Master of surrealism Luis Buñuel’s last three films are gathered in this handsome Criterion Collection boxed set celebrating the director’s love for sticking a finger (or, infamously, a razor, in his surrealist masterpiece Un Chien Andalou) in the eye of meaning. In the Oscar-winning The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie (1972), a group of upper-middle-class Parisians and an ambassador (Fernando Rey) from the fictional Republic of Miranda attempt to get together for a meal but are constantly thwarted: members gather at another’s house on a wrong day, an excursion to a restaurant sours when it becomes clear that a wake with a dead body is being held in one of the rooms, and a literal army interrupts one would-be dinner, among other scenarios. Many of the absurdities play out in dream sequences, although the line between reality and fantasy is mighty thin.
Although Buñuel was famously averse to any attachment of meaning to either individual sequences or his films as a whole, certain themes do emerge, beginning with his disdain for the bourgeoisie, whose “discreet charm” was merely a superficial patina—these “civilized” characters lie, smuggle dope, engage in adultery, and even commit murder with no compunction. But it is the outrageousness of the outrages that mark Buñuel’s and fellow screenwriter Jean-Claude Carrière’s particular genius, such as when a priest rushes to the bedside of a dying man to deliver last rites only to discover that this old man killed the priest’s parents long ago; after delivering absolution, the priest picks up a shotgun and significantly speeds up the shuffling off of the mortal coil. The Church, the government, the military, the bourgeoisie—all are targets for a filmmaker who holds no cows sacred.
Buñuel’s follow-up, The Phantom of Liberty (1974), is an even more disjointed and plotless effort that strings together a series of episodes in which a character in a scene will leave and become the new focus for the camera. In one of the more prolonged sequences, set in an inn, four Carmelite monks invade a woman’s room and engage in a poker game, a high-school aged nephew tries to have sex with his much older and reluctant aunt, and several of the guests (including the monks) are lured into a room to become the audience for a dominatrix beating the bare buttocks of a submissive man. In the most inspired bit, a group settles around a dining table where the chairs are toilets, dropping trou and panties; one man excuses himself to ask directions to the “dining room”—a small space with a food-laden dumbwaiter, ripping into a leg of meat, until he is interrupted by someone at the door and brusquely warns that the room is “occupied.”
Further weirdness abounds: in a bedroom with a sleeping couple, a postman on a bike rolls up to deliver a letter; a sniper in a high-rise building randomly shoots several people, is sentenced to death at his trial, and calmly walks out of the courtroom, stopping only for autographs along the way; a massive hunt for a missing little girl gets underway even though the child in question is clearly standing next to her mother (and even helps local authorities fill in a questionnaire to aid in the search). The film ends on a note as seemingly arbitrary as the one that begins it.
Buñuel’s final film, That Obscure Object of Desire (1977), is the most conventional of the trio, inspired by Pierre Louÿs’s oft-filmed 1898 novel La Femme et le pantin (The Woman and the Puppet). The story is presented in a flashback to fellow train passengers after Mathieu (Fernando Rey) dumps a bucket of water on a woman (Carole Bouquet) attempting to board. Their cat-and-mouse relationship (with the question of who is the cat and who is the mouse) is told by an aggrieved Mathieu.
In our #MeToo era, the first half of this tale will certainly raise hackles as the decades-older Mathieu pursues Conchita (alternately played by Bouquet and Ángela Molina, a decision made after the original actress Maria Schneider was fired). Mathieu is clearly obsessed with sexually conquering Conchita and he will use whatever influence he can: syrupy words, money, and even violence—although he is thwarted in the last by an impressive girdle-cum-chastity belt.
Conchita professes her love for Mathieu and offers promises of later physical consummation but at the same time always manages to delay/fend off her pursuer. Ultimately, appreciation for Buñuel’s last films will vary amongst today’s viewers. For many, the surrealism and satire here will seem somewhat trifling at a time when the surreal arrives on a daily basis. Still, Buñuel was a singular filmmaker who made a score of influential movies, not least of which are these final three—the work of a visionary director who proudly espoused no particular vision at all.
Presented with new digital restorations, extras spread across the discs include documentaries on Buñuel’s life and work, a “making-of” documentary on The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, interviews from 2000 with screenwriter Jean-Claude Carrière, archival interviews (featuring Carrière; actors Stéphane Audran, Muni, Michel Piccoli, and Fernando Rey; and other key collaborators), a 1985 documentary about producer Serge Silberman, a 2017 analysis of The Phantom of Liberty by film scholar Peter William Evans, the 2017 featurette “Lady Doubles” (featuring actors Carole Bouquet and Ángela Molina), a 2012 documentary featuring the director of photography Edmond Richard and assistant director Pierre Lary, scenes from Jacques de Baroncelli’s 1929 silent film adaptation La femme et le pantin, and a 58-page booklet with essays by critic Adrian Martin and novelist and critic Gary Indiana, along with interviews with Buñuel by critics José de la Colina and Tomás Pérez Turrent. Although not for all tastes at all times, this compilation of a legendary filmmaker’s final works is highly recommended. (R. Pitman)