Between 1946 and 1964, the
great iconoclastic Spanish surrealist filmmaker Luis Buñuel (1900 – 1983) found
himself, like many of his contemporaries during the Spanish Civil War, living
and working in Mexico, where he was able to resume his directorial career and make
at least twenty films in a variety of genres while working to tight schedules and with extremely low
budgets for producer Óscar Dancigers -- a Russian émigré, blacklisted by
Hollywood for his Communist sympathies. He was to become a citizen of the country in 1949.
This period of activity had been
the most productive of Buñuel’s life thus far as a film-maker, following
a fallow fifteen years in the aftermath of the Spanish Civil War (when he had
worked on film propaganda for the defeated Republican Government), which was pent languishing unproductively on the pay-role of MGM studios in Hollywood,
and, later, working for the Museum of Modern Art in New York as an editor who at one point was asked to produce (among other assignments) a truncated version of Leni
Riefenstahl’s Nazi propaganda film, Triumph of the Will. The Mexican
film industry allowed Buñuel to develop the economical,
deceptively-simple-but-subversive poetic realist style that was to help shape
and define the approach he utilised with the later masterpieces he made in
Spain and France, when he would be completely free of the genre constraints
that ultimately make many of the films from this period appear a little rough
and uneven. However, in the early-1950s Buñuel was also able to cultivate the
beginnings of a sporadic international career by participating in a small
number of co-productions, beginning in 1952 with an adaptation of Daniel
Defoe’s The Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, which he made for American
producer George Pepper. This saw the director working in colour for the first
time, as he attempted to mould his Spanish-Mexican hybrid sensibility to a more
commercial form of international genre film-making. The experiment was
evidently considered enough of a success to thereafter nudge Buñuel into accepting
a small number of other foreign co-production deals in the second part of the
decade, starting with Cela s'appelle l'aurore in 1956,
which inaugurated what critic Raymond Durgnat has called Buñuel's
"revolutionary triptych": a trio of films that examine how morality
operates under conditions of revolutionary rebellion against a brutal dictatorship.
This Franco-Italian co-production opened the way for several more team-ups with
French producers, starting with the rarely seen film discussed below, which is
now released on Blu-ray in the UK (in a dual-format edition) by Eureka
Entertainment as part of its august Masters of Cinema line.
La Mort en ce jardin (Death in the Garden) was adapted
from a now-forgotten novel by Belgian writer José-André Lacour, but its main
inspiration was almost certainly the classic 1953 Henri-Georges Clouzot suspense
movie The Wages of Fear, with which it shares one of its main French
stars, Charles Vanel (also to be seen in Hitchcock’s To Catch a Thief), who
plays very similar roles in both films, which also share key thematic concerns
as they both take place in Latin American countries whose natural resources are
being exploited by American corporations. This being Buñuel, there’s also a
heavily emphasised anti-clerical element too, as the corrupt fascistic military
regime in the film, which benefits from U.S. largess at the expensive of the
indigenous workers, also gets ideological support from the compliant doctrine of
non-violence being preached by the Catholic missionaries simultaneously
flooding the region. But whilst Clouzot’s Anti-American message became the
backdrop to a taut suspense thriller, Buñuel’s film is riffing on even more generic
survival-adventure fare that has a mismatched, antagonistic, rag-tag band of
fugitives forced to flee into the hostile South American jungle after a violent
revolutionary uprising at a mining outpost is put down by Government forces.
In the very few lines Buñuel
devotes to the film in his memoir, he regrets not being able to get a better
handle on the script -- much of which was being written on the day of shooting,
with Buñuel getting up at two in the morning and handing the scenes he’d been
working on that night to his French collaborator, Gabriel Arout, at dawn, who
would then check Buñuel’s French for mistakes before filming took place later
on in the day. The novelist Raymond Queneau turned up at one point to lend some
extra support for a few weeks, and Buñuel wryly notes how the writer (whose
1959 novel Zazie dans le metro was
later filmed by Louis Malle) always displayed such good humour and ‘infinite
tact’ by never saying outright that a script idea was bad, but merely
delicately suggesting ‘alterations’ instead. Despite all this, according to Buñuel:
“the script remained impossible.”
Perhaps partly because of this dismissive
tone and the fact of the film’s relative rarity (until this colourful, crystal
clear HD print turned up for the Blu-ray release), Death
in the Garden has never been treated as anything much more
than a minor work in the Buñuel filmography. This might well now be changing as
it transpires that the director was perhaps being rather too harsh in his judgement
of a work which frequently finds subtly interesting ways to adapt the adventure
film mode to traditional Buñuelian concerns. It turns out that seeing Buñuel
successfully working what is, for much of the picture, a commercial ‘action’
genre piece, and then slowly warping its conventions in the second half with
absurdist ideas drawn from his familiar arsenal of tropes, actually puts rather
a refreshing new spin on many of them.
The first half of the movie
is devoted to establishing a core group of disparate ne’er-do-well characters whose
priorities are soon shown to put them completely at odds, but who are going nevertheless
to be forced to rely on each-other for survival later on. If there is one
single unambiguous take-home message coming from Buñuel with this film, it is
that simple, prescriptive moral formulations are inadequate for dealing with
the ever-shifting messiness of human relationships, especially when those
relationships are placed against a
backdrop of social chaos created by systems of political oppression that bring with
them unpredictable consequences. Buñuel had a cast of fairly well-known French
actors at his disposal for this picture; and a lush, bright, ‘50s Technicolor
palette is provided by Mexican cinematographer Jorge Stahl Jr. to lend
proceedings in a picturesque Latin American village and the teeming jungle
surrounding it an epic quality which, when combined with Buñuel’s deceptively
workman-like (but effective) direction, creates an impression during the
opening forty-five minutes of a film that might easily pass for a fairly
decently mounted mainstream action feature.
The first scene opens on a
rocky Mexican quarry in a remote valley near a stream, where sun-beaten
prospectors are shown urgently shifting for diamonds. One of them is Charles
Vanel, who plays an elderly French fortune hunter called Castin: modestly hoping
to earn just enough from staking his claim to enable him to one day return to
his homeland and open a restaurant in Marseilles. For Castin -- one gets the
impression -- the entire journey has been something of a romantic adventure;
the extent of his naiveté is demonstrated when it becomes apparent that he has also
fallen in love with, and expects to take back home with him to marry, the
hard-nosed blonde prostitute who’s currently running the town brothel which
caters to many of the prospectors who pass through the region from all over the
world, looking to make their fortune in the diamond fields. Her name is Djin,
and she is played by Simone Signoret … the distinctive German-born actress who
is best known for her role as Joe Lampton’s older lover Alice Aisgill in Room
At The Top, Jack Clayton’s 1959 adaptation of John Braine’s novel of
the same name. Meanwhile, for Horror fans, she is synonymous with the ice-blooded
conspirator and killer she so effectively rendered for Henri-Georges Clouzot’s
twist-laden thriller of 1955, Les diaboliques. Djin -- defiant,
ballsy and devious -- definitely does not come across as the type to be content
with marriage to an aging sentimentalist followed by a settled existence
running a busy restaurant. She has her own ‘business arrangement’ going with a
local boat-owner called Chenko (Tito Junco – who also appears in Buñuel’s The
Exterminating Angel) who ferries in fresh blood from Brazil to keep her
clientele entertained; a military unit seconded at the outpost, and headed by a
Captain Ferrero (Jorge Martínez de Hoyos), turns a blind eye to the couple’s
activities for a cut of their profits. “There is nothing more important than
making money” is a phrase that trips easily from Chenko’s tongue, and it’s a
motto Djin herself seems fully to endorse: fairly early on in the first act, an
adventurer called Shark (Georges Marchal – the quintessential leading man of
‘50s French cinema) turns up in the village and finds out just how far Djin can
be trusted when money is entered into the equation.
Shark ambles into town in the
middle of a minor revolt prompted by a Government proclamation rescinding all
independent prospectors’ claims and taking the diamond fields into public
ownership. Looking for a place to stay for the night he accidently ends up in
Djin’s bed, who, when she finds him there, decides she quite likes the look of
him and makes love with him. Unfortunately, she also decides she likes the look
of the money belt he keeps strapped to his chest … She reports him to the
corrupt Captain Ferrero, who comes with a military attachment to take him into
custody on fabricated charges of bank robbery. Djin’s partner Chenko is rustled
up as a ‘witness’ and Shark ends up in a police cell while Djin and Chenko
receive their cut of the money stolen from him. Shark manages to escape just as
a full-scale revolt kicks off after the military execute by firing squad an
injured, unconscious man who’d been accused of taking part in earlier protests:
a scene which anticipates a similar instance of absurdist cruelty perpetrated
by corrupt officialdom in Stanley Kubrick’s anti-war thriller Paths
of Glory.
Shark uses the ensuing
bloodshed as cover for his escape; a scene in which he finds some crates full
of dynamite and ammunition in the cellar under the police cells leads to one of
the few instances of bravura action spectacle in Buñuel’s cinema, when Shark
sets a gasoline trail alight that leads to the cellar stash and there’s a
massive explosion destroying the entire police headquarters! Army
reinforcements arrive and the revolt is used as an excuse to target and remove
foreign prospectors who’d previously worked harmoniously alongside locals seeking
their fortune from mining the local diamonds. Castin – now with a head wound
sustained during the fighting -- is falsely accused of being one of the
ringleaders of the revolt. He and a recently arrived missionary friend called
Lizzardi (Michel Piccoli) try and hide out at Djin’s, but are forced to flee
with Castin’s deaf-mute daughter Maria (Michèle Girardon) when a reward of 5000
pesos is put on his head and the locals are told that random executions of Castin’s co-workers will take place if he doesn’t
give himself up. Castin, Lizzardi, Maria and Djin set off undercover of night
to flee downriver in Chenko’s boat, but it is hijacked by Shark, who is also
trying to escape to Brazil and has unfinished business with a number of his
fellow escaping renegades.
This dramatic, tense
situation is the lead-in to the jungle survival-adventure aspect of the
narrative which characterises the second half of the film, when the group is
forced to abandon the river and flee into the ‘green inferno’ after a military
patrol boat catches up with them. But it also serves as the context that
underscores a tense and dynamically evolving set of relationships that we see continue
to develop between the conflict-ridden characters as their struggles become
more desperate and subject to chance and hardship. By this stage most of the
principle characters have previously met, if sometimes only briefly, or they’ve
become interconnected in some way during the build-up to the protests and riots
percolating in response to the Government’s land-grab and the subsequent military
clamp-down: Shark has made love with and also been betrayed by the prostitute
Castin ludicrously expects one day to marry (and naively believes he can build
a conventional bourgeois family for his daughter with) … but Shark has also earlier been shown being extremely
mean to Maria in the local tavern frequented by the rebellious prospectors, and
he brutally assaulted Castin when the father tried to intervene on behalf of
his daughter. Djin has herself indicated that she might be willing to marry
Castin, but only because she has found out he is rich and, him being also elderly,
she surmises that he probably doesn’t have too much longer to live so wouldn’t
be a bind on her freedom for long. Maria’s attraction to Shark, despite his
appallingly rough treatment of her, becomes clear soon after he is taken into
custody, during a moment when she comforts him after he is led through the
congregation of a church service being held by Lizzardi, and is beaten to his knees
by his captors as the prayers commence. Such a tangled web of conflicting (and
conflicted) passions is bound to lead to dramatic tensions, but it also purposely
leaves the viewer with no clear-cut hero to root for, as all the characters
start out compromised by their very great flaws, which are displayed in their relationships with each-other: Shark is a violent misogynist;
Chenko an amoral opportunist; Djin is selfish and superficial, and Castin a
naive fantasist who is easily led. Only Maria comes across initially as an
innocent abroad -- but her personality and character will develop in another
direction as circumstances change during the coming battle to survive.
A normal trajectory at this
point, for a commercial action-adventure feature operating in such an area of
genre as this, would involve the gradual coming together of the conflict-prone
group as its members realise that they must do so in order to stand any chance
of surviving the brutal, unforgiving indignities of nature untamed. Instead, Buñuel’s
approach is rather different -- and it results in an infinitely more cynical philosophy
than the ‘progress’ narrative that’s usually spun in similar tales of survival,
which invariably involve mutual sacrifice re-formulated in terms that envisage
it as a sort of ‘penance’ that leads to a higher form of human morality being
attained that is founded on cooperation, with those who cannot adapt inevitably
falling by the wayside. In Death in the Garden, Buñuel seems
more interested in exploring the competing moral frameworks of each of his main
protagonists, and seeing how various aspects of them seen in operation during the
first part of the film, hinder or help the struggle to exist when conditions
unmoored by societal conventions are encountered. The interrogation of morality
in Buñuel films inevitably involves an examination of religion at some point --
particularly its Catholic variety; the missionary character of Father Lizzardi,
played by Michel Piccoli, becomes the vehicle by which the director approaches these
issues for this particular film. Piccoli, of course, was to become one of the
most frequent performers in Buñuel’s filmography, as well as a great friend to
the director; this was their first collaboration -- and it sees him appearing
youthful and white-suited (he bears something of a striking resemblance in this
film to Christopher Lee), and cutting an extremely ambiguous figure as a
recently arrives Catholic missionary who seems to vacillate between a sincere
intent to ‘do the right thing’ and serving his own (and his mission’s) best
interests. When the prospectors who face ruin rebel and plot to occupy in
protest the diamond fields which the Government is taking over, it is Father
Lizzardi who advises them against it, pointing out that rebellion “always
results in merciless oppression”. He counsels the angry men that “defying
authority will get you nowhere. Those who live by the sword, die by the sword!”
Lizzardi might like to persuade himself that he’s trying to save lives here:
army reinforcements are coming, and the rebellion will indeed be put down
harshly when it spontaneously irrupts in response to an act of state cruelty.
Yet Lizzardi seems acutely unaware that he is actively participating in the
exploitation of the locals at the hands of corrupt authoritarians and foreign
corporations by inculcating in them such a passive acceptance of the status
quo. When Shark mockingly raises this point with him, Lizzardi indignantly
insists that “we are not responsible for the overseers!” to which Shark replies
that nevertheless: “they seem to follow you wherever you go. They must really
like you guys!” Also, the missionaries specifically benefit from these kinds of
unofficial partnership: it doesn’t occur to Lizzardi to question why it is that
he, and all the other missionaries who come to bring the word of God to the
native population of the region, have been gifted expensive watches, paid for
by an oil refinery company active in the area.
Perhaps the film’s best
illustration of the culpability of the type of religion practiced by the likes
of Father Lizzardi comes soon after Shark is taken into custody by Captain
Ferrero’s forces as a result of Djin reporting him to them. Lizzardi is allowed
to hold mass in a building that also houses rooms and offices being used as
interrogation centres by Ferrero and his men; assisted by Castin, he is holding
one such service when Shark is marched through the congregation on his way to
the rooms at the back of the building, where he will be subjected to
interrogation on false charges of bank robbery. Not only are Lizzardi and
Castin so absorbed in the solemn rituals of their faith that they completely
fail to acknowledge the injustice that is being carried out in their very
midst, but they unwittingly become the cause of an act of savagery being
perpetrated upon Shark, after the soldiers escorting the prisoner hear the
prayer bell being rung and kick him to his knees in order to force him to ‘pay
his respects’. When the corrupt military authorities later try to pin the blame
for the prospectors’ rebellion on Lizzardi’s own friend Castin because he is a
foreigner, Lizzardi doesn’t hesitate to tell Castin that he should turn himself
in in order to end the bloodshed! In each instance and in every respect
Lizzardi’s moral advice, apparently delivered with only the best intentions,
aides and enforces fascist oppression.
The second half of the film
plays to very different rhythms, and feels more languidly paced, than the mixture
of character study with action and taut suspense that defines the first part.
It transforms into something that will feel that much more recognisable to
viewers familiar with Buñuel’s later works, such as Belle De Jour or That
Obscure Object of Desire. In that respect this can be seen as a
fascinating transitional work which begins to operate on the poetic, absurdist
levels of Buñuel’s most celebrated surrealist fables once the main characters
leave the cultural institutions of society behind. The military unit initially pursuing
the fugitives through the jungle decides to give up the chase on the assumption
that “the jungle will eat them alive. They will never get out,” and thereafter we
never see or hear from the army again, and that side of the plot disappears. The
film instead becomes a deep study of a small group of people who have nothing
but themselves and each-other to fall back on once they’re cast into this
primordial natural state which, through sound design and stylisation Buñuel is
able to imbue with strikingly hallucinogenic qualities. There is no musical score
whatsoever throughout any of this part of the picture – only a rising, constant
screeching crescendo of cicadas, against a backdrop of howling and crying from
distant unidentifiable animals that forever remain unseen. Hearing this
cacophony of noise, but not being able to see any signs of life amid the jungle
foliage other than the remaining survivors themselves, creates a sense of
unease which Buñuel continually finds ways to augment and amplify by other
methods; the disorientation the characters experience is exemplified in imagery
which feels like it originates in areas of the mind harnessed by dream
consciousness: Maria with her hair so elaborately tangled up in jungle vines
that she cannot move; a sudden smash-cut to the teeming traffic around the Arc de Triomphe, which turns out to be a
delirious Castin gazing at a photograph of the architectural landmark, and
represents him imagining being back home – a juxtaposition of images that
suggests the artificial nature of the societal structures which lend form to
our constructed sense of identity; and the incomprehensible gestalt shift which
occurs when the exhausted, starving fugitives stumble upon the smouldering
embers of a recently vacated camp fire and are shocked, scared and excited by
the possibility of there being other people in the area … only to finally realise
that they have been walking, half-delirious, in a circle all day and that this
is the same camp they made themselves earlier on. Perhaps the most vivid image
that we see of this hallucinogenic nature takes the film into a zone that at
one point makes it seem a plausible, if unlikely, partner to Ruggero Deodato’s Cannibal Holocaust: Lizzardi hacking
at a live snake with a machete … Desperate for food, the group struggle to
light a fire -- with Lizzardi even contemplating using pages from his Bible to
kindle the flames -- but by the time they manage to get one going the
half-gutted creature (which still seems – horribly -- to be somehow moving
about) has been completely swarmed by an army of angry red ants!
The idea this section of the film posits is not that these characters are changed by the experience of having to survive without food in this relentlessly hostile, heat-suffused environment of swamps and impassable jungle undergrowth, but that their pre-existing dispositions have simply
been re-contextualised in ways that alter our moral
assessment of them. Shark’s rebelliousness, his bullishness and tendency
towards violence make him a natural leader, while Lizzardi’s willingness to submit
to authority allows him to work very well alongside Shark when others have
reached the stage of giving up on life. Castin, meanwhile -- now delirious from
a head wound sustained during the rebellion -- relies more and more on the
religious sensibility (cultivated, ironically enough of course, during his
friendship with Lizzardi) to make sense of the apparently hopeless position he
and his daughter now find themselves in. But this results in him resorting to
superstitious ideas about how God has condemned them and plans to judge them. Djin,
the seemingly strong, money-minded brothel madam, rejects the useless Castin
and becomes wholly dependent on Shark for survival.
The big Buñuelian ‘twist’
comes right at the end – when Shark discovers a crashed airliner full of luxury
food, clothing and consumer items in the middle of the jungle (cue Castin
predictably intoning how “God has saved us through a miracle” and Shark
reminding them all that “fifty people had to die in order to save us!”). The
fugitives, in a reversal of the situation encountered in The Exterminating Angel (where
the rich dinner party guests inhabiting an expensive villa become like island
survivors who cannot leave their isolated environment), start dressing in
expensive designer clothes they’ve recovered from the crash wreckage, and
pretty much set up a mini bourgeois enclave in the middle of a South American
jungle clearing! This is a deliberate deus
ex machina solution, cynically deployed by Buñuel with the intention of
showing how, ultimately, these people cannot overcome the flaws in their own
natures, and that it is such flaws which will ultimately condemn them, as their
effects become amplified by the empty values of a privileged consumer lifestyle
transferred to an uncivilised region and fabricated from the
accumulated detritus of a fatal catastrophe.
Maria, previously the
innocent of the fleeing party, is introduced to a world she had no prior experience
of, and becomes enamoured with the glittering contents of a jewellery box …
which brings her into conflict with Lizzardi, who believes these possessions should
remain untouched out of respect for their former owners. Djin, clad
incongruously, amid the wild vegetation of the jungle, in a luxuriant ball
gown, quickly comes to exemplify the passive values instilled by bourgeois
femininity: where once she laughed at the thought of being ‘kept’ by Castin,
after learning of his plan to take her to France in order to one day marry her,
she ends up softly intoning to the group’s ‘saviour’ Shark, how she has come to
realise that “a woman is nothing without a man!” A man such as Castin, on the
other hand, previously kindly and gentle but now in the thrall of a religious mania and superstitions that are
informed by Old Testament ideas of divine punishment and retribution, is the
most dangerous kind of man of all: not all of the group will make it to the end
of the film thanks to him. The final irony is that the two people, Shark and
Maria, who do get the chance to flee by raft across the border to Brazil in the
movie’s final moments, were the first two members of the party to come into
conflict: where once Maria’s father, Castin, tried but failed to defend her
from the advances of the brutalist adventurer, now it is that rough-minded
drifter on whom she must depend, and who becomes a father figure of sorts as
they face an uncertain future together.
This release from Eureka
Entertainment constitutes the film’s first time on Blu-ray, and the vivid
digital transfer serves the wonderful brightness of the colour film palette very
well. The disc has over ninety minutes of interview material as its extra
features, which see critic Tony Rayns delivering an excellent overview of the
film’s themes and its connections to Buñuel’s filmography; film scholar Victor
Fuentes examining in detail the director’s Mexican period; and actor Michel
Piccoli talking about his lengthy career, and his relationship with Buñuel. Plus there is a 24-page booklet featuring an essay by Philip Kemp. Death
in the Garden is a solid addition to Buñuel’s cinema to be made available on home
viewing formats. Hopefully, the fruitful Mexican period will get more exposure
on Blu-ray soon.
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