Dreams are often used in film, typically as one-off scenes which may serve any number of purposes. Dreams can be a simple tool used in cinema, from the classic “it was all just a dream” sequence – which was used in “Total Recall” to create a mind-bending ending – to the “nightmarish flashback” which can help flesh out the characterization of a film – this is how Batman’s affinity for bats was explained in “Batman Begins”. However, dreams can also be used as a foundational plot device to create an entirely unique and intriguing cinematic experience. Consider, for example, “The Matrix” and “Inception”: two of the most well-received movies of the past 25 years by both fans and critics alike, known for their mind-bending plots and summarily unique viewing experiences. Both effectively and excitingly utilized dreams as the key aspect of their storylines.
There are two clear challenges that writers must overcome when heavily relying on dreams: 1) the “rules” of these dreams must be established and adhered to, and 2) the uncertainty and questions introduced by the dreams must not be so numerous as to overwhelm the viewer. In “The Matrix”, the rules of existing in the dream-like computer world and the real world are established early in the first film, and these rules are followed throughout the entirety of the trilogy. Likewise, for “Inception”: the first forty-odd minutes are explicitly used to set-up the main dream sequences, so that the audience fully understands and appreciates them. In both films, there is an element of uncertainty in specific scenes: whether characters are in dreams or the real world plays a large role in at least one scene from each movie. Of course, there are more to these two movies than just their use of dreams, but the adherence to these two “dream guidelines” ensures a positive viewing experience for all. The same applies to Hungarian cinema, too: dream sequences elevate “Ruben Brandt, Collector” by creating uncertainty without removing a sense of closure at the end of the film, whereas those in “On Body and Soul” are used as a crutch which ultimately leave its audience confused and dissatisfied.
“Ruben Brandt, Collector” focuses on the world-renowned art therapist Ruben Brandt and his battle with night terrors caused by an unknown subconscious threat. The opening scene depicts Ruben sitting on a train, looking out the window, when he realizes there is a horrifying, decaying version of Franck Duveneck’s “Whistling Boy” sitting across from him. A panic sets in before Ruben startles awake, sweaty and out of breath, yet safe and on the same train. This is the first of many night terrors the doctor will have throughout the film, each of which is based on a famous work of art. Pieces such as Boticelli’s “The Birth of Venus” and Warhol’s “Elvis I, II” have prominent roles, so to speak. Critical to this film’s successful use of dreams is that there are not too many questions caused by the dream sequences. Of course, not everything is known to the audience in the early stages of the film, but night terrors are a real phenomenon, and it is understandable why an art therapist dreams about art; in short, the dream sequences make sense. As the film reveals Ruben’s night terrors, it also introduces his clientele, who are all accomplished thieves. Together, these four criminals work to steal the pieces of art which have been causing their therapist’s nightmares in the hopes that, by having the artwork in his possession, Ruben will finally be able to attain peace.
Ruben’s night terrors are sprinkled throughout the film, and often begin without the audience realizing they’ve begun. In one of the first dreams, Ruben is viewing art at a museum. He stares profoundly at “Venus of Urbino”, until the cat on the bedside leaps out of the painting and attacks him! Up until this point, the dream was indistinguishable from reality. However, once the absurdity of the feline attack became apparent, Ruben wakes up and it is clear to the viewer that he was, indeed, dreaming. The film is generous to its audience in this respect: although there is sometimes uncertainty while the dream sequences are playing out, leaving the audience to wonder what is reality and what is imagined, there is always an answer. Always, the audience is grounded by seeing Ruben wake up, short of breath, and covered in sweat. Throughout the film, there is rarely enough uncertainty introduced by the dream sequences to hinder the viewing experience: the “rules” are clearly established and adhered to.
What makes the usage of dreams so enjoyable is the film’s ending. In one of the final scenes, Ruben sits back in an armchair in his studio to appreciate all the art pieces his team of clients-turned-thieves have stolen for him. However, as he prepares for what is expected to be his first moment of true calm thus far, the chair defies reality and unravels itself into a set of restraints, digging into Ruben’s wrists and ankles. As has happened so many times prior, the audience realizes that Ruben must be dreaming, but this time is different. He wakes up on the train from the very first scene of the film, effectively implying that the entire plot of the film was a dream. However, in the doctor’s lap sits a book inscribed with a photograph of each of his clients, seeming to validate the notion that it wasn’t just a dream. The film ends here, leaving the audience to wonder what truly happened. There were plenty of scenes which did not involve Ruben at all, one of which even depicted the murder of someone Ruben never met. On the other hand, much of the movie depicts reality-defying characters and physics; one of Ruben’s thieves was literally two-dimensional, allowing him to slip under doors and hide behind paintings. Was this reality, or only a dream? “Ruben Brandt, Collector” normalized to its audience these unrealistic actions by combining many distinct art styles in its depiction of the film’s events. Many characters in the film have extra limbs, a scrambled face, or wear no clothing, which in turn makes the oddities of the film relatively ordinary; it is no simple task separating dream from reality when such oddities are so normal. In this regard, the film breaks the fourth wall, asking its viewers to separate art direction from plot in a way that is impossible for all but the film’s producers. What makes this all the more impressive is the fact that the viewing experience is not hindered by this upheaval of viewer expectation – the “rules“ were not broken until the end, or they were never broken at all and were more complex than originally implied. The uncertainty does not confuse the audience for no reason, it adds an entirely new layer to the film, but only after it has concluded. In short, “Ruben Brandt, Collector” utilizes dreams as a plot device in an integral way successfully without detracting from the viewing experience.
Let us now consider “On Body and Soul,” which does not utilize dreams so effectively. In the film, two employees at a cow processing plant – Maria and Endre – fall in love through the assistance of otherworldly encounters. Although they are struck by each other upon first meeting, a combination of disability, miscommunication, and lack of confidence prevents the two from getting together. However, after a therapist talks to everyone at the plant about their dreams in order to resolve a criminal investigation, Maria and Endre realize that they have been sharing dreams since the day they met. As in, the two are coexisting and interacting as a doe and buck in a snowy, forest dreamscape. The uncertainty introduced by these scenes before this revelation was minimal (perhaps the nature scenes were merely serving as a visual intermission from the dreary processing plant), but a new slew of questions arise once the audience learns that Endre and Maria are sharing dreams.
Their dreams are intermittently sprinkled throughout the film, although they do little to shed light on what the characters are doing other than show whether they are spending time together. However, this information is typically already reflected by the characters’ real-world actions. For example, after Maria and Endre eat lunch together at work, we see their deer selves drinking water side by side in a creek that night. Later in the film, during the few days Maria and Endre are not speaking to each other at work, Maria actively evades Endre in the dreamscape. While these dreams are uninspired and add little in the way of developing the plot, the questions they introduce do not outweigh the (admittedly simplistic) role they play in developing the plot.
By the end of the film, Endre and Maria make amends and become romantically involved, thanks in part to their dreams. One of the final scenes of the film shows the two sleeping together and subsequently drifting out of consciousness in each other’s arms. After the “rules” established thus far regarding their dreams, audiences were led to believe that the two were due for a fantastic shared dream in which they finally can be themselves (or whatever the deer equivalent of that might be) with each other. However, instead of this, there is… no dream at all! The shared dreams apparently have stopped, in what may be the most anti-climactic ending to a dream-centric film I have ever viewed. At this point, it became clear that the dream sequences throughout the film served little purpose other than to allow Maria and Endre to spend time together and overcome their real-world barriers. Further, the “rules” of the dreams are brought into question, and my overall uncertainty as a viewer skyrocketed. Why were the two able to share dreams? Were the dreams hosted in one of their minds, or somewhere else? Was there some omnipotent power which caused the dreams, or was it intended to be viewed as some manifestation of True Love? Perhaps the only facet of the film more frustrating than none of these questions being answered is the fact that neither Maria nor Endre seem to ask any of these questions themselves; both seem blissfully ignorant throughout the entirety of the film and don’t once stop to seriously question their surreal circumstances.
Although there is much more to both “Ruben Brandt, Collector” and “On Body and Soul”, the films’ use of dream sequences as crucial plot devices directly impacted my enjoyment of each. I must note that “Inception” and “The Matrix” are two of my favorite movies and comparing each dream-centric movie to them may make me a negligent critic. That being said, it is clear that the writers of “Ruben Brandt, Collector” put more thought into their usage of dream sequences throughout the movie than those of “On Body and Soul”. Considering that the realm of dreams is still barely understood by scientists today, they can be understandably difficult to incorporate into film. However, when done correctly, audiences are gifted with truly remarkable, psychological thrillers that leave them thinking for days, months, or even years after the film ends.
Budapest through Streets, People and Cinema 