Four Nights of a Dreamer

I watched this film the following day after watching ' Une Femme Douce ', and although I had seen both long ago it is good revisiting any Bresson film, especially as both of them have not been seen as much as a lot of his other films. Both are from Dostoyevsky, and despite not wanting to I found that ' Une Femme Douce ' to be first rate while ' Quatre nuits d'un reveur ' is not. I would like to blame it on the poor copy I have of it and perhaps its condition spoiled the unarguable ' beautiful ' imagery. The river Seine and ' les bateaux- mouches ' that glide down on it are a tourist's dream, plus the singers on it. The film is also concentrated on Pont Neuf, also a tourist's dream, and what with the obvious beauty of the two main actor's it is a seductive film. There is also female semi-nudity in it, and this too is part of the ' dream ' of Paris. All of these images have been used before, and I am astonished that Bresson filmed ( for most of the film ) these cliched images of a complex and often very ugly real city. The story is simple. Man saves a woman attempting suicide because the lover she has waited a year for has not turned up. Once more the suicidal theme recurs in Bresson's work, but I will give no spoilers as to how this rather banal story ends. I love Dostoyevsky as much as I revere Bresson but his ' White Nights ' is not as good in my opinion as the rest of his work. I also disliked the choice of making the two leads such aimless, and clearly well off people. At the very least in ' Une Femme Douce ' the two main characters are in work, or seeking work and both Dominigue Sanda and the excellent Guy Frangin ( why did he not do more cinema ? ) are miles ahead in the acting field than Isabelle Weingarten and Guillaume des Forets in this film. The plus side is that the shallow nature of the early 1970's is well conveyed but like a boomerang this returns hitting at the film and making it shallow in itself. I allow any great director a few failures, and a failure this is, at least from my perspective. I give it a 5 because despite the ( to me ) triviality of love lost for one, and found for the other, the signature moments of Bresson are there. The shots of hands, the lack of music, except from within the scenes, and not imposed, and his no doubt clear eye for detail that other directors fail to see are there. A saddening experience from a director I admire so much.

An art-school kid meets a sad-faced girl on the Pont-Neuf; she's about to leap. It seems her beau left for Yale, swore he'd meet her one year later to the day--and he's blown her off. Love ensues between the couple on the bridge; Joe Yalie fails to make his appointment; and all seems to be heavenly for the two young lovebirds. Until, of course, days later, Joe Yalie comes a-callin'...

The relationship between a painter's self-torturing love life and his efflorescent work life was explored with a riotous, blasting, punk-rock yet p**s-elegant glee by Martin Scorsese and company in the short film LIFE LESSONS. Bresson's version of a similar tale is, to put it lightly, less communicative. Late Bresson--from THE TRIAL OF JOAN OF ARC on--puts a premium on mum's-the-word. But in a late, underappreciated masterpiece, UNE FEMME DOUCE, Bresson's deliberate muteness worked: this adaptation of a Dostoevsky story about a blinkered husband decrypting his wife's suicide prods at the question "What do women want?" with comic and sensuous tactics unseen elsewhere in Bresson. And the emphasis on the unreadable--made literal in Bresson's concentration on shoulders, hands, backs of heads--fit the material like a glove.

The Dostoevsky source material for FOUR NIGHTS OF A DREAMER is simpler stuff. And more psychological stuff, too--which, mated with Bresson's deliberately dime-store-Indian, anti-acting style, makes for incoherence. You can't make out just exactly what Bresson thinks this movie is about, except a touching, and not altogether lecherous, affection for Today's Youth. It has freaky asides, like his other unhinged youth movie THE DEVIL PROBABLY: an art student pontificates on his moral agenda for painting in a bowlegged scene that suggests Bresson standing up in the movie theatre and reading from a tract. It has bits of rock music performed live that take you back to the with-it-ness of Otto Preminger's SKIDOO. And it has the hero's weird, unfinished, Pop Art-meets-Matisse paintings, everywhere. And it ends with a sadder-but-wiser shrug.

You get the feeling Bresson's heart and soul slammed painfully into every frame of this movie. It's also inscrutable and not absorbing in the least. Is this the fate of all master directors who make it to a ripe old age--they keep their chops, but they simply have no more stories they're impassioned to tell?

My Rating : 6/10

Minimalist, inconsequential and bland - that's how I would describe 'Four Nights of a Dreamer'.

Bresson's typical ascetic approach to cinematography is no doubt visible however it fails to make any impact on this viewer.

The aimless artist meets a damsel in distress is cinematic cliche and while there are bits of 1970's life and society of France - the lack of emotion makes the story ineffective and dispassionate.

No doubt the worst film-work of all of Bresson's stellar filmography.

Four Nights of a Dreamer is one of those films that European directors are much better at than American ones - expressing a lot merely through its cinematography, at times not making a lot of sense all while it meanders along in an expressive, quiet manner.

The movie is carried by the two leads - Isabelle Weingarten as Marthe and Guillaume des Forêts as Jacques - with all the other roles barely registering. Jacques is a melancholy young painter, alone yet not necessarily lonely. What comes through is his longing for a true love. Through happenstance, Jacques runs in to Marthe when she is at a difficult point in a relationship. They tell each other their stories in a series of flashbacks, then leading to their current situations. While under 90 minutes, the film moves along at a slow, even somnolent, pace. And, as an aside, there are some rather groovy and folky musical interludes that add to the film's air of longing.

Four Nights of a Dreamer is not a great film, it is definitely a pleasure to watch.

Four Nights of a Dreamer is not quite my favorite of the adaptations of Dostoyevsky's White Nights as that would to Visconti's achingly romantic and sad melodrama Le Notti Bianche, but it is a fairly engrossing drama that features some welcome and (from Bresson) unexpected humor that marks this as if not a departure than something a little different (though maybe needed after his prior, much more depressing but still great A Gentle Woman from two years before, also a Dostoyevsky story). What makes it so different is not that it focuses on someone who has an obsessive even OCD streak, but how he shows the character.

I think Jacques is so quiet about his obsessions, making odd eye-less paintings that no one will probably see outside of his one male friend and doing countless recordings into his portable tape recorder where he goes back to listen to the existential tragic romantic musings, and it may not be noticeable at first that he would be what is dubbed today an "Incel" (in France, you can get one of those at McDonald's, har har). Yet he is nice and sweet to the young Marthe, who is about to jump into a river when she first meets her as she is despondent over her lover not coming to see her since his return to Paris and to be by her side as she is overcome with her many many feelings about him.

I have to wonder if by this point in his career, or there may be less to wonder as it just seems to be the case, that 70 year old Bresson so knew his minimalist style, and this in a period of post Free-Love would-be Sexual Revolution times, that it was time to poke a little fun at what we are seeing. That may sound like a bold statement, but take the part of Marthe's "History" segment where we see her and her mother go to a film screening (she was kind of duped to go by some local guy who just wanted to screw with her) and it is a violent shoot-em up spectacle... only this being Bresson, everything is drained of emotion, to the point where a man is shot and style writhes around in poetic fashion and waits to do a hand motion until he can finally be at rest in death.

I watch that and couldn't help but laugh, and it is intentional (I should hope), and that was a pleasant surprise given that Robert Bresson was coming off of some of the most emotionally rigorous and sad films ever made (just imagine if Marthe and her mother had been seated for Mouchette!) This is not the dominant mode, but there is not only a sly streak here and there, and an apparent running commentary on the Jacques character - Bresson doesn't come out and say it directly, he doesn't have to as that is just the filmmaker he was, that while not a bad person he certainly is so alone that he has become maladjusted and his love for Marthe is both genuine and misguided - but on romance itself as a kind of mood.

I say this and yet I do think there are parts of this that have genuine romantic feelings, or at least there are those passages in the night segments where Jacques and Marthe come across groups playing guitar and singing, one group on a boat sailing down the river while some others are more vaguely Hippie/Folk like, and it is something that may or may not be affecting the characters but it does affect us. There is even a mood to some of these parts where these maybe/maybe not melancholic love-birds walk around and maybe Linklater saw this and had it somewhere in the back of his mind when writing/directing the first Before entry(?) Or if Jesse and Celine were less talky and more... French (yes, even more than Celine, one more har-har).

The end of the film is what makes this even more memorable or just interesting than what came before it. It is very good on the whole, and there is a sweetness to much of it that is so compelling to watch given that this filmmaker was so set in his ways with his actors and the whole "you must do this many takes so you are drained to your minimal essence as a peformer" while there is still an intensity in the eyes and some of the physical movements and gestures, which take on some extra importance (such as Jacques moving around those bottles and cans in his cabinet and his OCD is on full display to me, or the way Marthe looks at herself naked in the mirror as guitar plays).

Once that ending comes, it is this less ironic to me than inevitable; he will continue to paint and talk to his tape recorder, and his "non" life will go on. For now. This is a sneakily remarkable film that on paper is melodrama and executed is more satirical, if that makes sense.