I remember seeing David Lynch’s “Mulholland Drive” at the Auckland Film Festival a few years ago (I’m guessing 4, when we were still technically child-free). The theatre was packed to the brim and when the credits started to roll and the lights came on at the end, nobody moved, nobody spoke. We all sat there, bewildered, until somebody shouted: “what the f- actually happened?”
Now, The Science of Sleep (yeah, it has a French title, which I can’t remember) screened at this year’s Auckland Film Festival was a little bit like Mulholland Drive minus all the Lynch-esque macabre. You still had no clue what, if anything, was real, except that, in this case, it didn’t matter in the least.
You watch The Science of Sleep for the sheer beauty of cellophane water ripples, and to see a patchwork horse gallop gracefully in a meadow. You watch it to get the recipe for making dreams. You watch it because the film is delightful, funny and fun.
And you watch it because it’s your only ever chance to call an art film “fluffy, warm and fuzzy”.