second clip of Freaks just to batter the point home. Do you see? They’re quoting from films! Aren’t they clever!

The political discussion’s not much better. It’s supposed to simulate debate on a wider scale, with the three layabouts taking differing positions and arguing over theoretical points, but any nuances that might have been in the script are utterly fucked by Bertolucci’s all-cops-are-bastards adolescent posturing. There’s a potentially nice bit at the end where Matthew turns away and leaves the protests in disgust as Théo runs forward with a petrol bomb. Matt’s policy of non-violence, and his realisation (finally!) that Théo is a complete prick who he should never have bothered with in the first place, should have been underscored by the direction. In fact, Matthew walking away disillusioned should have been the last thing in the film. (Either that or having Théo shot dead before he could throw the bomb – I was genuinely disappointed that this didn’t happen...). Instead, the closing shot we’re given is a slow-motion baton charge by the police (bastards, remember) as “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien” strikes up. Is the Piaf supposed to be funny? Clever? Subtle? It’s none of these things. It’s an apology for all the stupid mistakes made by the far left in the sixties, which are still being made today. “I regret nothing”? Bernie, you witless prick, grow the fuck up.

Jake Gyllenhaal was originally considered for the role of Matthew, which went to Michael Pitt. I’d have liked to see Jake. You know the bit in Donnie Darko where he ‘survives’ having a jet engine fall into his bedroom, and when he goes back to school people treat him like some kind of superhero? There’s the boy that tells him “You’re a superhero - you have to smoke now. That’s some good shit, huh?” And Donnie looks at him and says, “It’s a fucking cigarette.” That’s what the film needed as its central character – someone to look witheringly at the twins, these workshy pinko bohemian wannabes, and tell them to stop being so fucking stupid. There are some intentionally funny moments in the film, and some which just prompted snorts of derision. Take the conversation which goes “There’s no food left in the house, and we’ve cashed all the cheques our parents gave us. What are we going to do?” I was this close to shouting “GET A FUCKING JOB!” Christ, I thought I was lazy. But Théo actually goes out and roots through a load of rubbish bins looking for food, without considering that maybe he should find a way of getting money that doesn’t involve sponging off his dad. If you think – as Théo does – that all parents are tyrants who need to be overthrown, you ought to take a good clear look at where your cash is coming from.

Plenty of newspaper critics have been raving about this film, but – appropriately enough for a flick with so much goddamn nudity – there’s some serious Emperor’s New Clothes shit going on here. Every time a big-name arthouse director puts out another film with pretentions to big ideas, the usual suspects in the broadsheets queue up to unquestioningly brown their noses. Don’t be fooled, though – mainstream cinema’s often a lot more worthwhile. You want a film that’s entertaining, funny, charming, has a great soundtrack and makes some pertinent observations about growing up and about idealism? Go and see School of Rock. I’m not kidding, it’s fucking awesome.