Nightmare: Criticism of Blue Dreams


Close your windows, turn off the lights, lock the door twice and wrap it under the covers: Come True, named Bad Dreams for its French release, is one of those nuggets that can be enjoyed like a scary, sweaty dream. And its director, man-orchestra Anthony Scott Burns, is already one of the genre’s most promising artists.

If all moviegoers, following a very memorable session, like to compare the 7th art dream, it’s not always the stage. Combining strong episodic ramblings in stylistic effects and colorful sets, American cinema often ignores the psychoanalytic, even almost mystical, component of this state of affairs until David Lynch arrives and builds, with the help of the indescribable classic, a universe made up of our whimsical emanations. . the subconscious.

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Anthony Scott Burns, however, shakes off this heavy legacy in Come True. For a departure from the Lynchean American dream, he challenges a simple a priori question, but with almost metaphysical implications: what would happen if we could see dreams? And not content to answer it (well… almost), he bathes his entire essay in a dreamlike bluish atmosphere, giving his essay an air of yawning daydream. A radical aesthetic perspective, which is almost a challenge, as this true jack of all trades, after experiencing disastrous reviews on its first feature Our House, has decided to take it all.

Burns handled the direction, photography, scripting, editing, and even the music. A near-total control, guarantees absolute aesthetic coherence, especially when coupled with the performance of Julia Sarah Stone, a regular in American independent cinema who, with her sad air and melancholic awareness, further accentuates this sense of tenderness. . Just like the music composed by the filmmakers under the alias Pilotpriest with the brilliant Electric Youth present all over the place and literally lulling us into the oddities of poor Sarah’s misadventures. Certainly one of the strongest scores of the year, one that still haunts long after being seen.

And in the middle, swearing by the cocoon of this atypical aesthetic, is a dreamlike emanation, a long-front dark tracking shot captured by a retrofuturistic device. An engine of endless possibilities, exploited as much to explore the twists and turns of the character’s psychology to dig into his feelings without the net. And the doors that he sometimes violently opens will shake the certainty he has about himself.

Having suffered from sleep paralysis during his childhood, the director practices psychoanalysis based on experience. As the boundary between dream and reality collapses, the film subtly opens up the concepts theorized by Carl Jung, showing the structure in chapters that directly draw on his work. Rejecting strict Freudian analysis, he literally regarded the idea of ​​dreams as a counterweight to conscious experience.

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In fact, instead of just resting episodically on this series of dreams, obsessively plastically, this feature film revolves around the point of balance between dream and reality, even if that means making it even more intimidating. . The dream was no longer just a shelter or a vague black veil. It becomes a parallel world, a world that a priori remains unexplored … or not. During the last unsettling act, we drown (the term chosen) with the character on the other side of the mirror. And that’s where the proposition divides the most.

Indeed, after adding successive layers of mystery to his screenplay, Burns makes a choice that once again goes against Lynchian surrealism: he decides. Twist Come True has disrupted more than one, so much on paper, it’s almost cliché vis–vis the travel type. However, its very existence, from its deliberately contrasted form to the all-visual selection prevailing up to the time, to its implications, carries the story along a dizzying path of reflection. Instead of cursing the plot, it opens it up completely, reversing in an extreme way the perspective adopted by both the audience and the protagonist.

If many see this final revelation as a sign of ease, it really does take a lot of courage to completely transcend such an outburst of outdated narrative. Come True thrives on the edge of the subconscious, to better jump on one of the two sides in its final moments. A divisive bias of course (some blame him outright for ruining his narrative), but it’s undoubtedly interesting, especially when he stirs our guts so wildly.a cursory.

Because he is far from limited in his psychoanalytic ambitions. To investigate the depths of the inverted mirror of the subconscious is to trace a certain purity of our feelings. Without destroying the form of terror lodged there, he embodies an innate fear, even the mother of all fears. Something that develops alongside our tidy lives, beyond the limits of our nightlife (different stages of sleep detailed). Rarely is there a “visceral” adjective so relevant to evoke a threatening entity. In its form, in its performance, it represents all our anxieties, also lost in the blind spots of our consciousness.

A completely intangible freak, in its purest form, who rubs shoulders with another feeling: love. The story’s timidly pointing love story, originally relegated to a sub-plot of anecdotes, grows in importance to the point of stripping away the heroine’s personality, engaging in a relationship of infinite purity. How genuine is the feeling when you can dive into someone else’s fantasy, visualize it better than his? The central sequence of this relationship, sublimated once again by the soundtrack itself stripping honesty, hits an astounding form of idealism. While before that appeared one of the most beautiful romantic confession scenes caught on camera.

It’s a scary image, feels and destabilizes. An immersive cinematographic conclusion attests to the capacity of these images to tear from the psyche of the viewer their emotional nakedness. The strange fantastical element that reappears at the climax, the phantasmagoria consistent with the dismantled theme, is also a cultural figure strongly associated with the 7th art.

Filmmakers invite us nothing more and nothing less to embrace this stranger, a reflection of our fears and fantasies, to lose ourselves in it as we lose ourselves on the cinema screen. All to the languid rhythm of Modern Fears by Electric Youth. We will not be prayed for.