An old army colleague of mine, Colonel Cosgrove, wept today. He wept at a world so crude and bleak. “Could it be,” his red eyes meeting mine, “that we are so base and low, so utterly lost, that we must deprave ourselves and our fellows? I believe in transgression, but there are limits.” These are the words of a good man. Colonel Cosgrove, who saved my life on Iwo Jima, speaks in defence of the downtrodden. Why flatulate upon a moral cause with vulgar provocation? But there is an itch in his argument. After all, is there a sentence that goads a provocateur more than the acceptable bound of transgression? Is a transgression that does not transgress acceptable transgression really much of a transgression at all? But this line could be misused. One could equally defend any representation on the justification of it being unacceptable (and therefore daring). If the transgression of Michel Franco’s Dreams is to be defended, then there must be some artistic purpose for its inclusion. Let’s investigate this possibility.
The transgression in question occurs in the final third of Dreams. Fernando (Isaac Hernández), a Mexican dancer who had attempted a relocation to San Francisco, discovers that his occasional lover and wealthy patron Jennifer (Jessica Chastain) intentionally had him deported, so as to better enable their “relationship”; which is to say, so she can remain completely in control of him. In his fury, he rapes Jennifer. We might, in basic dramaturgical terms, read this as an extreme retaliation. But it cannot be only that. It is not a normal dramaturgical action, and it is fundamentally loaded (not merely in the immigrant context, but in any context) to bias an audience immediately and permanently against its perpetrator. More than any other crime, even inclusive of murder and torture, rape is the unforgivable act. Why does Franco deploy it here? To suddenly shift sympathy to Jennifer, at her most horrendous low? Likely not. It seems instead a representation of the abject, and a final desecration of an entirely superficial relationship. In the context of his life, Jennifer has destroyed Fernando: she has toppled him at the precipice of his dream (he was to dance lead in a San Francisco show, independent of her), and she has declared herself an enemy who will (doubtless) repeat this act. She has determined that Fernando must live according to her will. He is entirely subject to her. Fernando then, himself become abject, his dreamt-of life ended, joins himself to complete destruction. He will commit the gravest act possible; Jennifer’s act has demolished all pretence of human amity.
But this analysis is perhaps short. There is a degree to which this scene culminates the essence of their relationship. While couched as a romance from early in the film, it is evident that Jennifer and Fernando are a solely carnal coupling. The desire between them is fundamentally real — but what extends beyond this desire differs considerably. Jennifer hopes to have complete dominion over her sexual toy, which — as it happens — would include the trappings of a romantic relationship. But entirely on her terms; entirely as according to her fantasy. She must be the benefactor, and he must owe her total fealty. Fernando, who is, up until this final evil, basically sympathetic, nonetheless lets slip his own ideas. A late scene shows his obvious desire for a legitimizing marriage; Jennifer is his route (in body and capital) to independence and to America. But each of these extended ideas has its basis in that real desire; however, the “real desire” therefore renders the opposite party as little more than a sex object. Fernando is to be kept; Jennifer is to be fed. But each is only real to the other, and each is only truly desirable to the other, when nude and panting. To then violently strip all the illusion of romance, and to cast away that ‘extended’ purpose, reduces Jennifer (in the eyes of Fernando) to a hateful sex object. And if he is conquered in every region but sex, then sex becomes the last remaining expression of power. He remains, if nothing else, a man; he takes up the patriarchal prerogative.
Franco indicates a complete breakdown of human feeling; he posits the ultimate act of violence. A man in this state cannot be redeemed. We see that at the foot of Fernando’s behaviour has been a sinister edge; this is a story of mutual (though not, by that nature, equal) exploitation. The previous acts tread a similar line, though not so crudely. Franco styles short, static scenes, which cut at their first point of emphasis; his is a long montage of blunt ideas, conveyed in clean, sharp images. Newcomer Hernández provides an uneven if generally proficient turn; Chastain has presumably made the boldest decision in her career, and she lifts the work considerably. She is dressed exquisitely by Mitchell Travers; hers is a wardrobe that repels underlings. But it seems generally true that Franco only has so much to work with. Dreams is a lean, direct, and narratively uncomplicated piece; even then it seems to dawdle in passagework, and scenes that overstep credulity (the frigid sex-talk could be justified, but Chastain’s Babygirl pint-chugging creates an association few would envy). A more generally compelling work might then find a heavy accent in its final transgression; Dreams risks the ship by calling full steam in the shallows. Does it make port?
Published as part of LFF 2025 — Dispatch 2.
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