"I was born on the Champs-Elyseés in 1959, and my first words were, 'New York Herald-Tribune,'" says Isabelle (Eva Green), breathlessly, to Matthew (Michael Pitt) toward the beginning of Bernardo Bertolucci's ode to all things '60s, The Dreamers. Isabelle, of course, was not literally born on the Champs-Elyseés in 1959—that would make her only 9 years old in the film's 1968 setting. Rather, she was born metaphorically at the release of Jean-Luc Godard's Breathless, the monument of French New Wave cinema. If you understood Isabelle's pretentious, melodramatic pronouncement without my explanation (Bertolucci helps by inserting footage of the original film), then you'll love The Dreamers, a romanticized view of the music, film and politics of its time. But, if Isabelle's line went right past you, the tangled relationship of the film's three leads has enough nuance to keep you enthralled.
Bertolucci clearly has a rose-colored view of the '60s, and especially Paris in the '60s, with its cultural and social revolutions. American college student Matthew narrates the film in a Wonder Years-esque tone, looking back on his life as a young man caught in the cinematic uprising of the New Wave. He spends his days in the Cinematheque Francaise theater, mesmerized by the works of Godard, Truffaut, Rohmer and other French masters, and all the greats of classic cinema. It's at a protest against the closing of the Cinematheque that he meets French twins Isabelle and Theo (Louis Garrel). They're exactly the sensual, free-spirited French stereotypes you'd expect (Isabelle's even wearing a beret), and they take naïve Matthew under their wing.
Soon, Matthew's gone from debating art and politics to moving in with the twins, spending time in their luxurious apartment while their parents are on vacation. It's only a small step, then, to the strangely twisted menage a trois between Matthew, Isabelle and Theo. The siblings are not quite incestuous, but they sleep naked in the same bed and share an eerie mental connection. Matthew, taken with heady discussions on the relative merits of Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin, or Jimi Hendrix and Eric Clapton, falls in love with both, and finally consummates his relationship with Isabelle on the kitchen floor as Theo cooks eggs and watches.
Bertolucci and screenwriter Gilbert Adair (who adapted his own novel) romanticize everything in the film except the core relationship, which is clearly doomed from the start. There is no way Matthew will ever come between Isabelle and Theo, even as he encourages both to forge their own paths in life. It's a doomed love story, a saga of wide-eyed optimism turned sour, and a metaphor for what happened to the idealism of the '60s only a few years later. But Bertolucci treats his cultural artifacts with such love—the soundtrack is full of wonderful period music, and clips from classic films accompany corresponding references—that he seems incapable of acknowledging the possibility that what they stood for was ever corruptible or impure.
In that sense, the music and the film references are superficial, fun if you can catch them but not essential to the story. How much, after all, can we learn about a character from his preference for Keaton over Chaplin? Bertolucci and Adair think those preferences are more telling than they really are, but there is plenty in the relationship of the core trio that's not based on art. Bertolucci's camerawork is amazing, catching the subtle sadism Isabelle and Theo practice on Matthew, especially during a stunning scene in a bathtub, Theo and Matthew on each side of Isabelle, reflected in mirrors opposite each other. As impressive as Bertolucci's re-creations of classic cinema are, they rarely go beyond simple pastiche. The film is most impressive when he uses New Wave film techniques like jump cuts to serve his own story rather than simply ape another.
The depiction of graphic sexuality, which has overshadowed coverage of the film in much of the press, is never lurid or sensationalized. It serves mainly to shock the audience, just as Matthew is shocked, and to convey the full openness and disturbing sexuality of Isabelle and Theo's relationship. Many of the scenes with full nudity are not sexy at all; the characters' nakedness representing vulnerability as much as sensuality.
Green and Garrel bring ferocity and heat to their performances, and Green especially is electrifying as Isabelle, making it easy to understand why Matthew falls so hard for her. Pitt, a Dawson's Creek alum, is much weaker, coming off as quite bland at times, although his character of the simple American Everyman probably calls for it.
No doubt film buffs and intellectuals (or people who'd like to think of themselves as such) will have more tolerance for this film than others. But Bertolucci never lets his obvious pretensions overshadow the characters and the story at the heart of the film. The Dreamers is a labor of love for him, and that love brings the film to glorious life.