In Dreams
(1999)
Interviewed for the book Smoking in Bed – Conversations with Bruce
Robinson, the director/writer/actor observes that the first thing Neil
Jordan did in the film of In Dreams was
to have a child killed. Robinson’s original script had studiously avoided
showing kids in peril, and he understandably felt that Jordan had completely missed
the point. I’m not all together sure the film would have worked if it had followed Robinson’s vision, but it
surely couldn’t have been any worse than beautifully shot mess that ends up on
screen.
Robinson the writer had answered the call
of none of other than Steven Spielberg who, no doubt in a moment of reverie,
had the bright idea of making a film about a serial killer who preys on
children. Whether the ‘berg ever intended to direct is moot; he probably
believed he would for five minutes one afternoon, until something else grabbed
his attention. And I expect his concept flowed from idle spitballing of what
could outdo Se7en in the serial
killer stakes. Robinson was less than enamoured with the brief, but he readily
accepted it because you don’t often get personal requests from Hollywood
royalty. From the interview, it sounds as if Robinson did everything he could
to turn a concept he found unpalatable into one he was vaguely comfortable
working up; on that basis alone it sounds as if his original would have been
pulling in different directions.
For some reason, Jordan accepted the reins
and undertook a rewrite. Robinson readily acknowledges Jordan’s talent as a
director, and rightly so. But he’s also correct to opine that his work on In Dreams is a complete mess. Well, it’s
technically fine. The cinematography
from Darius Khondji (who, of course, lensed Se7en,
and also made a big splash with his work for Jeunet and Caro) is gorgeous and
memorable; in particular the underwater sequences depicting a submerged town
are eerie and evocative, as is Bening framed in the window of her cell. But,
while individual sequences make visual sense, the film has been edited to the
point of narrative incoherence. As a whole, it is delivers the same level of relentless,
garbled hysteria as Annette Bening’s reluctant psychic.
Even if one was to look charitably on the
result as some kind of unnerving fever dream on the part of Bening’s character
(Claire Cooper), it needs to be compelling on some level to sustain itself. In
premise, there is some potential; a mother is subject to visions of a serial
killer who abducts children. After her daughter is also abducted and murdered,
and the dreams escalate, she is committed to a mental institution. Robinson
commented that, in his script, the death of her daughter was not at the hands
of the serial killer; he saw this as adding weight to the authorities’ view
that she was delusional.
Jordan’s film begins in a state of extreme
agitation and becomes only more so as it progresses. Bening is a fine actress,
but there’s no in- to sympathising with her. She is OTT from start. By the
point at which she is freaking out in her kitchen, blocking the sink with the
multitude of apples she has to hand, the director has clearly lost all grip on the
story. When the sink explodes in a great crimson splatter, any hope at staving
off ridicule is well and truly lost. Claire’s breakdown should be supremely
affecting. Instead it is so one-note it becomes laughable. Everything is an extreme hallucination, and her dialogue is often
terrible (“Can’t you get that through
your thick psychiatric skull?”)
And the overall tone is distasteful, without
compensating purpose or direction. Silly events pile upon each other without
meaning, a succession of well-crafted images of dubious merit. Claire, ever
manic, is involved in a freeway pile up as she pursues her dog. It’s silly. She
discovers the killer’s writing behind the wallpaper in her ward; it’s the kind
of antic coincidence that bursts any fragile credulity that was remaining. And
the final twist is so obviously based on a notional “horror movie” rulebook, as
it makes a mockery of Claire’s character motivations and, indeed, what we had
just seen of her journey’s resolution.
If Bening is ineffectively shrill, the rest
of the cast fares little better. Aidan Quinn was yet to resign himself to a TV
career, and is rewarded with a thankless husband role. Jordan regular Stephen
Rea is forgettable as a shrink, while Robert Downey Jr.’s psycho performance is
a rare misfire from the actor. To be fair to him, he has nothing to work with
so all he can do is go “large”.
Robinson’s reaction to being informed he was
inspired by a book was “Oh, really? I’ve
never heard of it” (Doll’s Eyes
by Bari Wood; Wood also wrote Twins,
which David Cronenberg made as Dead
Ringers), so when In Dreams is
referred to as a loose adaptation, that would be why. Anyone interested in In Dreams based on the pedigree of its
writer and director should be forewarned. The only good reason to give it your time is the quality of Khondji’s photography.
*1/2
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