Dream Lover

Flutist Kathy Gardner (Kristy McNichol) sidelines her music career with boyfriend Kevin McCann to follow her father to Japan. She has constant nightmares. She is attacked by a disturbed intruder. She kills him in self-defense. Her nightmares get worst and she seeks help from a sleep institute.

This is a paranoid psychological thriller. It's trying to be Hitchcockian or its 80's equivalent, De Palma. It has no tension. It struggles to get kinetic energy. It has moments of intensity but for too long, the movie is sleepwalking through this story. Most of the time, her dreams are not compelling enough. There's maybe a nightmare or two which actually raised the blood pressure. The rest is sleep inducing. It's a muddle. The only blood flow may be coming from Kristy McNichol walking around in her skimpy underwear. This is not good.

Well, all-in-all this is a rather lame & pretty disappointing movie. It's not badly made or hasn't any noticeable technical flaws for that matter. It's just that the pacing was too slow and on several occasions the suspense was really lacking. A lady gets attacked in her apartment by an unwelcome visitor (well not really her apartment, since she's still a little daddy's girl, but an apartment she sub-rents from some musician who is out of town). She manages to overcome him. However, she remains traumatized and starts developing some serious mental issues (like in: ripe for the loony-bin). I won't tell much more for those of you who still want to check out this movie, because, well, it is directed by Alan J. Pakula after all, so I'm sure you could do worse picking up a random movie (not that I'm a fan of this director or anything). It has maybe one or two tense scenes and some enjoyable dream-sequences. But that's all, basically. The final scenes in the building in London had something promising going on there, but in the end the conclusion is just disappointing. They really should at least have thrown maybe some incest and a lot of killings in there to spice things up (not that these are things that make a movie good, but hey, if you're out to terrify your audience, then why not make the extra effort?). But no, just pretty lame stuff and secretive dream-research in some basement room is all you will find in this one. So why didn't I flunk this movie? I dunno... maybe I'm just a nice guy. Or maybe it's a better movie than I first thought it was? If I'll ever re-watch it, I'll let you know.

Kristy McNichol plays Kathy Gardner, a jazz flutist who is menaced in her apartment one night by a stranger (Joseph Culp). Later, she suffers recurring nightmares regarding the incident, and in desperation, turns to a sleep / dream researcher named Michael Hansen (Ben Masters) for help. The idea is that she will use some form of "dream therapy" in order to consciously affect the outcome of her dreams.

This material (by writer / co-producer Jon Boorstin) had potential, and certainly the film is creepy at times, but this has to rate as a real off-day for filmmaker Alan J. Pakula, who'd done much better things such as "Klute", "The Parallax View", and "All the President's Men" in the 70s. He doesn't seem particularly invested in the material, and brings no real life to it. In fact, the film is deadly boring and often intensely uninteresting. It indeed moves along at a real snails' pace. Pakula does bring some visual flair to Kathy's dream sequences, but otherwise "Dream Lover" is just too dull to work overall. The sleep center scene in "A Nightmare on Elm Street" was more entertaining in this viewers' eyes.

A good cast (Paul Shenar plays Kathy's father, John McMartin & Gayle Hunnicutt play two family friends) is rather wasted here. Kristy is appealing as always, and Masters gives a likeable performance, but she's been better utilized in other things. Look for the late, great character actor Jon Polito in a small role (minus his trademark mustache).

This over-extended attempt at thrills & chills ultimately goes on too long, and leads to an extremely unimpressive ending. It's too bad, really, because this COULD have been better. The score by Michael Small is one of the films' few virtues.

Four out of 10.

If there isn't much in this modest, sub-Hitchcock thriller worth criticizing it's only because there isn't much in it worth noticing at all. The premise is fascinating: that a drug might be used (or, in this case, abused) to block the chemical in our brains that inhibits muscular action during sleep, allowing us to unconsciously act out our dreams. But the script never aspires toward anything more than a routine psycho-thriller of curiously limited means: the film seems to have been made on two or three sparse studio sets with a very small cast, led by Kristy McNichol as the young test subject who naturally forgets to ask about an antidote. A throw away release doomed the film to a quick, easy death at the box office, which is a shame considering the far worse features being plugged that same summer, and the unsettling streak of sadism didn't help matters: most of McNichol's dreams find her a victim of rape and/or extreme violence.

Young flautist in New York City joins her teacher's jazz group, which means defying her imposing widower-father and moving into her own apartment in the Village. But an attack on her first night plagues her with a recurring nightmare, sending her to a sleep research center. MGM/UA had no idea how to market this admittedly slow, low-keyed but ambitious thriller from director Alan J. Pakula, and it pretty much vanished. Still, the film presents an intriguing scenario and an interesting take on sleep disorders, though it cheats in its dealings with the heroine's complicated relationship with her chilly papa (it seems almost incestual); also, the finale, which relies on a stunt for its impact, is undercut by sloppy editing. In the lead, Kristy McNichol gives a very good performance despite being somewhat miscast; the actress was eager to shed her tomboy persona, yet she's all wrong when dolled up in period costumes or gowns (she also draws the line at nudity, with the camera dropping to her feet when she gets out of bed after sex). Still, McNichol gives this psychological puzzle an honorable try, and her dreams--four or five scenarios overlapping, intermingling--are fascinating. Michael Small composed the eerie, shimmering score. *** from ****