Synopsis of a dog named Andalu

A close shot of two hands sharpening a razor. On his left wrist is a men's watch.

A close-up of a man's head, looking down, holding a cigarette in his mouth (this is Bu?uel himself). He winks slightly and we can see that this is the man sharpening the razor. In the background, there is a diffuse light coming from a window very close to him. It is necessary to mention the shirt he is wearing: it is a collarless open shirt with vertical stripes.

The balcony in the dark. In front of the balcony, a man is sharpening a razor.

Once again, there is a scene of sharpening a razor with both hands. Behind him are the frame and latch of the wooden door. The man tried the razor on his thumbnail. The camera once again zoomed in on the man's face, with the cigarette he was smoking still held in his mouth. The camera pulls back to a shot of the man above his knees. He stood in front of the door, opened it and walked out. The camera pans to follow him to the balcony, where he leans on the balcony and stares at the sky.

The man stared at the sky through the glass window and saw...a floating cloud drifting towards a full moon.

Change from a shot of the man's elbows on the balcony to a shot of the dark sky. However, on the left side of the screen is a bright moon, and a long and narrow cloud floats towards the moon. Once again, there is a close-up shot of the man, who is looking at the sky thoughtfully and continuing to smoke.

A close-up shot of a girl's face. The man used the thumb and forefinger of one hand to spread the girl's left eyelid. The other hand holds the razor close to the eyeball. The man wears a vertically striped shirt and, in addition, now wears a horizontally striped tie.

Then came the girl's head, her eyes wide open. Razor to the eye. Floating clouds passed in front of the moon at this time. The sharp razor was placed across the girl's eyes and cut into them.

Sky shot. The floating clouds drifted in front of the moon, seeming to cut the moon in half.

A close shot of a razor cutting across an eye.

Turn dark. Then, subtitles appeared on the screen: "Eight Years Later."

Panorama. A deserted street. There are many tall buildings on both sides. The sun shines brightly.

A deserted street. It's raining.

A cyclist enters the frame, walking down the street. His back gradually faded away.

A man wearing dark clothing and riding a bicycle enters the scene.

The camera is pushed forward slightly. The streets were now deserted again. The camera pulls back to capture a close-up view of the cyclist. As written in the original play, he wore a white cloak over dark clothes, covering his shoulders, waist, and head.

His head, shoulders and waist were wrapped in a white cloak.

The camera no longer pulls back and enters the street, which is empty again. The camera moves forward again to dissolve the cyclist. Cut to a street with few pedestrians, and three pedestrians can be seen in the distance. The shot of the cyclist is overlaid with the cyclist’s back walking away along the street. On the double shot, the biker's cape appears slightly larger than on the original shot due to the special lighting.

Cut to a mid-frontal shot of the cyclist. He advances towards us...until there is a close-up of a box with a black and white diagonal strip on the lid, the box is tied around his neck and hung on his chest, and a rectangular box with black and white stripes tied on a leather belt hangs on his chest . He pedaled the bicycle mechanically, letting go of the handlebars with both hands and placing them on his knees.

Medium and close shot: The back of the cyclist is shot down to his knees. Superimposed vertically on the street, he walks down the street with his back to the camera. He rode towards us until the striped box reached a close-up.

Indoor panorama of a room. A girl was sitting at the table in the middle of the room reading a book. The camera panned slightly, showing a frontal mid-shot of the girl, and then a close-up shot. She suddenly looked up, startled.

Momentary shots of exterior scenes. An overhead shot of cyclists crossing the street.

Change to the shot of the girl, who is agitated and listening in fear. She suddenly closes the book forcefully and throws it on the table. Close-up of the book: The book was opened after being thrown on the table. It can be seen from one page that it is a copy of Vermeer's "Lady with Lace".

The camera cuts to a medium-close shot of the girl. She stood up and the camera followed her to the window. She opened the curtains and looked toward the street. It can be found that the pattern on her clothes is exactly the same as that of the girl whose eyes were cut off - they are the same person.

In a room on the third floor of a building on this street. In the middle sat a girl in bright clothes, reading a book intently. Suddenly alarmed, she listened attentively, dropped the book, and threw it onto the couch nearby. There is an illustration on the open page of the book, which is Vermeer's "Woman with Lace". Now the girl was sure what had happened: she stood up, half turned around, and hurried to the window.

An overhead shot of the street. A cyclist passes in front of a gas lamp.

The camera changes to a medium and close shot of the girl. She opened the curtains and looked carefully. She was startled and stepped back.

An overhead shot of a cyclist. He stopped, and he and the car fell to the ground beside the sidewalk.

On the street downstairs, the aforementioned man had just stopped. Due to inertia, he fell into the ditch together with the car and was covered in mud.

A momentary close-up of the girl, she is slightly away from the window. She looked disturbed and angry--she approached the window again.

Short shot from above.

The cyclist was lying on his fallen bicycle.

Close-up of the girl. She seemed to be talking to herself, very angry at what she was seeing.

A brief close-up shot of the cyclist.

Medium and close shot of the girl. She walked around the iron bed in the bedroom (panned, followed), trying to open the door.

Quick close-up. Outdoors, the disturbed face of a fallen cyclist.

Scene of the girl going down the stairs.

With an expression of anger and resentment, the girl hurried downstairs and walked to the street.

Bu?uel talks about a dog named Andalou Translator: Talich UN CHIEN ANDALOU and the Surrealist Attempt Tomas Perez Turrent: How did the project Un chien andalou first come about? LUIS Bunuel: I became very interested in movies in 1927 or 1928. I organized a night of French avant-garde films in Madrid, and the films shown included Cavalcanti’s Rien que les heures, Rene Clair’s Entr’acte, and I can’t remember the others. The event was a great success. Otega y Gasset called me the next day and said, "If I were still young, I would devote myself to cinema." Juan Ramon Jimenez (Spanish poet, winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1956) was also dazzled (ebloui) . This was a huge inspiration because, although we were already familiar with American cinema, avant-garde cinema was still unknown in Spain. Later, when Salvador Dali and I were spending the Christmas holidays in Figueres, I proposed to make a film with him. Dali said to me, "Last night I dreamed that ants were crawling all over my hands." So I said, "Well, I dreamed that I cut open a person's eye." We wrote it in six days script. We know each other very well and there are no arguments. The way we work is to select the images that first enter our consciousness and systematically discard anything that comes from our culture or education. They have to be images that surprise both of us and that both of us can accept without ambivalence. For example: A woman grabs a racket to defend herself against a man who is trying to attack her. Then he looked around for something (now I said to Dali): "What did he see?" "A flying frog." "Not good!" "A bottle of brandy." "Not good!" Okay, I saw two ropes." "Okay, but what's behind the ropes?" "The guy pulled them and they fell because there was something heavy attached to them." "Okay, I like it. He fell." "Two big gourds followed." "Two marist brothers." "And a cannon. . ” “No, a grand piano. ” “Very nice, and above it a mule... ” “Wonderful!” The need to evoke images of irrationality for which no explanation can be given. Turrent: Still, critics try to find a logical explanation for it. Bunuel: A cavalry captain in Zaragoza, a German professor, and many others all got the same explanation. "The man approaches the woman: sexual impulse; the rope is moral restraint; two cork mats: life's frivolity; two gourds: testicles; priest: religion; piano: the melody of love; and There Are Donkeys: Death” These images should not be interpreted, they should be accepted for what they are. Do they disgust me? Do they impress me? Do they attract me? That's enough. Jese De La Colina: There seems to be a specific analogy or metaphor. For example, a cloud passing over the moon corresponds to a blade slicing through an eye. Naturally, people will tend to interpret it symbolically: this is a prologue, which asks the audience to close their eyes, which can only see the appearance and superficial poetry, and try to see a deeper image (profound vision), a transcendent vision. Realistic images. Bunuel: I don’t deny that movies can be interpreted as you just said. "Let's close our eyes to the obvious reality and look at the inner spirit." But I shot this image because it came from a dream of mine, and I knew it would disgust people. Turrent: What the hell is that? A bull's eye? Bunuel: of a calf. The hair was removed and makeup was put on. Turrent: Did Dali participate in the filming? Bunuel: No, I took it myself. Dali later said that every day during the filming, I asked him for advice on how to do it. What a charmer! Dali told me to send him a telegram when I was almost done shooting. Two days before closing, I sent him a telegram, and he came to the set to watch the final scenes being shot. The penultimate scene is the one with the piano and the donkey.

Colina: In the book The Secret Life of Salvador Dali, he said he had a donkey for that scene. Bunuel: Yes, he did it. Before filming, I killed two donkeys and stuffed them with grass. Dali added some fish to speed up the rotting process. Turrent: How was the film financed? Bunuel: My mother gave me 25,000 pesetas (five thousand duro). She gave my sisters 10,000 duros each as dowry, but I only had 5,000 duros to make a movie. In Paris I spent half my money in dance clubs and on dinners with friends. When I had only 12,500 pesetas left, which was still a lot of money at that time (because the exchange rate of the franc was extremely low: a bottle of champagne cost only one pesetas), I decided to make a film because I was a Responsible person, I don't want to lie to my mother. I rented the Billancourt set; I paid the actors very little (but I did). For the first and only time in my life, I was the producer of my own film. Colina: Were there any union issues when you were making the film? Bunuel: Not that I know of. Also, there can't be any union issues because I'm a "capitalist producer." Turrent: What was the first scene you shot? Bunuel: It should be an easy scene to shoot. I was afraid to start shooting, so I said to myself, "Start with the easiest one." I believe it was the scene on the balcony, where I appear with a razor. Turrent: How did you put the crew together? For example, how do you know Pierre Batcheff? Bunuel: I met Josephine Baker when she was working as an assistant to Henri Etievent and Mario Nalpas on the movie Siren of the Tropics. He's not just a handsome protagonist, he's also full of culture and intellectual inclinations. One day Josephine Baker was originally notified to come at 9 o'clock in the morning, but she arrived at the set at 5 o'clock in the afternoon. She was furious because her puppy was sick and ended up breaking a mirror in her dressing room. This kind of thing makes Batcheff angry. I commented, "This is the movie." He responded, "Maybe it's your movie, but it's not mine." I said he was right, and we became friends. So I asked him to film Un chien andalou. I need to find other actors. Fano Mesan, the girl who plays opposite the severed hand in the movie, would sometimes have coffee with us in Montparnasse. She always wore boy's clothes, until one day she came in women's clothes. The heroine is Simone Mareuil, who chose a Buddhist monk-style suicide twenty or thirty years later. She poured two cans of gasoline on herself, struck a match, and ran through the woods in flames. Batcheff also committed suicide. Colina: How do you direct actors? Bunuel: I don’t let them read the script. I just tell them, "Look out the window now; there's a military parade over there," or, "Over there, two drunk guys are fighting." In fact, that scene was the scene with the severed hand. Neither the camera operator nor the rest of the crew knew what the storyline was. Colina: Nonetheless, the end result was very faithful to the script. Where did you improvise? Bunuel: No, I didn't say I improvised. I cut things here and there, and I do the same in L’Age d’or, but I don’t improvise. I know more or less what I'm going to do. For me, the script is always the foundation. A situation is one detail that can change everything. I cut a scene because I'm economical and I have a gut feeling about what's necessary and what's unnecessary. I used the script as a basis because the movie is just what you see on the screen. A bad script can make a good movie, depending on who makes it. On the other hand, sometimes a very good script can make a very bad movie. Turrent: Carlos Velo told us a story about ants crawling on Batcheff's hand. Bunuel: I once went to the Guadarrama plateau, where there were very fat red-headed ants, which were very effective when taking close-ups. I asked a friend named Maynar to bring me some ants. He brought the ants to Velo, who put the ants in a rotten tree trunk, stuffed them into a jar, and brought them to me in Paris. Turrent: Velo says these ants can also be found in French swamps. Bunuel: You can definitely find it in Provence. But I don’t know a single entomologist in France. Colina: Who are those priests strapped to the piano? Bunuel: Miratvilles and my stage manager. In another shot, it's the Miratvilles and Dali.

That scene was the only scene the censor asked me to cut: “Couper les deux cures que l’on traine (cut out the two priests being dragged away).” Turrent: The film still gives me chills. Bunuel: The day after the film premiered, the boss of Cinema des Ursulines told me, "We're sorry. The film came out yesterday to a really good response, but we can't pick it up because it won't pass the censorship." Then Studio 28 of people asked me for it. They gave me 1,000 francs for it, and I let it go for eight months. Fainting and miscarriage occurred, and more than 30 protesters lived at the police headquarters. Times have changed today. The Surrealists never attended the premiere. Neither did Dali. He went to Cadaques to paint. My first contact with the Surrealists was when I met Louis Aragon and Man Ray at the La Coupole restaurant. I finished the film and found out that Man Ray was going to show Le mystere du chateau de de (The Mystery of the Chateau of the Dice, 1929, directed by Man Ray). That film was financed by Vicomte de Noailles. Fernand Leger introduced me to Man Ray. I said to him, "I know you're going to be showing a movie. I also have a 20-minute movie that I want you to see." He introduced me to Aragon, who was in the bar at the time. They both saw my movie the next day and said they liked it very much. The film premiered that night, and people from le tout Prais also attended. Just in case, I carried - I have told this story many times - the stone in my pocket. I operated the record player while the film was playing. I randomly put in an Argentinian tango here, a Tristan and Isolde there. Then I wanted to do a surrealist demonstration by throwing stones at the audience. The applause disarmed me. There was a lot of talk about the film the next day. I went to Cyrano, where I was introduced to Andre Breton and other members of the Surrealist group. Colina: Is it true that the Surrealists put you on trial because of the huge success of Un chien andalou? Bunuel: That's not what the trial was about, although quite a few surrealists did say that if a film against the public was so successful, it must be a little fishy. The trial was for another matter, the publication of a script in a magazine. Current: At the Revue de Cinema. But what does this have to do with the Surrealists? Bunuel: The magazine asked me for the script and I gave it to them. Soon after, I joined a Surrealist group. There is a magazine called Variete in Brussels that is going to publish a special issue on the Surrealists, edited by the Surrealists themselves. Paul Eluard asked me for the script of Un chien andalou, and I told him, "I'm sorry, but I gave it to the Revue de Cinema." They asked me to take it back. "No way, I have already agreed." They told me, "What one person says does not count." I think this is unfair. "Fairness does not exist," Breton said, "Ii faut choisir: avec Ia Police ou avec nous (You have to choose: go with the police or go with us)." Colina: The Surrealists were the most uncompromising at that time ( intransigent) days. Do you accept it? Bunuel: Totally. I gave all my energy and hope to Surrealism. That trial was a very serious matter to me. You both should understand: both the Catholic Church and the Soviet Union were uncompromising, and they are still there. Aragon is the Prosecutor, and he handles the matter like a madman, saying, "Et bien, mon cher ami, je trouve tout ça detestable. Nos camarades... (Then, my dear friend, I think It's all annoying. Our comrades...)" Finally they suggested that I go to the printing house where the magazine was printed and destroy the plates used for printing. "But I don't know where the plates are," I said. "I might destroy them. Wrong stuff. I don't know." They insisted, and I obeyed. I bought a hammer and hid it under my raincoat like a revolver. Eluard and I went to meet Gallimard because the printing press was in the magazine's office. "I'm here to protest the publication of Un chien andalou," I told him.

Gallimard looked confused: "But you agreed to give it to us..." "Yes, that is actually the case, but I reconsidered and decided that I want to take it back." "But it has been printed, and I don't think so. Nothing can be done." We said goodbye to him, and I wrote to 20 Paris newspapers to protest, "I am a victim of Mr. Gallimard's evil deeds..." and so on. Then the script appeared in the next issue of La revolution Surrealiste, with a footnote, "This is the only authorized version of my script." Colina: Breton is a very strict person. When Dali and you joined the group, the purge had already begun. Bunuel: Yes, there are already a lot of people. Already about 10 people have stood outside the movement: Robert Desnos, Pierre Naville, Jacques Prevert, Georges Ribemont-Dessaignes. The latter published an article against Breton's cadavre exquis (Note: exquisite corpse. This is a creative form developed by the Surrealists. It comes from an old game. Several people each write a phrase on a piece of paper. Then fold the covered part and pass it on to the next person. The name of this creative method comes from the result of one creation: "Le cadavre exquis boira le vin nouveau/The exquisite corpse will drink the young wine". Limited to text, it can also be paintings. See /ron-mike/history.html). Alejo Capentier also signed, and he was still unknown at the time. That cadavre exquis says "Breton est une ordure (Breton is rubbish)." and other curse words. I had been a member of the group for a year at that point. Colina: Besides you, the remaining members are Dali, Aragon, Rene Char, Eluard, Max Ernst, Peret, Francis Ponge, George Sadoul, Tristan Tzara, Rene Crevel, and others. You signed the Second Surrealist Manisfesto and launched a new magazine called Le Surrealisme au service de la revolution. You all appear in a photo montage, with your portraits surrounding a picture of a naked woman holding... Bunuel: Yes, all of us with our eyes closed, the woman in the middle, and a caption that reads: "Je ne vois pas la femme cachee dans Ia foret (I cannot see the woman hiding in the woods).

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