No surprise that the bourgeoisie and religion both take hits in Luis Buñuel's The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie (Le Charme discret de la bourgeoisie). You can bet on that occurring in his films as surely as you can expect surreal dream sequences and photographs of feet. Nowhere as bizarre as his eyeball-slicing first film, this was his most successful commercial venture, released in 1972 when it was fashionable to poke fun of the upper and middle classes. Nearing the end of his fifty-year career, this film retains elements of surrealism while remaining one of the more accessible and playful of his films.

From the opening moments, the characters' dress and demeanor communicate their shallow haughtiness. A chauffeur drops off a group of well-dressed guests at the Senechal home, led by Ambassador Don Rafael (veteran Spanish actor Fernando Rey), who confidently parades much like a bantam peacock with his plaid suits and paisley robes. This is the first of many misadventures that prevent Rafael, the perpetually bored and drunk Florence (Bulle Ogier), the Thevenots (Paul Frankeur and Delphine Seyrig), and the Senechals (Jean-Pierre Cassel and Stephane Audran) from sitting down to enjoy a ritualistic dinner together. Either miscommunication, a dead restaurant owner, an inopportune sexual tryst, or a guerilla raid prevents them from dining throughout. Like a repetitive David Letterman line, that joke provides much of the film's charm.

The friends can't even dream of an uninterrupted dinner. Just when it appears they may succeed, a curtain goes up and they discover that they're on stage performing in front of an extremely critical bourgeoisie audience. Of course, that darkly comic scene turns out to be a dream sequence woven so closely with the plot (without typical photographic signals) that the only way to tell that it's a dream is by surreal inference, much like the mixing of dreams and reality in Belle de Jour.

Cleverly combining digs at both social standing and religion, Buñuel has the bishop (Julien Bertheau) appear in gardener's clothes and be turned down sternly by Mr. Senechal, only to immediately re-appear in clerical garb and be embraced. The bishop has always wanted to be a gardener and begs to work as one for the Senechals, to the point that Mrs. Senechal forgets his clerical status when a poor woman seeks a priest to administer the last rites, leading to a scene that is darkly hysterical.

The facades and hypocrisy of the bourgeoisie show in various places. Only the working class servants and chauffeur provide real service, as the polite and well-dressed bourgeoisie engage in unproductive activities, indicating that they only rise in social status through inherited means. Although they look good on the outside, secretly they may engage in crooked drug deals or illicitly lust after women. (As Buñuel once stated, "Sex without sin is like eggs without salt.")

Even lawful sexual encounters get the Buñuel treatment. One dinner party is cancelled because the hosts crave carnal sex; the wife screams too loudly, requiring that they sneak outside to the bushes. Buñuel adds a humorous touch, leaving telltale grasses in their hair when they return to their home.

Although Fernando Rey does stand out for his more flamboyant character, The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie relies on its ensemble cast, clearly hitting their spots and showing great underplayed comic timing. Like Hitchcock, Buñuel is known for having little respect for most actors and their "easy" life; he doesn't compare them to cattle, however--more like cockroaches.

Does that mean that Buñuel hates these characters? Hardly. Despite the cynicism, you can almost sense the legendary Spanish director chuckling at their folly. The Felliniesque parade of the six principles along the abandoned road that occurs intermittently also signals his playful attitude. Some may be disturbed by a lack of resolution; however, the film's ambiguity suits the director just fine. As he says in his biography:

I've spent my whole life comfortably among many contradictions, without trying to resolve them. They're part of me, of my natural and acquired ambiguity.