Dream a Little Dream (1989) – DVD

*½/**** Image C+ Sound B
starring Jason Robards, Corey Feldman, Piper Laurie, Meredith Salenger
screenplay by Daniel Jay Franklin and Marc Rocco & D.E. Eisenberg
directed by Marc Rocco

by Travis Mackenzie Hoover How to describe the sublimely awful experience of Dream a Little Dream? Imagine a whacked-out homage combo to John Hughes and Nicolas Roeg–one made without the talent or intelligence of either–and you’ll have an idea of its astoundingly ill-advised combination of temporal step-dancing and teenage romance. You have to admire the guts of director Marc Rocco for going so far out on aesthetic limbs that he’ll inevitably crash to earth–if nothing else, he’s willing to try things, and his plotting and editing rhythms are so unlike anything in the rest of the ’80s teen genre that they border on the avant-garde. Dream a Little Dream isn’t actually good, but it’s certainly never dull, and it will keep bad-film enthusiasts forever wallowing in pig heaven.

At first light, the plot is par for the kidpix course: Bobby (Corey Feldman) is a high-school loser who secretly has the hots for dreamy Lainie (Meredith Salenger). He cannot be dissuaded from his crush by either her sleazeball boyfriend or the harsh words of best friend Dinger (Corey Haim); unfortunately for him, being a loser is all about not getting what you want. The film then intercuts him with the efforts of crotchety old genius Coleman Ettinger (Jason Robards!), who has perfected some process for entering dream states in reality. Alas, as Coleman attempts to implement his discovery, Bobby and Lainie collide on his doorstep (long story)–and blammo: Coleman resides in the body of Bobby. Coleman must then follow steps too complicated to recount here in order to ensure that he can return to his wife and body.

I realize that the ’80s can be summed up by the words “body-switching comedy,” but this is no mere Vice Versa. Clue one is the fact that the first 20 minutes have no scenes to speak of–the film skips through brief (and awful) dialogue passages, slapping us every few minutes so that we completely lose our bearings. Having plunged us into a barrage of puppy-love tidbits, we are then introduced to the extremely complicated nature of the body-switch, which involves reconciliation with Lainie, the girl who has, without knowing it, stolen the soul of Coleman’s wife, Gina (Piper Laurie). And did I mention the dream sequences, in which Coleman has to battle wits with Bobby in order to figure out what the hell he has to do to get back? Or that he has to dance to the title song in order to win the affection of the baffled Lainie?

This would be some kind of metaphysical masterpiece were it not for how completely and utterly the picture fails to hang together. Rocco and company reach far past the limits of their intelligence, throwing pat bromides at us as if they were the Wisdom of Solomon before whipping up some smoke and mirrors in order to make them seem more important than they actually are. What’s worse is that they appear to buy their own press–this is the kind of personal bad movie in which someone with almost no perspective or formal understanding commits totally to their script’s stunted themes and falls flat on their face. But that fall is so great and so dramatic that it inspires something close to awe. There are moments in Dream a Little Dream where you can’t believe your eyes, which is something that many passable films can’t say for themselves.

THE DVD
Artisan’s DVD transfer of the film leaves a lot to be desired. While it maintains the film’s 1.85:1 aspect ratio and is 16×9 enhanced, the presentation isn’t much better than that of a middling VHS copy. There’s a grainy quality to the image as well as a bleached-out tinge to the colours, as if everything has been filtered through a white screen. The 2.0 Dolby Surround sound is mostly serviceable, though it’s a tad soft and not very robust. There are no extras of which to speak.

114 minutes; PG-13; 1.85:1 (16×9-enhanced); English Dolby Surround; CC; DVD-5; Region One; Artisan