A creative exploration of the boundaries of cinema

An unexplainable, avant-garde experimental surrealistic curio, Un Chien Andalou was born from a collaboration of filmmaker Luis Buñuel and surreal Spanish artist Salvador Dalí. To this day, the jarring narrative form of Un Chien Andalou makes this picture as much a staple in film studies classes as Citizen Kane, and it has proved very influential to filmmakers over the years (David Lynch, anyone?). It's also a supremely weird creation, as this is an exercise in piling woozy visuals atop one another in a 16-minute cinematic collage disobeying logic and reason. Perhaps it's not the masterpiece some have claimed it to be, but Un Chien Andalou is at once elusive and compelling; a creative exploration of the boundaries of the cinematic medium.

Un Chien Andalou (which translates to An Andalusian Dog) commences with the title card "Once upon a time...". A man is subsequently seen smoking a cigarette while whetting his straight razor. On his balcony, he sees a thin cloud approaching the moon, and proceeds to slice open a woman's pupil with his razor. Why does this happen? Beats me. Virtually every scene in the film defies explanation. To this day, the image of the sliced eye is what people remember most about Un Chien Andalou. It's such a visceral image despite the film's ancient origins, and it can still shock a 21st Century audience. On the topic of the film, Luis Buñuel's son has reportedly noted that it was his father's intention to repulse, shock, and compel viewers to reconsider their viewing habits.

The sliced eye gives way to another title - "Eight years later" - and what seems to be the start of the narrative proper. However, this allusion is swiftly shattered. Un Chien Andalou at no point surrenders to a conventional narrative structure - nor, for that matter, does it provide evidence of a coherent narrative. The film nonsensically rejects cause and effect, as well as the concept of linear time. The titles reflect this, as the film bounces around from "Sixteen years earlier" to "Around 3 in the morning." All of the aggressively disconnected images and sequences are entirely open for interpretation. Boring scholars could probably probe the film for some type of deeper meaning, but this spoils the fun. If you let yourself roll with the punches, you will find Un Chien Andalou to be the most surreal dream sequence ever - perhaps the most admirable filmic representation of what dreams are truly like. And this is precisely what Dalí and Buñuel were shooting for. After all, Un Chien Andalou was born out of a collection of dreams which were recalled by Dalí and Buñuel. This is perhaps the only thing about the film which makes sense.

It is indeed difficult to review a film like Un Chien Andalou for the typical mainstream film-goer. Suffice it to say, this is a motion picture you can admire and analyse, but not exactly enjoy - it's a historical curiosity, not an entertaining time at the flicks. For all its influential surrealism and visual bravado, it never engages on an emotional level. Mind-fuck films are almost always like this; exchanging warmth and emotion for bewilderment. Un Chien Andalou is an often hypnotic, shocking display of surrealism, yet it's still cold. It's doubtful you will want to watch it more than once. It's precisely what Dalí and Buñuel aspired to make, granted, but it won't work for everyone due to its unique demeanour.

7.9/10