The Exterminating Angel (1962)

El ángel exterminador, Mexico, 95 minutes

Director: Luis Buñuel

Writers: Luis Buñuel, Luis Alcoriza

Photography: Gabriel Figueroa

Editor: Carlos Savage

Cast: Silvia Pinal, Enrique Rambal, Luis Beristain, Jacqueline Andere, Jose Baviera, Tito Junco, Ofelia Montesco, Claudio Brook, Nadia Haro Oliva

For the record, and FYI, director and cowriter Luis Buñuel has no fewer than six titles in the top 200 of the big list at They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They?, a roundup of critical opinion from around the world: Viridiana, #88; The Exterminating Angel (my favorite), #138; Los Olvidados, #139; the inestimable Un Chien Andalou, #149; L’Age d’or, #166; and The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie (my other favorite), #172. A seventh, Belle de jour, is trailing not far behind at #256. He’s obviously a very big deal among cineastes, partly for his dedication to surrealism and the originality of it, partly for his caustic treatment of religion and capitalism, partly for a prolific, globe-trotting career that saw him making pictures in Spain, France, Mexico, and elsewhere—and partly because he’s pretty good at making movies.

Among other things, The Exterminating Angel shows a lot of skill unrolling the premise. It starts with a dinner party—how many Buñuel pictures involve (and mock) the genteel dinner party, attended by the upper-middle class as they strain after more social class? In fact, the picture is a bit dull in the first third as they gather and work their status symbols, though it is enlivened somewhat by slapstick and sarcasm. For some reason all the servants, including the cooks, are leaving. They can’t explain themselves but only apologize. And they will not stay. But the host and hostess make do and muddle through with the only servant left, a butler. After the dinner the group retires to the parlor for brandy and more polite intercourse. They’re a bit bored but not yet inclined to leave. The hours peter away until finally, around 4 or 5 a.m., the hosts, eager to break it up, offer them rooms in the mansion. But they prefer to undress and bunk down where they are. So do the host and hostess. It’s not until the next morning, when the group wakes and starts thinking about breakfast, that they realize they are somehow trapped there.

This is the fine line of “weird” that Buñuel walks here. There are no explanations on offer. These gentle folks truly would like to leave. Many have been intent on getting away since the dinner for different personal reasons—trysts, late engagements, early days, etc. But at the threshold, a simple cased opening into another room, they hesitate. They seem to lose their will. Some are so frustrated they weep. But they don’t leave. One man takes ill, a grave medical emergency. A doctor is there to attend him. He needs to be taken to the hospital. But no one is inclined to leave the room, including the doctor and the patient. There are echoes here of Herman Melville’s great short story, “Bartleby, the Scrivener,” with its stubborn refrain of “I would prefer not to.” That is the crisis in short that has trapped these people. They want very much to leave, but ultimately they are not inclined to do so. There are crises involving water and food, life and death, but still they are helplessly not inclined to leave. At the same time, to the best of their fraying abilities, they are too civilized to make too much in front of others of the strange dilemma. There’s so much to take from this.

After 24 hours it is a crisis. They begin to wonder why no one is coming for them. That is answered when the scene shifts to outside the mansion, where friends and relatives, police and other authorities, have gathered to much the same predicament. They reach a certain point entering the mansion and they are no longer inclined to proceed any further. This siege as such goes on for weeks. We get these reports from women about the bathroom just off the parlor: “When I lifted the lid, I saw a steep cliff and a rushing stream far below.” Another: “And before I sat down, an eagle flew by 40 feet below me.” Another: “The wind blew a gust of dry leaves in my face.” I note that the bathroom does not appear to have a sink or tub with faucet because the need for water does become a crisis.

There’s no good way to end something as fanciful as this but at least Buñuel finds a witty way, leaving it somewhat open-ended. His gift for the comically surreal is plainly strong as ever here. I love that it seems to be about lack of will, as much as can be discerned, as if our very way of life (read: capitalism, of course) has so enervated us (and/or the genteel upper classes, depending on your vantage) that we can no longer even leave the parlor when we want to. The unseemliness of it all forestalls action even to survive. In short, they would prefer not to. Fast-forward another 50 years and observe our studious inactivity on the impending climate crisis, likely one of the biggest we will face as a species. We just don’t seem to feel like doing anything about it. Thus, The Exterminating Angel, whimsical fantasy and all, stands more relevant than ever, at least in that respect.