Surrealist cinema: politics, history, and the language of dreams.
In this context, which is the context of the cinema as an apparatus and as an institution, to acknowledge the political impact of Surrealism is to redefine the political itself, to consider the discourse of the psyche as one among a variety of discourses (economic, social, ideological, and so forth) which intersect to form the social field. Surrealist filmmakers used strategies of disruption, provocation, and disjunction not only to assault the viewer's imagination (with an eye toward liberation and social action) but to challenge the very bases on which cinematic meaning was produced - the appeal to an illusory reality, the referentiality of the image, and the logical consistency of the traditional narrative. But this work at the level of the cinematic signifier was never done at the expense of the signified, for, as Surrealist filmmakers would continually assert, "reality" itself is always conceived as something beyond the epiphenomenal, something in which the unconscious component of desire is necessarily and continually present, from the most banal of quotidian activities to the global sweep of historical events. Furthermore, because the cinema is a mass art, a popular form with the capacity to affect large numbers of people deeply and collectively, work on the meaning-production process in film is always at some level critical, social, and historical work as well.
This recognition of the materiality of the unconscious in social life is most clearly demonstrated in theories of cinematic spectatorship, where the construction of a "viewing subjectivity" engages psychic processes in ways which are more pervasive and direct than in any other artistic or cultural form. As (psychoanalytic-semiotic) film theory maintains, the cinema spectator is first and foremost a construction, produced in an interplay of desiring processes that traverse the author, text, and viewers alike. Both the viewing state that "constructs" this spectator and the film-text itself are seen as productions of desire which mobilize unconscious fantasy (that psychic staging of unconscious wishes and their symbolic fulfillment in imaginary scenarios of desire). The spectator (or more precisely, the effect of belief which known as the "subject-effect") is the central mechanism of the entire operation. The film-text, whose affinity with the dream is signalled by the fact that both are "stories told in images" that the subject recounts to itself, engages this viewer in a complex of pleasure and meaning by mobilizing deep-rooted structures of fantasy, identification, and vision, doing this through interlocking systems of narrativity, continuity, and point-of-view within the text. The cinema spectator, then,is fascinated, hypnotized, "glued" to the screen by an uncanny impression that the projected images are self-generated. Surrealist filmmakers were among the first to exploit this capacity of the cinema to reproduce materially the structure and logic of dreams and the unconscious; they were among the first to explore the social foundations of such an enterprise. They thus mounted their challenge to the dominant cinema, and to bourgeois society itself, in terms of a subversion of the traditional narrative cinema's spectator and the transgression of established values that this implied.
In order to describe more precisely the way in which the Surrealists' rupture of the "subject-effect" was achieved, I want first to trace out very briefly the historical context in which Surrealist cinema emerged, starting with the classic and commercially successful historical melodrama, J'Accuse, by Abel Gance. The film is important for my purpose not only because it is a quintessential example of the mainstream narrative fiction film that the Surrealists sought to challenge, but because its particular claim to historical accuracy makes its "documentary" status support the assertion of social authority. Gance first made his powerful pacifist epic in 1919, remaking it (as was his practice in several of his films) in 1937 and again in 1956. The year 1919 generally marks the beginning of what Richard Abel has called the "narrative avant-garde" (1984, 279-95), a cinema of emotions and states of consciousness that utilized all of the expressive possibilities of the new medium in order to add a subjective, psychological dimension to the story, whether this story be in the melodramatic or realist mode, and whether it be about fictional characters or actual historical events. That year saw three other important films of the narrative avant-garde, Marcel L'Herbier's Rose-France and Germaine Dulac's two films, La Cigarette and La fete espagnole [Spanish Fiesta] (based on a scenario by Louis Delluc). All of these films are noted for their experiments with representing subjectivity, each utilizing such techniques as dissolves, super-impositions, unusual camera angles, irises and wipes, slow motion, accelerated editing, and above all, a rhythmic orchestration of shots to convey the inner life and visualized feelings of the characters.
With La Roue [The Wheel] in 1923, Gance continued the technical achievement of J'Accuse, using intercutting as a metraphorical device to maximize the effect on the viewer ("There is cinema before and after La Roue, as there is painting before and after Picasso" - Jean Cocteau), while Dulac made what is arguably her most important film, The Smiling Mme. Beudet, in which the fantasies and desires of a frustrated bourgeois housewife are developed by means of a dazzling array of filmic techniques. Two significant films by Jean Epstein, Coeur fidele [Faithful Heart] and L'Auberge rouge [The Red Inn], also appeared in 1923 making Epstein another one of the major figures in the narrative avant-garde. Coeur fidele in particular - with its masterpiece of rapid editing in the climactic carousel sequence, its reiteration of visual figures and recurrent motifs, its systematic use of intensely charged close-ups and the rhythmic relation of shots - established the criteria for the highly evocative subjective cinema associated with French film of the twenties.
Throughout the twenties, then, narrative cinema was in ascendancy, whether the emphasis was on the inner life of the characters or on the more populist aspects of the realist vein. This latter trend was noted for its creation of atmospheres - its sense of place - through its insistence on the detailed observation of locale, and includes such films as Julien Duvivier's Poil de Carotte [Carrot Top] (1925), Alberto Cavalcanti's En rade [Laid Up For Repair, In the Harbor, Abandoned] (1927), and Jean Gremillon's La petite Lise [Little Lise] (1930). The best of these articulate the internal, subjective vision of the characters with the externally oppressive conditions of a precise social milieu, often making this environment a major player in the action while at the same time retaining the interest in experimentation that characterized the age. One more type of film practice set the background for Surrealist cinema, and that is documentary. As I've started my discussion at 1919, I won't make much of the antecedents in both Lumiere and Melies, but I simply want to point to the fact that in the twenties alongside this very vital narrative and experimental cinema was the continuous production of documentary and even ethnographic films. These films stretch from Gremillon (15 documentaries in 1924; one on Italian workers in 1926; and the semi-documentary Gardiens de phare [Lighthouse Keepers] in 1929), through Marc Allegret (Voyage au Congo [Trip to the Congo], made in 1927 with his uncle Andre Gide; Allegret later directed Josephine Baker in one of her two feature films, Zou-Zou, in 1934), George Lacombe's symphony of Parisian canals, La Zone (1929), and Epstein's documentary narratives about Breton fishermen (Finis Terrae [Land's End] 1929, Mor'Vran, 1931, and L'Or des mers [Gold From the Sea] 1932), to the so-called Surrealist documentaries of Jean Vigo (A propos de Nice [About Nice] 1930) and Luis Bunuel (Las Hurdes/Land Without Bread, 1932). Vigo's and Bunuel's documentaries are extremely important to Surrealist cinema not only because Bunuel is the most noted filmmaker of the group, but because the status of the cinematic "document" (or iron of historical fact) is at the core of the Surrealist's problematization of the image. It is one thing to relegate the production of fantastic images to the realm of the imaginary; it is quite another to evoke "the marvellous" from the most uncontestable images of reality.
In his 1929 preface to the published screenplay of Un chien andalou, Bunuel makes a (now familiar) statement of what amounts to an "ars politica" of the Surrealist film:
[W]hat can I do against the fervent admirers of all novelty, even if that novelty outrages their most profound convictions; against a betraying or hypocritical press, against that imbecilic crowd who have deemed beautiful or poetic what is basically only a desperate, passionate call to murder.
The potential violence and psychic directness of the cinema appealed to the Surrealists' desire to find a visual language capable of expressing the unexpressible (the devastation of a world torn by the inconceivable horrors of World War I, for example), while at the same time capable of shaking the audience out of its complacency and into an active, passionate revolt against the ossified, repressive institutions that had made social life intolerable. Artaud's recognition of this is framed in these (also familiar) terms: "The cinema is a remarkable stimulant. It acts directly on the grey matter of the brain....Above all, the cinema has the virtue of an innocuous and direct poison, a subcutaneous injection of morphine. That is why a film's subject cannot be inferior to its active capability - and must partake of the marvelous." And Leon Moussinac's critical assessment of L'Age d'or would clarify precisely what form this assault could take in the cinema: "Never before in a film, and with such vigor, such scorn for social mores, have society and its lackeys the police, the church, the armed forces, the family, the State even, received such a kick in the ass.... Whatever one's intellectual position or literary experience, one experiences directly the violence of these images..." (quoted in August 1976, 1).
Strictly speaking, Surrealist cinema begins with Germaine Dulac and Antonin Artaud's The Seashell and the Clergyman (1927 - Dulac made the film based on Artaud's scenario) - moves through Bunuel and Dali's Un chien andalou (1929), and, for all practical purposes, culminates in Bunuel's L'Age d'or (1930)-these are the three classic films of Surrealism. Understood within the terms of a specific subversion of the spectator of traditional narrative cinema, each film can be seen to define its project as the liberation of the spectator's unconscious, powerfully evoking the marvelous through the creation of the unexpected, the incongruous, and the enigmatic in works of "convulsive beauty." Conceived as a liberating assault not only on traditional institutions and values, but on the complacent social subject produced in and by them, the Surrealist film used structures of aggression both to reorder the perceptions of the viewer and to challenge established systems of meaning. Processes of dissociation and conflicting juxtaposition were the central devices used to create this unsettling spark, producing, in Artaud's words, a film of purely visual whose dramatic action springs from a shock designed for the eyes, a shock founded, so to speak, on the very substance of the gaze, and not on psychological circumlocutions which are essentially discursive, and thus merely visual translations of a verbal text . . . . [Such a film would be capable of] transporting the action to a plane where all translation would become useless - where the action itself would operate almost intuitively on the brain. (Artaud 1927, OC 19)
To create a cinema of imagination and desire that was nevertheless firmly grounded in cultural and social facts, Surrealist filmmakers utilized the techniques of the dreamwork, those processes of condensation and displacement that Freud would call "the royal road to the unconscious." Thus the language of dreams permitted the Surrealists not only to cultivate the obsessional, perverse, and irrational structures of the unconscious, but to provoke in the viewer a sense of disorientation, to unsettle the coherent subject of the traditional cinema and unleash its transforming capabilities. For Artaud in particular this meant that the cinema could be a means of communication which would bypass the rational distortions of verbal language, a mode whose emphasis on the body could reveal those truths hidden by the abstraction of language.
But this appeal to the unconscious and its capacity to rupture the subject-effect meant something broader than simply the appropriate technique for an individual filmmaker's expression; it meant a challenge to the very forms that had established the context out of which Surrealist cinema had emerged. The cinema of the narrative avant-garde, whether its emphasis was on the story or on the experimentation used to develop it (as in the elaboration of characters' psychology), came under attack by this totally new conception of cinematic language, for the violence of the Surrealist images and their dislocations represented an assault on a certain kind of cinema as well. The explorations of subjectivity and the evocation of states of feeling that are the hallmarks of French cinema of the twenties were, for the Surrealists, nothing more than the sentimentalizing discourse of preconceived assumptions about human consciousness. As for the profusion of technique and special effects, Vigo had this to say:
To aim at a social cinema would be to consent to work a mine of subjects which reality ceaselessly renews. . . . It would be to avoid the overly artistic subtlety of a pure cinema which contemplates its super-navel from one angle, yet another angle, always another angle, a super-angle; technique for technique's sake. (Vigo 1977, 21-24)
Historically, [Un chien andalou] represents a violent reaction against what was at that time called |avant-garde cine,' which was directed exclusively to the artistic sensibility and to the reason of the spectator, with its play of light and shadow, its photographic effects, its preoccupation with rhythmic montage and technical research, and at times in the direction of the display of a perfectly conventional and reasonable mood. (Bunuel 1947,29)
But there is another way that the connection can be made between the social inscription of the unconscious and the Surrealist project, and that is through the notion of sexual difference. The unconscious, far from being simply a repository for the irrational impulses underlying conscious life, is the site of contradiction, formed by repression in the very moment that the difference between the sexes becomes a meaningful reality for the subject. What the contradictory play of forces of desire in the unconscious means for notions of both "masculinity" and "femininity" is that they are never fixed or stable, never entities outside the chain of signification into which the subject is inserted. While traditional feminist discussions of Surrealism often emphasize the reputed misogyny of the movement, conceptualizing a film as a textual space in which various psychic forces interact can produce a shift from content-analysis to the textual figuration of desire. This in turn can demonstrate the way in which Surrealist films were able to materialize fascination rather than simply allow this fascination to be the key component in binding the spectator into an illusory unity of perception. Returning to J'Accuse as a sort of limit-text to which the Surrealists addressed their cinematic challenge, I want to look at some moments from the three canonical Surrealist texts in order to demonstrate how new representations of femininity were among the total radical - and the most social - of the Surrealists' projects. Because they were able to achieve a kind of representation of the woman that was separate and distinct from patriarchal constructions of femininity, Surrealist filmmakers were able to present a decisive challenge to the pervasive dominance of masculine privilege in the representation of sexuality.
J'Accuse concerns two friends who both love the same woman, men of contrasting natures (the aggressive, violent Francois and the gentle, poetic Jean) who are equally destroyed by World War I. As soldiers in the same battalion, they agree to let Edith choose between them, even though she is married to Francois. When Edith is raped by a German soldier, Francois mistakes the resulting child as the offspring of his rival. For vengeance, both men return to the front, where Francois is killed and Jean is shellshocked into madness. He, too, dies, after invoking a vision of phantom soldiers and accusing even the sun for the war's destruction.
In spite of the powerful emotional force of J'Accuse, the sexual dynamics that structure its larger argument about the horrors of war enact a conventional and traditional view of the feminine that is, typically, put in the service of an emotionally driven narrative. Without in any way mitigating the impact of the film, I contend that it is a film in which the tyranny of the signified - what I would call the sentimental or epic signified - asserts a patriarchal meaning that frames and determines our understanding of all of its conflicts, whether sweeping and historical or intimate and personal. As Marcel Oms has pointed out, "It is less the war that is denounced than the pleasure, cupidity, and immorality of the living as opposed to the nobility of the dead soldiers who have known true valor" (cited by Abel 1984, 302). I would add that the film's "mixture of the epic, the melodramatic, and the didactic" (Abel 1984, 297) is complicated precisely by its inability to figure sexuality in any way other than the dominant mode - the combative virility of the masculine hero, whose aspirations are variously determined, and the idealized suffering of the female victim, whose whose existence is sexually defined.
The central narrative complication, the rape and subsequent child of the heroine, is set against the background of history. Narratively a consequence of the war, the rape itself is not specific to those historical circumstances; rather, the violation of the woman is taken from popular (even melodramatic) mythology, used merely as a device to negotiate viewer identification, to heighten the emotional impact of the generalized suffering of its heroes. The figure of the woman is exploided by Gance in the name of a higher meaning (the anti-war message), but sexuality itself is a universal given that is never problematized.
The Surrealists, however, will take this sexual violence - a simple narrative function and structuring absence in Gance's film (represented in a scant three shots that evoke a variant of propaganda posters of the time: a shadow of a helmet, a shadow of hands reaching out, a man's shape filling a room) - and make it central to their films. Sexuality as poetic, sentimental, or symbolic image will be turned against itself in a true materialization of the erotic in the corrosive, liberating, contradictory force of l'amour fou (mad love).
The Seashell and he Clergyman, made the same year as Gance's epic Napoleon, inaugurates the oneiric cinema of the Surrealists in its random, associative form, its arbitrary and shocking images, and in its rejection of narrative, in an attempt to generate the production process of the dream itself. It is a particularly interesting film from the standpoint of the representation of femininity, especially in light of the misunderstanding surrounding its projection and the debate between director Dulac and scenarist Artaud. Conventional criticism has been Seashellas a failed attempt at collaboration between a feminist filmmaker and a violently masculine writer, but a more nuanced understanding of the process by which "woman" is signified in the film yields a different conclusion. The "story," such as it is, involves a clergyman's pursuit of a beautiful woman amid various obstacles, both real and imagined, and the concomitant struggles with a divided self. The notion of "character" is abandoned altogether in the name of a more direct representation of psychic processes - it is the spectator, in fact, who is the central protagonist, subject of the fantasmatic process which is the film, "dreaming" the images on the screen. The woman in the film, no longer a character in the traditional sense as well, goes through multiple transformations (some beautiful, some horrible, and all surprising), and in so doing comes to represent a whole range of prevalent notions of "the feminine" in the process of the filmic writing which is the text. Artaud's scenario describes her thus: "The woman displays her animal desire, she has the shape of her desire, the fantasmatic shimmering of the instinct which drives her to be at the same time one and ceaselessly different in her repeated metamorphoses" (Artaud 1923, 68-69). Her protean, evanescent form corresponds to a concrete visualization of unconscious desire as it circulates from representation to representation. No longer an actual woman with a presumed referent in the world outside the film, she is thematized as a figure of desire itself, perpetually resisting interpretation and univocal meaning - ephemeral, evasive, and elusive. As spectral illusion, as hallucinated vision, she is the reappearing phantom who draws the clergyman - and the viewer - into seeing things which are not there.
Un chien andalou is also about the pursuit of a woman and its obstacles, but the Surrealist principle of juxtaposition - the production of dissociative sparks from image to image and sequence to sequence - gives this film a sharper edge. In his best manifesto style, Bunuel puts it this way:
Un chien andalou would not have existed if the movement called surrealist had not existed. For its |ideology,' its psychic motivation and the systematic use of the poetic image as an arm to overthrow accepted notions corresponds to the characteristics of all authentically surrealist work. This film has no intention of attracting nor pleasing the spectator; indeed, on the contrary, it attacks him, to the degree that he belongs to a society with which surrealism is at war. (Bunuel 1947, 30)
The film proceeds automatically, through random, unexpected images and episodes such that any attempt to give a plot synopsis is useless. From its eye-opening beginning, in which a woman's eye is sliced in two as a thin cloud lacerates the moon, to its mock romantic ending "In the Spring" where a man and a woman are buried up to their necks in sand, Un chien andalou demonstrates the principle of objective chance - the materialization of the absurd - in order to launch its violently anti-romantic attack. Systematically cutting through any form of sentimentality, the film creates a series of bizarre, perverse, and obsessive encounters to dramatize the relations between the sexes. Intertitles (such as "Once Upon a Time . . ." and "A Few Hours Earlier . . .") make a mockery of narrative coherence while every technique of dissociation serves to disorient the viewer and reorient the quality of engagement with the film. Attraction, repulsion, confrontation, obstacles, violence, and arousal are all features of this subversive romance. Dali, who represents the expression of the essence of passionate revolt, described the film's theme as "the pure and correct conductive thread of a human who pursues love through wretched humanitarian, patriotic ideals and the other miserable workings of reality." In all of this, from oozing donkeys to androgynes, the comic and resisting heroine emerges in unprecedented strength, subverting recuperating definitions of the feminine even as the film celebrates eroticism and denies romantic love.
With L'Age d'or, one might say that l'amour fou (the passion that endures beyond the forces of social repression and bourgeois custom) finds its purest expression. But it is also with L'Age d'or that the Surrealist exploration of dreams and the unconscious finds its strongest articulation with social reality. Passion and revolt, the two cornerstone of the Surrealist movement, are put into their most forceful demonstration in L'Age d'or and dramatized without sacrificing the antinomies of either irrationality or meaning. While extolling l'amour fou, the film violently attacks religion and the social order, thereby making a distinction between true desire and a facile sentimental romanticism. In a manifesto in the program for the film, written and illustrated by Surrealist artists and poets (Breton, Aragon, Eluard, Crevel, and Peret among them), the political project and its relation to love are asserted:
The foundations are laid, conventions become dogma, policeman push people around just as they do in everyday life. And, just as in everyday life, accidents occur in bourgeois society while that society pays no attention whatsoever. But such accidents (and it must be noted that in Bunuel's film they remain uncorrupted by plausibility) further weaken an already rotting society that is trying to prolong its existence artificially through priests and policeman . . . . But it is LOVE that brings about the transition from pessimism to action; Love, denounced in the bougeois demonology as the root of all evil. For Love demands the sacrifice of every other value: status, family, and honor.(6)
But while the film exalts the tumultuous and disorienting experience of "mad love" - its sensually, its absolute freedom, its "total reversal of values" (Artaud's words) - it is very far from romanticizing it into some utopian essence. For, importantly, the love implicated in l'amour fou represents the possibility of erotic subversion of the social order, thereby asserting the sexual component of unconscious desire in the political and social arenas. As Bertrand Augst maintains,
Neither magic, revelation, ecstasy or sublime incantation to Love, L'Age d'or is first of all an assertion of materialism, the triumph of desire/instinct in its most compulsive manifestation over the ever-present temptation of idealist sublimation . . . . Beyond the more visible instruments of repression in French society, it was aimed at a more profound and far more pernicious enemy. An age-old support of Western ideology, the idealization of love, and more particularly its Romantic variety. Also, and more radically, it was aimed at the humanistic values deeply engrained in human consciousness by twenty centuries of Christianity. (Augst 1976,4, 2)
After a short documentary on scorpions, in which we learn that the venom in the tip of the articulated tail is enough to kill enemies much larger itself, we witness the founding of Rome amidst collapsing Majorcan bandits and the dessicated skeletons of archbishops. The ceremony is interrupted by the cries of pleasure of a couple rolling in the mud, and it is these two lovers who will be thwarted throughout the film in their effort to rejoin one another. Perpetually frustrated and interrupted, the lovers finally consummate to strains of a perverted "Tristan und Isolde," but are separated once again when the woman goes to the paternal, bearded orchestra conductor. The film ends with an equivalence between Christ and the Marquis de Sade, as scalps on a cross float gaily in the wind. In keeping with the film's radical aims, the representation of the woman's image goes from sequences of incomparable beauty to those of violence and the absurd. The female character is alternately seen dreaming of a toilet, exulting in a moment of pure jouissance (sexual ecstasy,), sucking the toe of a statue, or aging rapidly before our eyes. She is the heroine of romance fiction and the debased figure of obscenity and perversion. The film is dense with representations of sexual activity, both literal and metaphoric, while the mock-narrative is comprised of repeated interruptions of spontaneous expressions of passion. A relay pattern structures the film, in which a transfer of sexual excitation passes from image to image, sequence to sequence, in a incongruous poetry of the unexpected that mirrors the relay of desire. Thus again we have a representation of femininity that sabotages any notion of essence while at the same time asserting the ineluctable presence of desire.
All of these Surrealist films were conceived as instruments of revolt - weapons against the spectator, the cinema itself, and the entire social order. Along with the unsettling of institutions such as the military, the clergy, and the political came an assault on the very structures of meaning that found bourgeois society. To the tyranny of the univocal signified (as exemplified by Gance's film), Surrealist filmmakers responded with a liberating plurality, a profusion of signifiers. That this is seen in terms of sexual difference is not accidental. It can be said of the patriarchal signified of J'Accuse the men make history and women are its victims. Surrealism bring the contradictory play of the unconscious into the picture, replacing fixed definitions of masculinity and femininity with a notion of sexuality as a social force. Because of its refusal to abandon the unconscious in the name of specific historical events - its insistence, on the contrary, to make sexual difference (and the contradiction it implies) its primary source of both rupture and representation - Surrealist cinema is no less committed to the political or historical dimensions of life. Indeed, it is even more so: the questions raised by Surrealist filmmakers about the relations between the sexes (and the representations that these relations suggest) are precisely what, in Surrealist cinema, forge the link between politics, history, and the language of dreams.
Department of English Rutgers University New Brunswick, NJ 08903
Notes (1) This is a revised and expanded version of a paper delivered at a
Symposium in conjunction with "Anxious Visions: Surrealist Art," an exhibition at the University Art Museum, University of California at Berkely, in October of 1990. The curator of the exhibits, Sidra Stich, emphasized the specific "documentary" content of the paintings, and my particular concern was to demonstrate the totally new conceptualization of the historical that was brought into the arena by Surrealist filmmakers via psychoanalysis. (2) Luis Bunuel, La Revolution Surrealiste 12 (15 december, 1929), quoted in Luis Bunuel, L'Age d'or and Un chien andalou (Screenplays) (London: Lorrimer, 1968), 10. (3) Antonin Artaud, "Reponse a une enquete" (1923), in Les oeuvres completes d'Antonin Artaud, vol. 3 (Paris. Gallimard, 1978), 64. Further references to this text will be designated OC. (4) For a complete dicussion of this debate, see my book, To Desire Differently: Feminism and the French Cinema (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1990), 62-63. (5) Salvadore Dali, quoted in Georges Sadoul, Dictionary of Film (Berkey: of California Press, 1972, 391. (6) The Surrealist Group, "Manifesto of the Surrealists Concerning L'Age d'or," in Paul Hammond, ed., The Shadow and its Shadow: Surrealist Writing on the Cinema (Edinburgh: Polygon, 1991), 202-3. I have used an alternate translation by Bertrand Agust (op. cit.) which is better but more difficult to find.
Abel, Richard, 1984. French Cinema: The First Wave, 1915-1929. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Artaud, Antonin, 1923, "Reponse a une enquete." In Vol. 3 of Les oeuvres completes d'Antonin Artaud. Paris: Gallimard, 1978. 1927. "Cinema et realite." NRF 170 (1 novembre). In Les Oeuvres completes d'Antonin Artaud. Paris: Gallimard, 1978. Augst. Bertrand, 1976. "L'age d'or: Text/Cinetext." Berkeley: np. Bunuel, Luis. 1947. "Notes on Making Un chien andalou." Collected in Art in Cinema, edited by Frank Stauffaucher. San Francisco: San Francisco Art Institute. 1969. L'Age d'or and Un chien andalou (Screenplays). London: Lorrimer. Flitterman-Lewis, Sandy. 1990. To Desire Differently: Feminism and the French Cinema. Urbana. Edinburgh: Polygon. Hammond, Paul, editor. 1991. The Shadow and its Shadow: Surrealist Writing on the Cinema. Edinburgh: Polygon. Sadoul, George, 1972. Dictionary of Films. Berkeley: University of California Press. Vigo, Jean. 1977. "Toward a Social Cinema. "Lecture given at the Vieux Colombier on June 14, 1930. Translated in Millenium Film Journal, 1.1, 21-24.
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