My subconscious wants a director credit.

Or it might already have one; I don’t know if these productions count.

I had two distinct dreams a couple days ago, both of them in the form of abbreviated movies complete with titles. These dreams are odd for me in both form and content, especially since I rarely bother to watch a full movie: The last full-length production I saw was the MST3K episode “Eegah!” and the last real movie I saw was The Artist in the Wilma.

First, a disjointed freshman effort:

Not bad, necessarily, but the first part has absolutely nothing to do with the second and is really never resolved; it’s almost like the director was going for a Dark City plot and found he couldn’t make it to the end, so he dumped in some giallo nonsense and called it a day. I take no responsibility for my dream-director’s knowledge of human physiology.

Second, the more mature sophomore work:

Better, certainly, at least in terms of telling one story all the way through. It’s a bit heavy-handed, but what can you expect from the director of The Captain’s Wife? And “inducted into a photo”? That doesn’t quite work as English, to my mind. Or, at least, to a part of my mind.

Well, neither of them are Un Chien Andalou, I’ll admit, but both have a certain appeal.

Okay, the second one is actually pretty epic.

I’ve had dreams like those: complete stories and everything. A few times I remembered enough to write and draw them in my sketchbook.

Once I dreamed in cartoons.

One night I dreamed about some teenage surfers and one of the guys was named Moondoggie. At the end of the dream the credits rolled, and then it read This has been a Walt Disney production.