The Two Buñuels

Back in the sixties, when I was living in New York, I often took the subway to the Thalia Theater, which showed foreign films. One night I went to see Cocteau’s Blood of the Poet (it was described as a “surrealistic masterpiece”). They always had double bills at the Thalia; the other movie was from Mexico and had the unpromising title of The Young and the Damned (Los Olvidados in Spanish — The Lost Ones). Its garish poster showed some teenage hoodlum types. I had no intention of seeing it.

Poet was awful — pretentious, pointless posturing; its only virtue was brevity. Then the next film started with an intro in which a voice-over stated that all the great cities of the world had their slums. I got ready to leave; I even turned in my aisle seat. But the first images on the screen, of boys playing matador/bull, had a bold — even savage — quality that I found . . . well, somewhat interesting (especially after Poet). Then came a young man sauntering down a Mexico City street. His expression was arrogant, as if he owned all that teemed about him. Some younger boys called out his name — “Jaibo!” — and gathered around; Jaibo was back. . . 

These opening scenes had an authority that compelled me to watch on. Gradually I was drawn down into another world. When I left the dark theater it seemed strange that the normal activities of life were still going on, as if nothing had happened.

Something had happened. An experience.

The two surrealistic shorts that the young Luis Buñuel made with Salvador Dali in France caused a furor of shock and outrage. He always had an affinity for that type of thing. (In Un Chien Andalou it is Buñuel who appears in the sequence involving a razor and a woman’s eye.) Many of his films have strong surrealistic elements; some are built entirely of oddities. Most of this ilk I don’t care for (including the one that won an Academy Award — The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie). Even those that have intriguing aspects (Simon of the Desert, The Exterminating Angel, Belle de Jour, That Obscure Object of Desire) have not secured an indelible place in my heart.

But in Los Olivdados, as is true with his other masterpieces — Nazarin, Viridiana  and Diary of a Chambermaid — Buñuel almost abandons surrealism. Almost. When he does use it, such as the dream sequence in Los Olvidados (after you see it you’ll never forget it, though you will wish you could), it’s for a purpose integral to the film. It adds impact.

So, the two Buñuels. The surrealist and the realist.

Here’s my theory as to why Buñuel chose to work in a realistic style in his four great films. It has to do with passion. In Los Olvidados he had to expose conditions in the slums of Mexico City. In Nazarin Buñuel, a devout atheist, was fascinated with the idea of what would become of a mortal man who truly lived by Christ’s precepts. Viridiana was driven by anger; perhaps the Franco regime, in inviting him back to Spain, thought the old man had mellowed, but he intended to show them how sharp his teeth still were. And Diary can be seen as an indictment of both the Fascist mindset and the decadent rich.To fulfill his passions Buñuel gave primacy to the scripts (which he always wrote or co-wrote). He stripped the films down to the essentials (in the case of Nazarin, to the bare bones), so that what is left is only people and plot and ideas — the old verities.

Surrealism, by itself, can do only so much — momentarily startle, horrify, fascinate — but it can’t gain access to the deeper emotions. In a sense it’s a gimmick, a special effect. But one that can be used, sparingly, to add impact to realism.

Some last points, because they’re especially relevant today. Los Olvidados is a ferocious film. It abounds in cruelty. But it is morally antithetical to movies that titillate with violence and sadism. The cruelty in this film is appalling; we shrink from it. Also, Buñuel gives us real people; we care about real people. Pedro, the main character, is a boy we want to be saved. But at the end we are left in a landscape of absolute desolation. Buñuel spares the boy — and us — nothing.

Los Olvidados was shown in theaters in Mexico City for only three days, at which point the government had it pulled from circulation. With the help of the poet Octavio Paz a copy made its way to Cannes, where Buñuel received the award for Best Director in 1951.

In closing, here’s a little personal story.

The town I grew up in had a theater which, on Saturday matinees, showed films to appeal to the young. Mostly boys, though a few of the rowdier girls attended. They usually showed westerns, often starring Roy Rogers, though a few educational films based on classic novels were thrown in. At any rate, whatever the film, it got no attention. It was riot time in the aisles, and, at nine or ten, I fully participated. But — BUT — one day a film caught my attention, and in the midst of the pandemonium I watched it. Cut ahead fifteen years. After I saw Los Olvidados I sought out other Buñuel films. One was Robinson Crusoe. Watching it, I recalled that it was the same film that had engaged my young self. I even recalled, on this second viewing, what happened at the ending — Robinson turning to look back at the island he was leaving, and hearing something . . . A Buñuel touch, perfect.

            Crusoe may not be one of Buñuel’s very best, but it is still excellent. He focuses on the man’s isolation. Crusoe sees clothes he had cast on the ground, and they take the shape of a woman’s body; though they remain clothes, we imagine this, along with Crusoe. In another scene he runs out into the ocean at night, a torch in his hand, and in this silent sequence we feel the depth of his loneliness.