Dreams Mean Nothing - The Sandman (2022)

I started to write this piece as a simple review of Neil Gaiman’s The Sandman, now streaming on Netflix; like the show itself, and the comic series at its origin, it turned into something far bigger, a historical narrative including random characters, with meanings and truths revealed as if from nowhere.

Like dreams, this review has become something more, an essay about writing itself, about narrative, about the consumption of art for both good and evil, and about its very effect on our lives.

Or maybe just mine.

The Sandman has a somewhat personal story for me, a memory of sorts that might bring about a smile, a smirk, or an eye-roll. It begins in 2004, a story of a guy, This Guy, finishing up his first year of college. This Guy has a job and some spending money, unsure of what to spend it on. This Guy has friends, a world of interactions with people. This Guy has access to the Internet, to digital interactions, conversations and opinions.

This Guy interacts with That Guy thanks to similar tastes in movies, video games and the like. On their first interactions in real life, That Guy spends a lengthy amount of time mansplaining The Sandman to This Guy, to such a length and extent that This Guy goes and buys the first TPB (trade-paper back, a collection of individual issues.) The lengthy rambles of That Guy turn out to be the extensive rambling summaries of this whole first story arc. But over the next few months, This Guy continues to picks up the full series, reads the lot, and still talks to That Guy about the contents.

Reader, I/This Guy (eventually) married That Guy.

I picked up the rest of The Sandman trades over the coming months across a variety of shops through Dublin (it’s okay, peeps; The Third Place in Temple Bar closed down, but somewhat came back to life as The Big Bang in Dundrum Town Centre.) By the time I was deep into second year in college, comic books and TV narratives came up in regular conversation: this was the world I had wanted in my life, and by word did I love it.

That said…some of my university experiences were challenging. I adored my second-year Contemporary Fiction course, touching on the art of narrative, regardless of format. I wrote an essay on identity and being in Chuck Palahniuk’s Fight Club, getting great feedback on something that was outside of the expected reading list, but fit in well with what the course wanted from its students.

In comparison, I had tutors unwilling to see anything read differently from their own opinions. I have vivid memories of an American Literature course where several of us suggested that The Legend Of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving, was a fun tale, a camp-fire story that had no depth in its own right, but could be read as the creation of local legend and folk-tale in the creation of a new land. The tutor went into great length to condescendingly tell us how wrong and immature we were, that it was an important political piece going far deeper than we suggested…completely ignoring the second point that we were making first, he himself favouring his first, and only, point. That experience, and others like it, ruined the university experience for me: now, I make the point of speaking in my own voice, using crude words as (and where) I want, and rarely quoting my fucking sources.

That’s right, oh lecturer; I write for myself.

There are other courses back at Trinity College, Dublin that have started to include alternative narratives (comic books, movies, even video-games.) Because of this, I have been tempted to return many a time. Scroll up (or down…or click the links…I dunno what format you’re reading this in, or what design changes I’ve made to this site!) BUT YES, elsewhere on this site, you’ll see the other things that I write about, the heart and meaning behind them. Because, yes, sometimes the writer talks about the cloudy weather that is representative of emotion within the narrative. And sometimes, they just want the reader to picture a dark scene in which the murder they’re about to write about looks all the darker.

If I have to, I will break out Roland Barthes’ The Death Of The Author and quote some shit at you, challenging the meaning of the narrative, the power of the reader and the intent of the creator. Ask and I will analyse the fuck out of that Harry Potter content that you have learned to love or hate, depending on the power and narratives of its creator.

Just because I can do those things, doesn’t mean I will. Sometimes, I’m lazy and distracted by my day-job and the consumption of other narratives that might not be worth writing about, okay?

Netflix’s The Sandman, though? THAT is a fucking narrative worth writing about. And yes, I have declared my personal interests; yes, I have declared my emotional connection. Because in a world of adapted narratives, this particular world of content is all about connections, about source material, and about time-and-space (and headspace) in which that material was first consumed.

The Sandman is about narrative and how it effects the mind, the brain and the very soul - these notions of creativity, fear and the related despair that all of us humans have and feel.

Sometimes, when I write these sort of pieces, I’ll introduce the characters (and the actors that play them; I’ll throw in a mention to the narrative that is being discussed, trying hard to avoid any spoilers, hoping that the reader (that’s you, yo!) has either already consumed this content, or wants to know in advance if they want to commit their time to it.

Commit your fucking time to The Sandman.

I challenged myself to a re-read of the comic books before watching the show. Time got in the way and I read a grand total of three issues. Given the time-frame since I first read the series, I couldn’t remember the finer beats therein, but I noticed that the names of episode matched the names of issues, ergot The Sandman was truly trying to embrace its source material. The rules ofThe Death Of The Author did not apply (yet) in this case, and Neil Gaiman was still alive, well and involved.

You can hear Gaiman’s distinctive voice in episode eleven, and I love that it was easy to recognise. It might be of interest to know that I quoted his work once in one college essay; despite being on-brand for the content, he wasn’t on the reading list, so that reference didn’t go down well with that lecturer. I also met Gaiman once at a screening of Coraline followed by a lecture. Yep, I stood up and had the balls to ask him a question, hearing the fear shaking my voice while I spoke.

Do you think I can remember that question (or his answer)? NOPE!

Even with these absent memories, I found it difficult to commit to this take on The Sandman: the first episode felt week, focusing that bit too hard on its British narrative, the tones and imagery rendering like an episode of Doctor Who, down to the camera angles. I had my fears that such would continue through the rest of the series. And so, I took my time, catching other, regular TV viewing before dipping into episode two, with its quaint beats reminiscent of murderous Hobbits.

Episode three, however; this was a narrative fuckery that brought a smile to my face, Do Protestants do exorcisms? I have no idea, and at this point of my typing, I couldn’t be arsed clicking to another page; the answer to that question would be irrelevant anyway. Dream A Little Dream Of Me touched on The Sandman’s unusual (and very human) take on the world, the willingness of people to walk away from commitments, to avoid important conversations and, ultimately, to deal with their own shit. This (female) Constantine is far more likeable than the man that appears in the comic book: although the power-set and the narrative remains similar, Johanna Constantine is aware of her failings and somewhat prepared to change and deal with her shit.

This tone lingers throughout The Sandman, coming to a beautiful peek in the sixth episode, The Sound Of Her Wings, easily the high-point of the narrative in its analysis of grief and loss seen through divine eyes. Up to this episode, The Sandman has painted Morpheus as wholly Other, unrelatable and different on so many levels. It is his sister Death that reminds him how very human their people -and dreams - can be, urging him to man-the-fuck up; it is not the divine, the supernatural nor the Other that defines the world, but how the people within react to the Other.

The episode has some beautiful moments: seeing grief, loss and family through divine eyes makes them somewhat beautiful and easier to comprehend.

Our humanity, in itself, is a powerful piece of the The Sandman’s production, challenging the identities of its characters and their very essence: Morpheus, our primary character, is powerless, voiceless and meaningless through most of the first episode, brutally regaining his power only as the episode comes to a close. He is a man (of sorts) defined by such power, and it is only in this power that he has an identity or a sense of Self. In his lack of power, he is somewhat castrated, struggling to redefine himself in the remaining episodes in a very human fashion.

Such lack-of-power, and its relationship with Self, lingers through the whole series. But while Morpheus is our central character, it is only through the development of other characters that we see his own. The second “arc” of the narrative introduces more characters to challenge how Morpheus defines himself. Such episodes are probably the weaker of this season for that fact, focusing on seemingly meaningless humans after The Sandman has shown us a grand world of powerful Beings.

But these characters should be important to the viewer. Because they are the Everyman(s) of the world (yep, I’m quoting 16th Century plays here!) The Sandman randomly introduces us to enough characters to get their own spin-off, each addressing the show’s ideas of Self and Being in their very existence (a drag act, a woman who has recently lost her husband, a couple called grumbles Barbie and Ken.) The shear amount of these characters (and there are more) takes away from the energy of the show, but,…all of them are trying to define themselves by their own power, not by how the world expects them to be.

The Sandman gives these characters power in a way that, despite the show’s issues, is beautiful to watch.

And lo, I finally get to the point that I wanted to write about, a (relatively) short story addressing that sense of Self Definition: Calliope is merely the second half of episode eleven (two, stand-alone beats that are glorious moments of world-development that would be very unusual if placed in the middle of other arcs.) Calliope involves Morpheus’s own narrative, allowing him to view the capture and abuse of his former partner (and mother of his child) in reflection of his own.

If Morpheus is to be our ‘hero,’ this episode from his past is something of an origin story of utmost importance. While the show has focused on him, his (very human) emotions have made him an unreliable hero; the anger that he shows here (as a supporting character) is far more identifiably than has been previously shown .

Calliope, existing somewhat outside of the narrative of The Sandman, casts an analytical eye on Morpheus and his world, querying his existence and the dreams that he has created. Within 30-40 minutes, Morpheus is but one of many artists, whose work is analysed for the very act of creation - including the difficulties and fears in creating work, in selling your work, and making sure that it stays out there - and remains yours. cough, The Death Of The Author, cough

Do we, as writers, write for ourselves, or for other people?

Do we write for the money? The fame?

Or just to get the fucking annoying stories out of our heads?

I had chills watching Calliope, seeing the episode as an analysis of the power that Some People have over (and take from) others - including their dreams

And yes, it’s very difficult not to see such power and works through your own eyes. When you have a brain tumour in the language centre of your brain - do you lose your creativity? Are the characters you created still there, do they still have their powers, their energies, their essences?

My absolute lack of memory of (the rest of) The Sandman narrative is…problematic, and somewhat related to that question.

But I’m also fully aware that, nearly two decades after originally reading, it might just be my impending old age rather than my fucked-up brain.

Do, in a creative world, does This Guy want to revisit his old creations, the characters that I have written…some of whom still exist in my head? Maybe (yes, maybe!) I’ll be able to return to a dream that I created, writing as I did before I got sick, before my being was locked up like Morpheus in the basement.

And…some part of me…no! No I don’t want to go back to those characters. I don’t want to go back to those worlds and those words. As I writer, I have put so much time and self into those works that…some part of me just wants that power back.

And, some readers just take that power. And they take and they take, and they take until there is nothing left to take. The readers who “acquire” books through illegal means, the readers who leave one-star reviews because they loved the book…but wanted a different ending.

And yes, I am aware that I, too, might take, that my comments might affect someone else’s creative self - their dreams.

Creativity is important. Dreams are important. And we all have them. The content may change, but the meaning remains: the safety, the happiness, the joy.

We also have fears, and dear fucking GOD are those dreams terrifying.

There is some part of me that blames Morpheus for these dreams. And another part of me thanks him for the revelations they brought.

Dreams. Mean. Nothing.

Dreams. Mean. Everything.

Similarly, The Sandman means nothing to This Guy.

The Sandman means everything to This Guy.