Writer-director Robin Swicord’s film seems content to merely carry out its absurdist premise until the bitter end.
The sense of a film school student doing movie karaoke with his influences is evident throughout Dreamland.
Father doesn’t just know best, he’s the only one whose knowledge or lack thereof means anything at all.
So flimsily constructed that it resembles a middle-school play that’s been hastily filmed on an antique camcorder.
Its flaccid, formulaic fantasy is at least more entertaining, and progressive, than the E!‘s rancid The Girls Next Door.