DREAM SCENARIO and the Horror of Being Perceived

“Remember this, our favorite town.”

Note: Some spoilers included below.

A few years back I watched a horror movie called 13 Cameras. The plot is simple: a couple move into a house only to discover they are being watched by the lacivious landlord, Gerald.

For me, the film wasn’t successful. I’ve never been afraid of someone viewing me. I have some discomfort with the idea, sure; I am the kind of person who closes my blinds at night. But if I forget to do so, an open window doesn’t scare me. Similarly, if someone is viewing me through my phone’s camera, I hope they enjoy the unflattering angle of me curled up in bed laughing at a dumb meme on TikTok.

Being perceived, though? That’s a different story.

There is a difference between being viewed and being perceived, however slight, and there is a voyeuristic quality that infuses both. But I think perception digs deeper. It’s pervading in a way being viewed isn’t. My neighbor can view me anytime I take out the trash, and that’s fine. But does he perceive me? And if so, what is his perception of me? Because perception goes beyond light hitting our cornea. There is a judgment there. There is an unspoken thought being concocted.

Put simply, viewing is what is seen; perception is what is interpreted.

Perception is one of the main thematic elements that is threaded through
Kristoffer Borgli’s inventive and unique film, Dream Scenario. The concept is deliciously simple: a seemingly ordinary man, Paul Matthews (played by an excellent Nicolas Cage), discovers that millions of people are inexplicably dreaming about him. He doesn’t do anything in these dreams — at least, not initially — but his presence is notable if not for its oddity then for the strange comfort it provides. Many of the dreams showcased in the film are nightmarish. One particularly memorable one follows one of Paul’s students. As he explains it, he is walking in a field eating a strange mushroom when he realizes that he is being chased by an abnormally tall, bloody man. He runs away in fear, and as he hides behind a tree, Paul waltzes into the dream, as if by accident. The student is then mauled by the tall, bloody man.

On their own, these dreams could be nothing more than a strange, uncomfortable quirk — something to joke about with friends while we hole up inside and wait for the phenomenon to pass. Few, I imagine, would pursue fame in the way Paul does.

But to Paul, the dreams represent an opportunity.

PAUL’S UNHAPPY PRIVACY

Paul and his wife Janet (played by Julianne Nicholson) are private people. But, as the film explores, this privacy is not a happy one, at least for Paul. Even before the dreams proliferate, Paul — an evolutionary biologist and tenured professor — begs an old college friend to include him in a magazine publication, accuses her of stealing his ideas, and then lies to his wife about the interaction afterward. Similarly, when an old girlfriend approaches Paul at a play and asks him to join her for coffee, he is disappointed when he discovers she wanted to ask permission to write about her dreams of him in an online magazine, not because she wanted to confess unrequited feelings.

To be clear, Paul is ostracized from almost everyone in his life, aside from his family. As an old college friend explains at one of his “famous dinner parties” (parties Paul is never invited to), Paul is just boring; he expounds on the importance of a zebra’s stripes to anyone who will listen. When he’s not doing that, he’s complaining about not being published, or explaining how badly he wants to publish his book (a book he has yet to begin writing).

As more people tell Paul about the dreams they’ve had of him, his main gripe turns to his passivity within these dreams. In the opening sequence, Paul’s daughter, Sophie, explains her dream, wherein she floats into the air after objects fall from the sky and he watches her while raking leaves beside their pool. Paul listens in clear discomfort, and he looks around his kitchen at his wife and his daughter asking variations of, “You know I’d help in real life, right?”

It’s this combination of insecurity and loneliness that leads Paul to accept an offer to do an interview on the news about the phenomenon. Only, it doesn’t stop there (because of course it doesn’t). A news interview turns to sudden popularity on campus — and beyond. That popularity pushes Paul to hire a PR team who are dismayed he wants to use his fame to find a publisher for his still not-written book, not to use the dreams as a cynical marketing ploy for Sprite, or as a way to make Obama dream about him. This fame leads Paul, who is insecure about his wife’s close relationship with a work colleague, to get a drink with a young assistant from the PR company. That assistant confesses her dreams, and on we go.

When these dreams suddenly turn dark and violent, Paul finds himself ostracized yet again. Only instead of just being someone who’s viewed and forgotten by the general public, he is now someone perceived, someone judged. People ask him to leave diners. His classrooms empty out. His daughter hesitates to confide in him. The college dean confesses he’s considering putting Paul on a leave of absence.

And for what? Some nightmares? It would be ludicrous — is ludicrous — but Paul has been such an active participant in his strange fame that it’s impossible to divorce his real self from the nightmarish monster people dream about every night.

And, even more crippling, Paul doesn’t want to relinquish his fame. He doesn’t want to return to anonymity. He wants to go to the famous dinner parties, and he wants to find a publisher for his book, and he wants his college students to be engaged and, yes, adoring. His desire to be loved turns into toxic narcissism, a trait that’s always been there but usually remains nascent.

As someone not used to fame, it turns into a drug in every sense of the term. Paul’s high is euphoric and his fall is a nightmare, through and through.

OUR PERCEPTION OF PAUL (AND VICE VERSA)

Perception isn’t just a plot device, though. It plays an integral role in Paul’s characterization and our emotional response to the film.

The majority of the dreamers note that Paul’s passive presence brings a sense of ease to their otherwise horrific cognitive concoctions. He views them, and in turn they perceive him as a comfortable presence, even if only due to how strange it is that their college professor — who usually shouts excitedly about zebra stripes — is entering their nightmare.

Paul’s passivity in the dreams is a direct reflection of it in reality. As much as he tries to convince his family that he really would help Sophie if she started floating in the air, they know he is too meek to do so. This perception — both one from the viewer and his wife — is realized during a scene in the beginning of the second act where a man breaks into their house wielding a knife declaring that he has to kill Paul. Paul stands frozen in his bedroom unable to do more than shout for his daughters to go into their bedroom and lock the door. His passivity is the reason why Paul’s wife confesses that she wants to dream about him dressed in an oversized suit — the kind David Byrnes of the Talking Heads wore during concerts — saving her from some imminent danger.

When the dreams take on their nightmarish qualities, Paul is certainly active within them, but his actions are horrific. The assumption then, from everyone who dreams about him, is that he is a horrific person, that their nightmares are not a product of their personal fears but rather a clue into Paul’s true personality.

To be fair, there is some truth to this. While the phenomenon is never explained in the film, Paul’s emotional (in)stability does seem to affect the dreams, both when he’s riding high on cloud nine and when he’s being asked to leave a diner because his mere presence frightens someone a sizable distance away. It’s also important to note that the dreams change after Paul tries to reenact one in real life with the aforementioned assistant from the PR firm he hires. The result of that experiment is embarrassment and shame, and while the film never confirms nor denies a connection, it’s impossible for the viewer not to identify one.

But still, is it fair for Paul to be perceived as a monster because of these dreams? I don’t think anyone who watches the film will come to that conclusion, just the same as it’s important to note it’s not fair Paul earns his fame through the passive dreams. This phenomenon, whatever it is, is not something he earned or acted upon but rather something that simply happened. But therein lies the horror of perception: we are not in control of it. I have no part in what my neighbor perceives as I take out the trash. Paul has no control over what people perceive when they see him. Yet, his real life is still impacted by these perceptions. He loses his job; his marriage crumbles; his daughters are afraid of him; his community, previously uninterested in him, views him as a villain. And nothing he does can change that perception once it’s locked in.

PAUL’S NIGHTMARE (AND JANET’S DREAM)

After the dreams turn to nightmares, and after Paul’s life falls apart, he has a nightmare of his own. In it, he is jogging down the street when a man with a crossbow shoots him. As he tries to escape this man, he is shot again. He manages to make it back home, only for his attacker to appear in the yard. He sees the man’s face as he lifts the crossbow one final time.

It’s Paul.

He tries to use this nightmare as a way to sympathize with the others who are having nightmares. But his apology, as his wife notes, is self-serving. Much as he pleads for his old college friend to include him in a publication so that he can finally achieve some sort of public success, he pleads with the people who adored him to once again let him into their good graces.

But Paul’s nightmare is the key here. He is desperately afraid of losing relevance, of returning to anonymity. He doesn’t want to lose control of this good thing he’s had going. He keeps asking if “Obama is still on the table” even after he is villainized aside by most of the world (except France). In a way, subconsciously or overtly (or both), Paul sees the impediment to success is himself.

Not only that, but as he tries to flee his attacker, he sees empty houses, empty lawns, empty porches. Paul is alone. Nobody is there to help him. And even when he makes it home — the only truly safe space he’s known — the monstrous version of himself puts an arrow between his eyes.

We can see then that Paul’s scrabbles for recognition, praise, and popularity are not just to feed his ego (though that’s certainly part of it) but because he craves positive perception in a deeply unhealthy way, and he always sees himself as just one step away from making it happen if he could just get out of his own way — if he could get published, if he could find a publisher for his book, if he could just convince people that he’s not such a bad guy after all.

It’s fitting, given this, that Janet’s fantasy dream is a confident Paul in an ill-fitting suit saving her from danger. She loves Paul deeply, and she’s jealous when other women seem to express interest in him. Even in this dream, she recognizes (perhaps represented by the too-large suit) that this is a fantasy, not something she expects of him in reality or even something he’s capable of. She accepts his meekness; she loves him in spite of it. Yet, even so, she is the one person in the film who Paul pushes away, not the converse.

Not surprisingly, it’s her presence and acceptance Paul most craves in his darkest hours. But her perception of him, until that point unspoiled, is tainted as his perception of her becomes warped by his fame.

He doesn’t recognize this in the moment. He doesn’t even recognize this in his nightmare. It’s something he doesn’t realize until it’s far too late.

It’s the one thing in the film that transcends dream and becomes reality.

“I WISH THIS WAS REAL”

Paul’s perception of his life is singularly focused. He sees the world and himself as two separate entities, with the world shutting him out. These perceptions aren’t inherently unfounded, either. His college friend is stealing his ideas for her publication. He is being purposefully ostracized from the famous dinner parties. But this singular focus is also the reason Paul is so unhappy. From the outside view, Paul has a pretty perfect life at the beginning of the film. Sure, he isn’t invited to dinner parties; sure, his students aren’t very interested in his zebra insights. But he has a wife and children who love him, a tenured position at a university, and a beautiful house. This doesn’t mean he can’t feel sad or unfulfilled (luxury does not exorcise depression, as we well know) but it does hint that Paul’s misgivings with his life and the world around him are largely due to how he perceives them.

One could see a world where Paul doesn’t go down this rabbit hole. In that world, everyone’s perception of him largely remains neutral, the dreams remain inoffensive, and it becomes a weird but ultimately harmless story that is referenced around the dinner table with off-hand humor. But his perception is positive. It’s happy. It’s content.

The one thing Paul is able to control throughout the film (and the one thing he consistently fails to control) is his perception of what’s happening, of who he is, and of the people around him.

If Dream Scenario is anything more than a kooky “fish out of water” dramedy, it’s a reminder that how we perceive the world, and how we approach our lives, has an impact on who we become.

When the film’s credits roll, “City of Dreams” by Talking Heads plays. It’s more than a reference to Janet’s dream. It’s an ode to us, the viewer. Or maybe it’s more appropriate to call it a harbinger. A stark reminder that we cannot, must not, lose sight of what truly matters.

“We live in the city of dreams.
We drive on the highway of fire.
Should we awake
And find it gone
Remember this, our favorite town.”