Graphic by Gillian Kwok
Note: contains spoilers for “The Dreamers” (2003, dir. Bernardo Bertolucci) and mentions of disordered eating.
In an arguably concerning extension of the way my brain picks apart the caloric composition of anything that comes near my mouth, I have begun to grow extremely observant of how people in movies eat.
In film, eating can symbolize a myriad of things—anything from depression and self- loathing in “The Whale” (2022, dir. Darren Aronofsky), to community and desire in “Tampopo” (1985, dir. Juzo Itami). But overall, it isn’t uncommon for eating to take the backseat in stories where the filmmaker has decided to use other means to communicate things eating could otherwise represent.
Next to cigarettes, sex and intellectual discourse, the presence of eating in “The Dreamers” was almost negligible. This would’ve been unremarkable had gluttony not been one of, if not its most predominant theme.
“The Dreamers” tells the story of Matthew, an American student in 1960s Paris who strikes up a connection with French sibling duo Théo and Isabelle. During the idyllic second act, the trio makes use of the siblings’ parents going out of town to completely take over their family’s luxurious Parisian apartment for their own hedonistic pleasures.
They drink, smoke, make love and reenact scenes from early 20th century cinema. Before long, they’ve exhausted all financial means left behind for them, and a conundrum comes along: what shall they eat? A sequence: Isabelle comedically whipping up an oven-baked concoction burnt to a crisp, Théo rifling through the garbage for scraps and finally Matthew dividing a single banana down its center into perfect thirds to celebratory whoops and cheers—and with that, thus ends any and all depictions of eating throughout the remainder of the film.
The trio’s story runs in conjunction with the 1968 Paris student riots, where Théo’s political zeal was central to his character’s arc. The film itself ends with Théo pulling Isabelle towards the front lines of a violent clash with the police and Matthew desperately trying to convince him to stop.
“This is what they do,” Matthew says, pointing at the flame-engulfed battleground before them. “This is not what we do. We use this,”—he points to his head—“we do this,” he kisses each sibling on the lips. He doesn’t get to finish before Théo shouts and shoves him away, barreling forward anyway.
As the protagonist, Matthew shows clear favor in what he perceives to be ‘higher’ pursuits of life. Romance, art, intellect—he believes them worthy pursuits, even vital in sustaining life. It is ironic then, that the thing that physiologically keeps us alive—food—is depicted as being virtually irrelevant.
The trio survives on a diet of wine, cigarettes and lengthy soaks in the bathtub as they debate about silent film actors and rock musicians. Food is peripheral to their more important consumption of culture and nicotine, but it remains to be observed that the story ends with them still appearing energetic and sprightly, despite not having eaten properly in days—maybe weeks.
There is a deliberate contrast in highlighting their scant eating with their otherwise hedonistic lifestyle. Sure, they don’t eat because they ran out of money, but they still live in a sprawling, brocade-wallpapered apartment, lined floor to high-ceiling with rows and rows of books. They languidly await a net to catch them: the siblings’ parents returning and writing them another check. They are bourgeoisie youth with no conception of real survival, knowing that something will always cushion their fall.
Restriction is only appealing when done by those who can otherwise afford abundance. The trio shows an unrepentant gluttony for everything from Marxism and blues records to Marlene Dietrich and old wine. Gluttony for all things except food itself, a lack of which is seen as irritating but not detrimental, as they have sublimated their physiological needs into intellectual ones.
Restriction is only appealing when the outcome honors what we consider to be desirable. Conventional notions of desirability of course, favor ideas of whiteness above all. I say ideas in the way that whiteness is a construct that limits its identifiability with idealized traits, traits that supposedly make people of the in group better than those outside of it—people of color. A prominent trait in The Dreamers’ case, being thinness.
There is something glamorous about thinness, is what I’ve been taught. By films like “The Dreamers” that conflate the possession of it with sprightliness. Romance. Youth. They depict a nonchalant ease to keeping thin—an ease I died every day to achieve, unseeing of its distortion—a velvety sort of languor, of being young and thinking yourself immortal. Of believing yourself nourished by poetry alone. But you cannot eat poetry.
I think about how I would’ve loved this film when I was twenty years old, so gluttonous for life. She pasted film stubs on her bedroom walls and lit cigarettes with wooden matches. She drank red wine every Friday and collected the bottles to catch candle wax, and relished in the way the pandemic made her eat less. I am thinking of her, and how I love her, and how I’m glad that I’m not her anymore.