Terry Gilliam’s Brazil is widely considered a cult classic. Arguably the reason for its success derives from a highly effective contrast between the film’s real world and the principal character’s psychedelic recurring dreams that begin to merge together as the film progresses. Gilliam paints a picture of an alternative, dystopian reality; a reality where all society is built around consumerism, an unwavering obsession for bureaucracy and the perpetual “rat-race.” Indeed, the film serves as Gilliam and his collaborators’ protest, both mocking and sincere, against the self-centred society of the 1980s in which it was made, with a dose of that fantastically subtle Python humour thrown in for good measure. Although the film is almost 30 years old, its themes are just as relevant today, if not more so, as society’s thirst for consumer goods and unquestioned loyalty to the rat race has never seemed so insatiable. In actuality, the film’s purpose stretches beyond a simple commentary and becomes the embodiment of a desire to escape the oppressive nature of reality. Sam Lowry, the central protagonist, attempts to escape so deeply into his psychedelic dreams that they begin to merge with his reality, resulting in a conflict that continues throughout the narrative. Even the recurrent song from which the title of the film was taken, ’Aquarela do Brasil,’ is a melancholic tune that evokes in us a desire to be elsewhere.
The world of Brazil is monochrome, humourless, and claustrophobic – one where air ducts dominate almost all indoor spaces, oxygen is dispensed from machines, and the all-powerful Ministry of Information exerts its will via an army of bureaucrats and troopers. Whilst the film evidently owes more than a nod to Orwell’s 1984, Brazil’s worldview is largely the product of the writer’s desire to play on the unavoidable and quirky fact that futuristic films tend to be a product of their time – indeed the film appears to be based on a possible view from the 1940s looking forward. The muted colour scheme evokes the black and white of the films of the era, while simultaneously impressing the lifeless, dull nature of this reality on us, the viewer. Gilliam’s use of pioneering cameras and techniques provides the psychedelic, appearance warping close-ups that punctuate the entire film and provide us with an insight into Lowry’s less than favourable view of his peers.
Lowry’s bizarre dream sequences, in which he is a glittering, warrior angel attempting to rescue a beautiful, silk-skinned maiden, contrast so starkly with the story’s real world that we could be forgiven for initially believing we were watching an entirely different film. Once aware that it is indeed a dream, we begin to detect Lowry’s dissatisfaction with his life. The turning point in the film occurs when Lowry discovers Jill Layton – a ballsy anti-establishment type who happens to bear an uncanny resemblance to the woman in his dreams. Realising the “girl of his dreams” really exists, he becomes determined to track her down in a desperate bid to escape his dissatisfying life and make his dream reality.
His dreams begin to develop and become more psychedelic – the girl becomes trapped and imprisoned in a floating cage by ghastly creatures sporting china doll faces; Lowry battles a 12-foot samurai warrior under whose mask is Lowry’s own face; disfigured people yell at him from dark and misty alleyways. These developments, whilst seemingly baffling in their own right, represent Lowry’s belief that his real life will stand in the way of his attempts to find happiness and the desperate nature of Lowry’s situation means we invest in his dreams, willing him to vanquish his enemies and save the girl. Sure enough, this is reflected in his paranoid tendencies after he has found Jill. Moreover, along with his paranoia comes a merging of his dreams with reality; he perceives a security guard to be the samurai and wields a mannequin arm in menacing defiance.
This blurring between truth and Lowry’s imagination is what gives the final sequence its power. Having been sent for “information extraction” by a china doll mask-wearing Jack Lint, Lowry experiences a series of extraordinary events, laced in psychedelic cinematographic features, including unorthodox camera techniques as well as dreamlike nuances. The previous blurs between reality and Lowry’s imagination mean we don’t know whether to believe that this is just another dream, or if these events are really unravelling, as Lowry’s own grasp on what’s real continues to unravel. It isn’t until the film’s final moments that we learn the truth and we are ushered out to the eerie tune of ‘Aquarela do Brasil,’ its escapist significance resonating truer than ever.
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