'The succession of images, the passage of ideas are a fundamental condition of any Surrealist manifestation.'
- Max Morise in Les yeux enchantes.
At first glance it may seem that Max Morise's statement could be applied to any film, since, technically, all productions of the cinematic medium are based upon the succession of images. The presence of static frames, animated by rapid succession, is cinema's fundamental condition. When considering his specification about the passage of ideas, however, it becomes clear that his statement refers, not to the literal succession of images, but to the logic inferred by it to a greater or lesser extent. With this understanding in mind a profound disparity does indeed become apparent between Un chien andalou and the so-called "classical narrative cinema". This disparity exists between cinema based, on the one hand upon unrelated or tenuously linked images and illogical ideas; on the other, upon an intelligible narrative (generally understood as being the gradual revelation of a single idea or coherent series of ideas). The overwhelming tendency has been to see Un chien andalou as being aligned with the former mode of filmmaking. The aim of this essay is to assess the extent to which this assumption is valid. Implicit in Morise's statement is the belief that cinema is the ideal Surrealist medium. This also warrants discussion as it allows the film to be located within the whole arena of Surrealist activity and theory.
To challenge the idea of Un chien andalou as the juxtaposition of images it is necessary to highlight those aspects of the film pointing to narrative continuity. These appear in surprising quantity and seem to indicate the presence of a coherent, underlying narrative, which the more obvious juxtaposition disguises but does not eradicate. Essential to this is the fact that we seek to understand the film by reference to our knowledge of genre conventions (which depends on our having viewed previous films). Thus can we make our way through the succession of disorientating images and events. For example, despite the strangeness of their actions, characters are for the most part motivated by recognizable human concerns. Clearly, the cyclist is consumed by sexual desire and his behavior, though bizarre, is founded upon attempts at seduction. Similarly, the woman refuses his advances and her actions convey her disdain.
It is through our familiarity with the narratives of cinematic love-stories that we interpret the characters as suitor, love-interest, and, in the case of the man waiting on the beach, the woman's preferred lover. Arguably, the filmmakers have let this thread of continuity run through their work so that the images, though shocking, nevertheless exhibit some form of logical progression. It is like a map provided to help us find our way in a bewildering landscape. Furthermore, out dependence on genre conventions as the only means of understanding the film makes us more aware of them, which in turn makes us conscious of the psychic processes involved in cinema viewing. Such an investigation of the cinematic medium had been central to Surrealist practice since the movement's inception.
Searching for an underlying narrative encourages us to interpret all aspects of the film towards this end. This has been attempted by Raymond Durgnat, who is therefore a notable exponent of the idea that Un chien andalou is a narrative flow, rather than a series of disjointed images and ideas. With characteristic vehemence he reduces every event in the film to a single, definite meaning, which thus cohere into an indisputable narrative. For example, the two pianos laden with dead mules and attached to a pair of priests represents the "dead weight of [the cyclist"s] education'1: this and nothing else. Of the infamous prologue he writes: "The razor and the eye are fairly evident symbols for the male and female organ, and the cutting for sexuality viewed as a destructive activity."2 Tempting as this reading is, his argument is not entirely convincing, chiefly because it seems to work too well. His conviction that each event has an immutable meaning ignores the possibility of variant meanings, and thus limits the film's potential to affect its audience. For example, the prologue could also be seen as symbolizing rape, castration, and an attack on vision, either to "shock the bourgeoisie" or to announce the prevalence of dream-logic over verisimilitude in the ensuing film. None of these meanings are exclusive and I would argue that each is equally valid, whether or not it was intended by Buñuel and Dalí. This is reinforced by the fact that the Surrealists sought to create "multi-layered realities"3 in their works. The critical articles they wrote on cinema often took the form of "parallel readings of individual films, clearly reflecting [their] belief in the essentially creative role of the spectator in negotiating the film"s meanings.'4
