The Dreamers Reviews
Michael Pitt has the most interesting face. It's so naive yet bold. He does have beautiful lips.
A young American studying in Paris in 1968 strikes up a friendship with a French brother and sister. Set against the background of the '68 Paris student riots.
For most of its run time, "The Dreamers" is a stunningly beautiful and effectively seductive tale of three youths (one American, two French) who intermingle in a love affair sparked by their love of movies. As tales of foreign dislocation go, this runs circles around "Lost in Translation," and ups the erotic ante to a place so casual that some mentalities may be downright uncomfortable with the lack of sensationalism present. In what is essentially a scaled-down variation on Truffaut's "Jules and Jim," director Bernardo Bertolucci places American student Matthew (Michael Pitt, full of marquee-icon beauty) in Paris, where he meets up with Isabelle (the luscious Eva Green) and Theo (Louis Garrel), whose ambiguous relationship runs the gamut from siblings to twins to lovers; the trio become enmeshed in a love triangle that extends for a month, in the midst of the escalation of military operations in Vietnam and a Communist uprising in France. Bertolucci opens with images of outcry against a blacklisted filmmaker, and concludes with a less-than-convincing paralleling of political protest (the axiom that "all art is political" given an overly literal connotation). The at-times distracting political aspect, however, is a minor complaint in what is, at heart, a hypnotically engaging account of three mysterious teens in the midst of their sexual awakening. "The Dreamers" is, as another critic has already stated, a wonderful valentine to love--and to cinema itself.
Despite the topic, this film manages to have an innocence to it, which slowly turns to tragedy by the end. Impressive.
a hippie-orientated american student of tumultuous 60s, the cynic period of vietnam war, on his cinematic crusade to paris, then he meets a pair of french twins who are also movie buffs, the edgy IT type with leftist politic tendency, who worship mao's cultural revolutions, deranged with their intense daring trials of sex. so the fresh-faced young american college student falls head overs heels in love with their charismatic allure of avant-gardist thinkings as well as their provocative sensuality when he sees the twins's naked sleeping poise. they dare each other to guess scenes of movies and the loser pays the price of punishments which strays an exhibitionistic masturbation and freewheeling intercourse.
undeniably sex is a massive attraction of this movie like one quote of cinema notebook mentioned within the movie that filmmaking is an art of voyeurism, like peeping your parents have sex thru the key hole, you feel guilty but rapturously aroused, and filmmaker is like a criminal who philander the audience this forbidden desire, audience naturally takes the spot of michael pitt's coy american who covets eva green and louis garrel who shamelessly dangle their lovely youthful fleshes in front of you as if it's nothing big deal, then a phallic dream is granted as pitt's got to make love to eva green and deflower this gorgeous french apphrodite, this crazy but quirky ingenune of guileless seductiveness. which gentleman in the seat wouldn't crave for that, huh? but the sex is nothing gratuitous, it torches the supremacy of lustrous passion and tender affections, especially the scene when pitt and green embraces harshly after lovemaking, and the girl's face is smeared with tears and her own virginal blood at first time. (quite touching, indeed.) the sex looks nothing dirty but innocent like kids who toy with their newly experimented genitals.
the most interesting parts would be michael pitt's philosophical dialogues with louis garrel, the angry youth who resents his highly proper and dignified father, who despises the bourgeois hypocrisy of cold war despite he's a descendant of middle class. they debate over keaton and chaplin, and the awestruck cultural revolution and its fundamental contradictions. you see posters of chairman mao hung in garrel's bedroom and he's reading the little red book so sincerely like it's a sacred bible. garrel takes it so literily that he even goes on street with a bomb to protest against the facsist french police (as he claims) while michael pitt strives to hold their faces for a quick smack of kisses to demonstrate his notion "an orgasm is better than bomb" (this slogan appears in the t shirt pitt wears in the premiere of "dreamers" as well) just like the highly welcomed hippie's idea of "free love" in 70s america: if we make love to each other instead of using our fists, the world would be in peace forever. i suppose frenches were more militant to resort to communism and sweeping revolutions while americans were more self-indulgent with their naive hedonistic beliefs. whatever happens in the world is all silmultaneous and contagious, china of the orient was going thru cultural revolution with a little mao book while the occidental country like france had various riots to echo that. meanwhile my country, taiwan, was dozing itself with a non-existent fancy pushed by governmental proganda that chiang kai-shek could retrieve mainland china, along with his american conspirators to perform his oriental "mccarthyism", which was just like mao's cultural revolutions, had all costed more real bloodshed than the occidental side of the world.
as roger ebert remarks in his professional review of "the dreamers" that the people who really change the world are not those who watch movies but those who have money and power. "the dreamers" showcased the most fascinationg period of cinematic worship when moviegoers do have a sense of political involvement with the worldwide conditions and project a true absorption of culture to the movies they watch without discriminations like "i cannot accept silents" or "black and white screen is blurry"or "oldies are intimidatingly boring"...it was the time when filmviewing was taken very seriously like the air they inhale and breathe out...but today audience watches movies with an easy expectation to "amuse himself to death" (a pun to the book witten by neil postman), there's nothing too idealstic but simply cheap fun-seeking..i wonder whether i should rejoice over this apathy even i deeply realize that dreamers truly cannot the world. somehow, in the end, does it really matter anymore? youth is a like a budding flower of frivolity and naivete, a fair blossom of dreams and hopes, you're the most beautiful when you smile with hope or frown with purist idealism because it's a utmost expression of your non-speckled humanity.
Twins Theo & Isabelle are two trainwrecks you need to see to believe, and the performances by Eva Green and Michael Pitt are the highlight of a somewhat dull (but incredibly sexy, if you look past the incest, and that scene with the blood) film.
Bond girl Eva Green is naked for most of the second half of the movie and while her character is a total nutjob she is very gorgeous to look at. Beyond that the movie doesn't have much of a plot but jumps from erotic scene to scene rather entertainingly. What's kind of neat are the characters throwing movie quotes at each other, which are always shown by the original scenes from black and white classics. Overall a watchable erotic drama with quite a few open questions.
So I made a memory the other day! All by myself! I was circumventing this mysterious FedEx building in town, drawing so near I could pretend like I was smelling it. You can always count on Mapquest for locating unknown buildings. *hock!* They were package-sitting my mail for me. These are all just the throwaway details, right? Well, I found the bloody place, picked up my package, and I literally hopped on the familiar highway back home (I did a little rump-jump in my seat as I entered the on-ramp).
[size=1]Sidenote: have you ever suddenly realized that you like something? I don't know why I never thought about it before, but I like getting mail (bills excluded with extreme prejudice). Not sure how I summoned up the cognitive energy to finally have this dawn on me. A fluke of the mind. Mail...it's like a mini-Christmas of words and pictures. Ah, to tear through the envelope to find the message destined for me and only me. It's a silly sense of ownership I guess. Or you can get a box full of goodies (or goody, depending on how nice you've been to the Mailman this year. Always watching). I don't get much mail, but I do like getting it. In fact, I'm too lazy to create mail of my own, but I am an expert at receiving it. Kinduva normal thing, liking mail. As if I finally discovered that, at long last, I love tying shoes. But realizing for the first time that you have a particular affection for something, even a slight one, is pretty cool. *kills sidenote*[/size]
So anyways, as I'm driving down the highway, I had a strange awareness of things. In those very moments, with the radio channels dueling between Mozart and AC/DC, I felt my mind was "imprintable," like a memory was ready to entrench itself in one of those gnarly folds of my brain. I guess the sky had the right color and texture for me to know that this memory was going to stay. Sometimes you just know it. However, I couldn't help but wonder, while knowing this moment would be remembered, why it [i]was[/i] this moment that would be remembered, and not 10 minutes prior or 10 minutes thereafter (neither of which I can really describe for you now). The sun was cooling in the great bathtub beyond the peninsula hills, so the clouds were sponging up the delicious dying colors, like some hanging memory of the sun's light that day. This very image of looking through my windshield, this memory, was littered with power lines, unremarkable towers and highways, all blocking the great image of light and sky and fog beyond it. It would have been neat to reach out into my plain of vision and pull away the highways and all the other messy man-made props, like distracting ivy growing from a windowsill. To be able to decide exactly what I see, and do something about it. But I knew that these power lines and towers and highways were supposed to be apart of the of this memory. And I was OK with that. Even if I'm not completely certain what it means, I'm glad I remember it clearly.
PS.- Sergio Leone is a master. On a Neumthorian scale.