Cited the "best director in the world" by Alfred Hitchcock, the oft-critically studied Luis Buñuel is as difficult to classify as his national identity. Although born in Spain, his works are equally identified with France and Mexico. Most recognizable are the films from his re-emergence onto the world cinematic stage in the mid 1960's, including the provocative Belle de jour, Buñuel's first foray into technicolor and an excellent unpretentious introduction to his work.

Séverine Serizy (Catherine Deneuve) lives the perfect life of the Parisian upper class—married to a dedicated doctor named Pierre (Jean Sorel) who treats her with utmost propriety and respect. When the virginal Séverine rejects his mild advances, he demurely slips over to his own twin bed without complaint. She begs forgiveness (a common refrain throughout), yet we know she secretly desires that he'd animalistically take her by force. Buñuel allows glimpses into her surreal dreams of bondage, whipping, mudslinging, and other punishments--dreams that pop up without cinematic warnings by fuzzy imagery or other standard techniques.

Her gentle husband attempts to do "the right thing," but it has no effect on melting her sexual frigidity. A later symbolic scene shows them on one of their frequent holidays at a beach--its utter barrenness reflecting their mundane lives.

When Pierre's womanizing older friend Henri Husson (Michael Piccoli) blatantly makes a pass at her, stating "What interests me about you is your virtue," Séverine rejects his attention. She has no inner need to act virtuously—childhood flashbacks emphasizing sexual guilt confirm her inner burden. She is far more interested in his revelation about an acquaintance's double life as a hooker and the address of his favorite brothel near the Opera.

A quick cut shows darkly clad Séverine approaching the clandestine brothel of Madame Anais (Genevieve Page). Contrasting with Bergman's fixation on close-ups on facial expressions, Buñuel characteristically brings the camera down to Séverine's feet to show her fear, trepidation, and hesitation. The whorehouse furnishings are much more bourgeoisie than her elegant home, and Madame Anais does all she can to get her to relax. She is a businesswoman and recognizes that Séverine offers much to wealthier clientele. (Imagine how word that Catherine Deneuve was a professional working woman would spread!)

Knowing what lurks in Séverine's psyche, inevitably she will encounter clients who will test her sexual desires and hang-ups. Her husband is "too nice," but she'll meet a gynecologist into sado-masochism and a wealthy businessman who vulgarly cavorts with three girls at once, before getting involved in a dangerous liaison with a convicted criminal. Whether this seals her demise or acts therapeutically will remain ambiguous, but Buñuel obviously enjoys showing the conflicts with Séverine.

Although the camera plays a major role, the film works primarily through Deneuve's acting. She is on screen nearly the entire time, and Buñuel doesn't always focus on her evocative feet. Her subtle facial expressions that mix curiosity, desire, and repulsion can speak to everyone. Without showing more than hints of nudity, this 1967 film is far sexier than the myriad of current films that show everything--primarily due to the fact that Buñuel and Deneuve combine to show her inner erotic thoughts. And now everyone can watch Belle de jour to see if the frigid ice queen will find happiness since Miramax has obtained the once unavailable film for video and DVD release.

Luis Buñuel stands as one of the great directors of the twentieth century and deserves a wider audience than the handful of film students who religiously study his work. Belle de jour is a worthy example of his artistry--from the tightness of its hundred-minute construction to his symbolic use of set design to his economic camera technique to the flawless acting. But beyond the artistry, this film stands as the most accessible of Buñuel's work.