‘Dreams’ Review: Jessica Chastain Shines in Michel Franco’s Bleak Vision of Love and Power

Continuing his exploration of moral tension and social cruelty, Michel Franco once again enlists an English-speaking star to widen the reach of his austere cinematic universe. This time it’s Jessica Chastain, stepping into the slot that used to belong to Tim Roth —the familiar face that helps bridge Franco’s work between arthouse and international markets. That strategy seems to be working: when Dreams screened at a festival on a Monday afternoon, the theater was packed, something that likely wouldn’t happen without a name like Chastain on the poster.

Beyond that, even when Franco seems to flirt with a more open or tender approach to storytelling, one quickly learns to expect the worst. Sooner or later, the familiar forces of abuse, cruelty, and violence will erupt, and in that sense, the director of New Order never disappoints —at least not his most loyal fans.

Their previous collaboration, Memory, was slightly more compassionate than Franco’s earlier films (and “slightly” is the key word here), and Dreams initially seems to follow that gentler line. When we first meet Fernando (Isaac Hernández, a real-life ballet dancer), he’s a young man making a dangerous, illegal crossing from Mexico into the United States. After a tense escape from border patrol, he eventually makes it to San Francisco —a journey the film condenses into a few efficient beats. Once there, he sneaks into a luxury home in an upscale neighborhood, and Franco lets us brace for disaster. But when Jennifer (Chastain) appears, kisses him, and starts having sex with him, the film shifts direction entirely.

Fernando turns out to be a dancer Jennifer met —and fell for, or perhaps became fascinated by— through a charitable foundation run by her father’s company. It’s one of those “philanthropic gestures” that allow American elites to project moral virtue. But having an exotic lover in Mexico is one thing; introducing him to your family as your boyfriend is quite another. Jennifer, nearly twice his age, knows how far she’s willing to go. The problem is that Fernando senses her hesitation and walks away, leaving her torn. Will she risk her social status, her comfort, perhaps even her reputation, for love?

That’s the question at the heart of Dreams: the limits of performative generosity, and how those limits ripple through the lives of both lovers. Franco’s visual cues make the imbalance clear. Chastain’s Jennifer, always impeccably dressed in tones of icy elegance, seems driven more by lust than by conviction; for all her liberal speeches, she’s unlikely to risk anything real. Or is she? Could she actually change out of love?

Fernando’s desires are more transparent: he wants to stay in the U.S., no matter the risks, despite Jennifer’s pleas to continue their relationship in Mexico, where at least they could live together discreetly. But can he persuade her to overcome her fear and accept him as a partner in her world?

Anyone familiar with Michel Franco’s cinema already knows the answer. In his universe, everything that can go wrong will go wrong, and every act of cruelty is met with an even harsher one in return. The title Dreams carries a predictably ironic charge: Franco’s film dissects the hypocrisy of “progressive” empathy, cultural and sexual tourism, and the moral self-congratulation of the privileged.

The problem, as always, lies in the execution. To avoid simplistic divisions between victims and perpetrators, Franco insists on giving every character a latent brutality that inevitably surfaces at the climax. The issue is that, as in this case, the twists and reversals often feel contrived —engineered to prove the director’s long-standing thesis that humanity’s worst enemy is other humans. There may be variations in wealth, power, or cruelty, but the essence remains the same.

And while the world’s current climate of cynicism and violence might seem to validate Franco’s pessimism, his films tend to reinforce that bleakness rather than illuminate it. His aesthetic remains cold, dry, and mechanical. In English, the dialogue sounds even stiffer than in his native Spanish, which only heightens the detachment.

In the end, Dreams survives almost entirely on the strength of Jessica Chastain’s luminous presence —a performer capable of holding the screen with sheer intensity. For all the contrived hypotheses and implausible turns, when she’s on camera, the film breathes and pulses with life. Hers is a body and face that pierce through the most calculated cinema, reminding us that even in Franco’s grim world, the human spark can still flicker through.