#46 — That Obscure Object of Desire (Luis Buñuel, 1977)
I will readily admit to generally finding myself less enamored with the films that rely heavily upon the absurdly symbolic. My bias tends to those films that insinuate themselves deeply and that usually begins with well-drawn characters and cogent, direct storytelling for me. I have rapidly dwindling patience for films that are overly flowery or present themselves as abstract puzzles that promise to reveal great philosophical underpinnings if the code is cracked. Let others mull endlessly over minutiae, positing different theories as to the deeper meaning of some oddities that flits across the screen. I want something to grab a hold of.

That doesn’t mean I can never connect fully with a work that ravages against the boundaries of direct narrative, but I need to believe in the story amidst the experimentalism. Achieving that sort of balance wasn’t always the goal of Luis Buñuel. Hell, while I can’t claim exhaustive knowledge of the director’s oeuvre, it seemed that it was rarely his goal. After all, this is a guy who started his cinematic career with collaborations with Salvador Dalí that were wholly characteristic of the revered surrealist’s sensibilities. Yet, I think Buñuel finding the line that satisfying connects the fanciful with the grounded is precisely why That Obscure Object of Desire is so wonderful.

The film follows a wealthy Frenchman played by Fernando Rey as he becomes infatuated with a beautiful flamenco dancer named Seville. While the film toys somewhat with narrative structure, using the conceit of the flashback as entry to do so, the main trick Buñuel plays is casting two different actresses to play the role of Seville. Carole Bouquet and Angela Molina alternate throughout the film, stepping into the part in different segments or, on occasion, finishing a scene that the other has started. This is done largely without flourishes and doesn’t seem structured to make aggressive points about the shifting mood or personality of the character. Befitting Buñuel’s own contention that he decided on the approach as an almost satiric lark after growing frustrated with a different actress who was originally cast in the role–if a performer is frustrating midway through production, why not just fire her and replace her with someone else?–the shifts often seem arbitrary, as if they’re done by feel rather than cognitive intent.

That sort of willful haphazardness could easily be the film’s undoing, but it instead provides a terrifically enriching subtext to the whole film. Rey’s character is forever the pursuer of Seville and the shifting visage accentuates the elusive nature of their relationship. She rejects him continuously and yet he rushes back to her at the first new come hither glance, as if he’s confused by the cinematic shifts in identity to pursue and endlessly fruitless course. She’s so difficult to pin down that even her very physical form won’t stay put.

Buñuel directed his first film in 1929. Nearly fifty years later, this was his last. He died six years later. It’s always tempting to impose some sort of elegiacal message onto the final work of a master director, particularly one who happily trafficked in the cryptic. It’s hard to do with That Obscure Object of Desire, though. I see no overtones of resignation or closure in the work. Instead, it comes across as the effort of a man as fervently committed as ever to exploring the slippery nature of truth and perception and the way everything impacts the uncertain, treacherous path people take through the world. In other words, it’s not the work of a man who’s closing the book. Instead, it has such buoyant, cheeky vitally that I’d swear Buñuel was just getting started.