Film review: LE FANTÔME DE LA LIBERTÉ (Luis Buñuel, 1974)

The third and final film of Luis Buñuel's triptych of movies which feature little plot and a lot of visual sight gags, Le Fantôme de la Liberté neatly ties off what La Voie lactée and Le Charme discret de la bourgeoisie started. Like the other two films, Le Fantôme de la Liberté consists of short, surreal sketches that follows a series of peripherally connected characters are their lives are peppered with all manner of curio, and in the name of decorum, the characters are completely blasé these bizarre occurrences, which just makes them weirder.

A creepy man distributes photographs to young girls. We assume these to be seedy, as he tells them to show friends but not parents, and indeed, when the parents discover them, they are disgusted. But the pictures actually turn out to be nothing more than photos of historical landmarks. Later, another little girl, declared missing, is actually present and well, and at the police station to aid an officer as he fills in her missing person report.

A chap who kills passers-by is hailed as some kind of celebrity at his court-hearing, with adoring fans begging for his autograph. A group of monks are invited to dine with a couple, who all of a sudden strip into latex and embark on some whipping in front of them. And perhaps most startlingly, a group of bourgeois families sit together at a dinner table to go to the toilet in each other's presence, occasionally excusing themselves to go into a private room, to eat.

There’s cinematic badinage of Le Fantôme de la Liberté boasts far greater variety than the other two films in the trio. Buñuel’s ability to synthesise them all into a collective unit illustrates his adroit ability to deliver narrative, even in an oeuvre that largely lacks one. The sight gags are wittier, and the film revels in its bizarreness, which means the audience doesn’t feel any obligation to invest themselves in the plot or the characters, which I have done in previous films, only to have the rug pulled from under me, and thus, felt frustrated by the director.

Possibly an artefact of 1972’s Le Charme discret de la bourgeoisie picking up the Foreign Language film Oscar, Buñuel’s follow-up is far less accessible and crowd-pleasing. But I preferred Le Fantôme de la Liberté precisely because it lacks a slightly grandstanding element that its predecessors have. Le Fantôme de la Liberté definitely feels like one of his most personal works, despite (or because?) of all the degenerates you meet in it. 

The fact that there isn’t a specific target of satire as La Voie lactée and Le Charme discret de la bourgeoisie had (Christianity and the middle class, respectively), per se, rather that free will, a much more abstract idea is the object of this film, means the director has far more scope to unbridle his anarchic vision upon. The episodes he confects span humour that ranges from the bizarre to the sublime.

While the plot sprawls, there is nothing ad-hoc about Buñuel’s tight direction, with each unsettling vignette modulating into the next with such fluidity that before the audience have time to dwell too deeply on the previous story arc, they’re immersed into a new one.

The main thesis of these chaotic scenes, that humans are predominantly irrational agents, and personal autonomy is purely a hoax, is intriguing; a theory given more resonance in the wake of ongoing current affairs. 

8/10

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I've now reviewed all eight DVDs in my Buñuel box set. Read the others here.

Film review: LE CHARME DISCRET DE LA BOURGEOISIE (Luis Buñuel, 1972)

6 members of the French upper-middle class find that their best-laid plans to dine together are repeatedly and frustratingly scuppered, whether it be due to misunderstanding over the date, French army officers inviting themselves to their meal or suddenly getting arrested. Some of the most bizarre scenarios are revealed to be dream sequences in Luis Buñuel's Oscar winner of Best foreign film.

From the outset, the characters at the centre of Le Charme discret de la bourgeoisie are an attractive, urbane bunch, who converse on the finer things in life are of good scruples. But the audience's perceptions are quickly shattered. One casually deals drugs whilst bedding his mate's missus. A couple, the Sénéchals, shimmy out of the window to have sex in the garden whilst ignoring their guests.

Buñuel obviously had a rollicking good time exposing the false dichotomy between the bourgeois and the proletariat that they so smugly like to compare themselves to, and for the most part, his film is enthralling to follow. A little more clarity of focus might have rendered this a more complete watch; some of the dream sequences are nested within dreams of other characters, but finding this out merely adds to the confusion rather than answering any narrative questions.

It's highly probable that the many and varied sequences in Le Charme discret de la bourgeoisie wasn't supposed to make sense to the audience, and that the true interpretation of the movie is to be teased out on repeat viewings. If the watcher is to be merely amused and entertained,  then, Buñuel has certainly accomplished his goal. He sends the middle class up with far more flair and nuance than he poked fun of Christianity in La Voie lactée, not least because the vignettes in that film depicted characters that felt strawman-ish, whereas in Charme discret the funny parts are generally underscored by truth.

Surreal touches pepper the film. Fernando Rey (Tristana, That Obscure Object of Desire) is a diplomat for a fictional south American country, the Republic of Miranda, but, like the equally fabricated TV towns of Pawnee in Parks and Rec and Agrestic in Weeds, the country is evoked with such detail when characters discuss it, that the audience could easily believe it were a real place. A maid, played by an actress who couldn't be a day over 30, nonchalantly declares she's in her 50s, and no-one bats an eyelid. And, when hearing his wife is in his best friend's bedroom, the culprit coolly tells him to go wait in his car, and his missus will be out later.

In between displays of the director's signature playful dramatic irony, Le Charme discret de la bourgeoisie juxtaposes some disturbing imagery. These arresting scenes of corpses haunting various people now look a tad outdated by 21st century cinema's tendency to depict gore on a hyper-realistic level, but it's because they're so out of the blue and jarring with the rest of the film's comedic tone that they manage to retain power.

Overall, Le Charme discret de la bourgeoisie should be approached with caution; its wacky exposition and unconcern with tying up the plot won't be to everyone's tastes. But if you stick with it, it's a truly surprising movie, that will tickle and unnerve you in equal measure, and as a thesis on the power of dreams, it's a hell of a lot more gripping than Christopher Nolan's overrated Inception.

7.5/10

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This review marks my seventh of the eight DVDs in the Luis Buñuel boxset. Read my reviews of the other films I've seen of his here.

Film review: LA VOIE LACTÉE [THE MILKY WAY] (Luis Buñuel, 1969)

Luis Buñuel'a irreverent send-up of Christianity sees Pierre (Paul Frankeur) and Jean (Laurent Terzieff) embarking on a religious pilgrimage from France to Santiago de Compostela in Spain. Along the way, they come a series of unexpected events, from walking in on a ritual from a secret sect, being asked to moderate a duel, and a chance meeting with the Grim Reaper.

La Voie lactée's surrealist elements and indictment of Catholicism render it classic Luis Buñuel, but  neither of these two components were employed terribly effectively. As in Tristana, I found the dream sequences distractingly low-quality, and because the whole file had a trippy vibe, it was difficult to delineate the fantasy sequences from the actual storytelling. The cutaways didn't add anything to the narrative, and, perhaps because I'm treated due to shows like Family Guy, I usually expect my cut-aways to be, you know, funny. Here, they were met with a *tumbleweed*-style reaction.

The Catholic Church offers ample material for mockery, and having their teachings torn apart, something that Pedro Almodóvar does effectively in several of his films. He achieves it by writing characters such as a shady priests into various stories (e.g. La mala educación), and then allowing the plot to unravel as the hypocrisy and corruption of said characters are exposed. That way, the audience sees these people for the monsters they are, whilst recognising their religious background played a formative role in this. We have been shown, rather than told.

But in La Voie lactée, the speeches delivered by characters in this film by preachers and brainwashed kids, written in such an brazen way so as to make the deliverers look stupid, felt like the audience was being spoon-fed to laugh at these characters and ridicule their beliefs. The contradictory things they were spouting were too out there and nonsensical for it to be plausible that the character believed in what they were saying.

The closing titles of the film, which laid out all the problems with religious dogmas, epitomises Buñuel's heavy-handed approach:  if the film had done its job properly, the audience should already know this. They wouldn't need it rammed down their throat. This complete lack of nuance meant I was, lamentably, not able to enjoy this film as much as I would have liked to. (I like ridiculing religion as much as the next person!)

However, as with previous Buñuel titles, I was still amused by the film, and scenes which were darkly comic and the audience unsure whether or not to laugh meant we were kept on their toes. One vignette, where a woman lies on the cross and has her hands pinned to it like Jesus Christ, was visually discreet but made an arresting impression. And the benefit of having so many short scenes, pieced together in a sketch-like way, meant that the viewer was at least, never bored.

I wouldn't classify La Voie lactée as Buñuel's best work. But it's a curious entry into his filmography that his aficionados might derive more enjoyment from than I did. 

6/10

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If you enjoyed this review, the rest of my reviews are here!

Film review: TRISTANA (Luis Buñuel, 1970)

Tristana (Catherine Deneuve), a recently orphaned God-fearing beauty, is given sanctuary by her new legal guardian Don Lope (Fernando Rey), a crusty old womaniser who hates religion, sympathises with the underbelly of society, and likes to backpat himself for being so anti-establishment. Much like the character Rey played in That Obscure Object of Desire, he develops an infatuation with the female lead, and it’s not long before he’s thrown caution to his wind regarding taking Tristana under his wing, choosing to take her under him instead.

From some of the other Buñuel titles I’ve reviewed, it’s evident that the man has got sex on the mind, but his depiction of Don Lope’s carnal instincts and Tristana’s grudging acquiescence to them in this film are surprisingly PG-rated (although, given the mature themes and disturbing imagery in this film, I thought the MPAA awarding this film a PG-13, made more sense) and visually restrained. The unsettling, Woody Allen-esque relationship is portrayed with a few fleeting shots of Tristana impassively getting undressed, before the scene ends. Surprisingly subtle for Buñuel, but it suits the atonal style of the film, and its messages about the double-standards of religious Spanish society.

Deneuve and Rey, two of Brunel’s favourite collaborators, prosper under his direction. As the eponymous lead, Deneuve alchemizes Tristana’s spirit effortlessly. At the beginning, she is a carefree, wide-eyed young girl who just wishes to honour her mother's love of pray. By the end, and not altogether surprisingly given what she has been through,  as her character develops, she is a resolute and cold-hearted, and absolutely God-less.

It’s evident that she’s repulsed by her legal guardian’s grabby hands (not the first time a Guardian's been handsy, amirite?), but she grins and bears it in a disquietingly silent manner. As in Belle de Jour, Deneuve portrays her character taking everything just accepting what comes to her under a façade of equanimity, which only leaves the audience more tantalised about what she’s really thinking.

Fernando Rey portrays a monster with more than a small touch of Humbert Humbert. Tristana is an unusual story because it’s not so much a case of Stockholm Syndrome, as the woman coming back to take revenge – revenge by mistreatment – on the man who so impulsively, selfishly, debased her. And her interpretation of the best kind of justice is to simultaneously be with him (in legal union) and not be with him (in emotion and physically).

The central dynamic between Tristana and Don Lope is fascinating. Despite the fact that he defiled her and she rightly resents him for taking her innocence, this is juxtaposed hatred is with her inherent Christian grace towards him, which consists of gratitude for taking her in when she was destitute, as well as a giddy sense of triumph later when he gets older and more pathetic, and she, more beautiful. These emotions come together to create a cocktail of power that she lauds over him.

Buñuel is known for his surrealist elements, but that was the component I liked least about Tristana - Don Lope’s decapitated head swinging from a bell was off-beat but now looks dated. Tristana also lacks the moments of playful levity that The Diary of a Chambermaid and That Obscure Object of Desire had, rendering it a more straightforward piece of storytelling, although in doing so, it doesn't quite reach the peaks of those two titles. Finally, the fact that the film was shot and set in Toledo, Spain, yet the characters speak French, is a tad jarring.

It’s not the best spin on Lolita in a film I’ve seen - that would be Sam Mendes’ incredible American Beauty, but, like That Obscure Object of Desire, survives the test of time well in its astute dissection of gender politics and the blurred, and often confusing, line between love and hate. 

Buñuel  for all his seedy voyeursim, understands that sex is just as much about emotional control as it is about physical lust, and his detached, capable direction, Deneuve’s suitably frosty performance (quite literally, given the film's aloof coda) and the compelling story make for a bizarre, but thoroughly watchable experience.

7.5/10

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If you enjoyed this, all my film reviews are collated here.

Film review: THE DIARY OF A CHAMBERMAID (Luis Buñuel, 1964)

"She's more than just a servant, she's a rarity among women" is noted of Jeanne Moreau's Céléstine, a Parisian maid who comes to work for the eccentric Normandy family conprising of Monsieur Rabour, his daughter Madame Monteil and her husband Monsieur Rabour. 

She soon discovers the traits of each family member, from Monsieur Rabour's predilection for women in boots (and seeing them walk in said boots), to Monsier Monteil's womanizing with the maids, resulting from his wife finding sex too painful, and thus not enjoying it.

I'm halfway through my Luis Buñuel marathon and so far, not one of his films haven't revolved around, or at least had as an integral factor of it, sex. Le journal d'une femme de chambre is no different. Adapted from Jean Renoir's 1946 version, Buñuel and long time writing partner Jean-Claude Carrière clearly have a great time writing the dialogue for this film. 

Monsieur Rabour, in trying to deny his feelings of attractions for Céléstine, reasons more himself, than his wife, "She's from Paris. Who knows what diseases she has?". Ironically, when he later throws himself at her, she gets out of sleeping him by dodging him and exclaiming "I've got symphilis!". It's this combination of crude sex jokes and laugh-out-loud visual comedy (including a clumsy priest trying to kick a door down) that really brings out the humour as well as sexual politics in 30s French society.

However, Le journal d'une femme de chambre isn't principally a comedy. It's rather difficult to pinpoint exactly what genre it is, for, half way through the film, after 45 or so minutes of amusing vignettes, things turn sour when, just after she has quit her job due to the master of the house dying, it is revealed that someone else has died - Little Claire, the girl that Céléstine grew to care for. And not only that, she was raped and murdered. 

Céléstine, suspecting her fellow servant Joseph, an unrefined and fascist so-and-so of being the perpetrator, regains her post and seduces him in an attempt to get a confession out of him. And, once again, we re-enter a world where, as with Belle de jour and That Obscure Object of Affection, women must rely on their "other gifts" to get through in life.

As Céléstine Jeanne Moreau is a revelation. She was 36 when the film was made and, despite her skin looking a bit craggy, she is still very beautiful, her brunette hair tidy and stylish and her wide eyes watching carefully as she enters the microcosm of the French bourgeoisie, taking everything in unflinchingly. She's a strong, brave lady who believes that the ends justifies the means and isn't afraid to stick up for herself, no matter what the class/gender/wealth of the person who challenges her, and Moreau embodies the brave, ahead of her time character of Céléstine perfectly. 

As is now standard of Mr. Buñuel's films, the women come out a lot better than the men do - the man on the house, out of frustation of "only" being able to shag his supposedly frigid wife twice a week, fooled about with one of his ex-maids, and as such, had to pay her off 1500 Francs once she's knocked up. 

Céléstine refuses to give it up quite as easily.

Four out of the eight Luis Buñuel DVDs watched, and I'm still yet to find a stinker. Le journal d'une femme de chambre is far, far away from being a stinker - it's a deliciously witty attack on Western society that is as post-modern as it gets, and centres around one of the sassiest and most intriguing women in cinema. An absolute must.

8.5/10

8 Days of Buñuel, Day 3: That Obscure Object of Desire (Luis Buñuel, 1977)

That Obscure Object of Desire is a film about shagging. In it, aging wealthy man Mathieu (Fernando  Rey) has his eye turned by Conchita, his young, inexperienced maid. He tries to kiss her one night, and the next day, she's gone. Three months later, post-random hold-up, he sees her again and is again, besotted, plying her with cakes, coffee, frequent visits and sweet nothings. She in return gives him a coy kiss now and then, but resolutely refuses to give him what it is he wants the most: a good lay.

Hence, the film, wherein he tells the people in his train cabin about his long and treacherous blue-balled time with her, is a journey of the sexual politics between rich older man and poor young woman, who has to survive on her sexual prowess. In doing so, she's conniving, cold, mercenary, mean, and a massive cocktease, but, as demonstrated by the closing scenes, perhaps she was right to act like a complete cow.

Two different actresses play Conchita, one for the day and one for the night (drawing subconcious links with yesterday's title, Belle de jour, perhaps), and such is Mathieu's physical longing for Conchita that it is interesting that there are two women playing her, implying, perhaps, that he is so enamored that he doesn't even realise what's going on right in front of him. 

I thought the observations of the film were absolutely amazing, way ahead of their time; despite being made over 30 years ago, this film knows so much about men, women and our carnal desires. On Conchita refusing to lose her virginity, stating that he'd no longer love/respect her if she gave it up, Mathieu purrs suggestively "there are ways to pleasure a man without having sex", but Conchita, looking disgusted at the request, turns around and ignores him, without giving him so much as a handjob. 

My kinda girl, and my kinda movie. Boom.

9/10

8 Days of Buñuel, Day 2: Belle de jour (Luis Buñuel, 1967)

Séverine Serizy is a beautiful and elegant French housewife, married to esteemed doctor, but suffers from both sexually frigidity and frustration, the two sleeping in different beds and, after a year of marriage, Séverine still a virgin. One day, she hears about the local brothels and after a hesitant start, she takes up a job working as a prostitute there, under the alias of Belle de jour.



The Typical Overactor in a Buñuel Movie here is Pierre Clémenti as Marcel, a young spy who becomes besotted with Séverine leading to terrible consequences. Even though he's stunning to look at in a dirty sort of way, the scene in which he confronts Séverine contained some of the most camp acting I've seen, especially when he "span around in anger." Ho ho ho. However, this performer is probably my only serious foible with Belle de jour, which is otherwise an ethereal, sexy masterpiece. Catherine Deneuve is the epitome of icy fragility; kitted out in designer labels and haute couture, there is still a wild longing in her eyes, one that she cannot convey to her peers, and becomes unleashed only in the bedroom. From the very first scene, where husband and wife trot down a pathway led by two men on a horse and cart, only for the husband to command the two drivers to tie the wife up and rape her, we realise that Séverine dreams of sexual encounters wild and bizarre, yet cannot act them out. Here is a woman who has rape fantasies, yet can't even force herself to touch her husband. Dodgy, but her stint in the high-class brothel soon helps her act out her fantasies and release her inner inhibitions. And in every one of her (mis)adventures, Deneuve's perfect face is the mask of nuance and subtlety.

The blur between fantasy and reality is forever prevalent throughout the film, so much so that the various flashbacks to Séverine's childhood, random short episodic scenes make one question what is real and what is fiction. The ending remains a mystery but I have my own theories about it, and here is a film that says more about human desires and female repression than anything I see in the women's mags of today. Good work.

PS. I have a rather beautiful Belle je jour postcard that came free with the DVD, and I'm feeling kind so if anyone wants it, e-mail me your address and I'll post it to you. :)

8 Days of Buñuel - The Young One (Luis Buñuel, 1960)

The film begins with Traver, a man on the run from the law due to allegations that he's raped a woman, rowing to the shore, set to the spiritual song Sinner Man, sung by Leon Bibb. This being the 60s in the American South, him being a black man and the person crying rape being a white woman, the truth, that he in fact is innocent, therefore has little importance.

He reaches an Island which has only two inhabitants - thirteen year old Evvie, an uneducated and unruly child who is a bit too dim for her own good regarding the motives of the other inhabitant - gruff and "manly" beekeeper Miller, who used to work with her grandad before he dies at the start of the film.

On noticing that she can look quite pretty when she tidies herself up, Miller suddenly realises he wants to bung the young girl, developing boobs and all. And hence, we enter the murky territory of Luis Buñuel's film about racism and child abuse, adapted from Peter Matthiessen's short story "Travellin' Man".

The Young One is probably the least Buñuelesque film of his that I've seen. The storytelling is linear and straightforward, it's one of his two films set in English, plus the themes - of male animosity, personal grudges, racism et al feel more at home in a John Wayne or Clint Eastwood film. That said, one element prevalent in most of his films and present here is the tendency for at least one of the cast members to over-act hilariously.

Here, it is Key Meersman playing the blossoming girl Evalyn. Evvie herself is a likeable enough character - she, unlike her neighbour, is not racist, and treats Traver with respect and admiration. She is also a lamentably naive character, not putting up much of a fight when the sexually frustrated brute Miller comes to her bedside and takes her bunginity. That said, she is, as Kanye West might describe as be one of those girls who "what I love most she had so much soul", and as such, Evvie deserved a better performance than the bland and plain line-reading one Meersman gives.

The two male leads are significantly stronger, particularly Bernie Hamilton as the afflicted and much-maligned jazz clarinet who has been abused and ridiculed, but refuses to lose his pride.

In terms of the two key themes of the film - child abuse and racism, Buñuel does a far better job in his depiction of the latter than the former. People back then really were as single-minded as he shows them to be, and it's no coincidence that the three characters in the film that can see above skin colour - Evvie, the Reverend and Traver himself, are portrayed as the good guys. And, even then, prejudice still runs in the veins of the white people, albeit unwillingly - Evvie refers to the clarinet as a liquorice stick, suggesting that, if bought up in racist surroundings, making such comments might be an intrinsic thing.

The paedophilia issue is dealt with woefully. I fully expect the character of Miller to get his full comeuppance for taking advantage of an unknowing 13-year-old by dying, but I was disappointed. Whilst the "say no to racism" message is clear, the stance against paedophilia is a bit more dubious. "She's a woman," says Miller defensively, suggesting he has no repentance for debasing Evvie.

And for that, more than anything else wrong with the film, the highest grade I can give it, for all its strong dramatic moments and intelligent dialogue, is...

B+