A film about immigration, class divide, and racism with some heavy eroticism thrown on top shouldn’t feel like it’s infected with a muted malaise. I can only speculate that Dreams was made this way in order to be a more contemplative picture of the many forces that drive a couple apart. But the passivity is so aggravatingly aloof that by the time this film gets its climax, it’s less of a meaty narrative coming to a boil and more like watching a sputtering car get hit by a bus.

Most of the movie is seen from the perspective of Fernando Rodriguez (Isaac Hernández), an illegal Mexican immigrant who finds his way back into the United States. He eventually reconnects with his lover, the wealthy Jennifer McCarthy (Jessica Chastain). Although her work involves helping communities, her workplace and family have a racist demeanor that would frown if they knew who she was in a relationship with. When this possibility is discovered by her aged father (Marshall Bell), he gives her the old “I’m not racist, but…” talk with his daughter.

As Jennifer weighs her slightly concealed relationship between bedroom scenes of steamy sex, Fernando pursues his passion for dance. He goes about the process the way most Americans would expect: from dancing on the streets to being discovered, to joining a company, to getting the lead role. Despite the distance Jennifer puts between herself and Fernando, the two still have a passionate longing that explodes in scenes where sex can break out right on the stairs. But between the wordless romps and solid scenes showcasing Fernando’s dance moves, there’s little more than a silent sensation that this can’t last. Jennifer’s uncertainty and Fernando’s danger lead to a relationship that not only crumbles but also burns up abruptly, as Fernando is deported and Jennifer admits her involvement in the process.

The film rarely explores the dire consequences until the final act, where all the frustrations boil over into acts of rape and violence. But what might’ve been showcased as the result of repressed feelings about race and power dynamics comes off more like an empty exercise in finding fault within humanity. Throughout the film, it’s easy to feel for Fernando’s plight, given how he maintains his cool on the job and in the bedroom. But once he crosses the line of rape, there’s this uneasy implication about how everyone is at fault, where his inevitable fall from grace is a bitter resolve. Through the vile conclusion, Fernando’s sympathies are drained to a degree where it feels like a last-minute attempt to find fault in his character. The result feels like an artificial centrist smearing of the situation, failing to explore any of these issues with much honesty, as though a blame-everybody grenade were tossed into the narrative.

Dreams keeps its contemplations on power dynamics in a box that is so buried that it becomes maddening and mundane. Whatever point there was to make about the ugly byproducts of class and immigration is drowned in the extended moments of Fernando’s moves (dance and sexual) and Jennifer’s stuffy nature when addressing race. Even with Hernández and Chastain giving fine performances, they’re underutilized in a film too timid to take a swing in any particular direction, choosing to stir the societal ingredients more for the sake of momentum-free drama than saying anything about our world. It pulls back to watch the sex and violence unfold with a distant gawk at the racial tension, struggling to find a missing message in any of this unease.

Not available on any streaming platforms.

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