Buñuel's Viridiana: Idealism and Resignation

After watching Luis Buñuel's Viridiana last night, I decided against trying to sort out my thoughts and impressions. And, I only realize that this inaction was indeed a choice now as I attempt to do just that. Why wouldn't I write my thoughts? What could be keeping me from assessing a film that, in fact, I could not remove from my thoughts?

It was fear. I am afraid of what I might actually uncover about myself and all of my idealism that I constantly try to dust up on its lonely shelf. As I sit in this apartment, hearing the noises of my unruly neighbors slamming doors, trying to ignore the soaked and slobbery pitches of voices in the hallway, strategically managing the dog's walks so as to avoid the typical late night crews that loiter around the door, who am I kidding? Who am I in this building, this contribution to utopianism by a capitalist society? Tossing around the heroic phrase, "affordable housing," seemed so just and sincere when I was in undergraduate architecture school. Even as I dedicated much of my graduate studies and research to housing, from Constructivist communes to nineteenth-century French immigrants in mid-western America, I maintained a determined hopefulness in the idea: providing reasonable means to a livable community. Then, the opportunity to actually inhabit a place, built on such morals and idealism, came about when we moved to San Francisco. Without doubt, I was ecstatic at the thought of living first-hand, knowing the realities of community that I hoped it might offer.

And what are these realities that it offers? I trust no one in this building except the two guys that are on staff during the day (and of course E when he is here). I cringe when I see someone trying to figure out the call system outside the vestibule as I approach. Will they try to sneak in behind me? Will I have the nerve to look this person in the eyes this time and say, "No. You have to be buzzed in"? My blood boils when Curtis down the hall begins his late-night, fuzzy yelling for his keys. While all of these emotions and frustrations surfaced most recently with a 5 am building alarm (set off by a man who decided to pop a sprinkler with a baseball bat just to annoy his next door neighbor) seeing Viridiana forced me to confront them.

Most of the buzz about this film centers on the Spanish government's ban on the movie (released in 1961) until 1977. It is noted as blasphemous, anarchical, grim, and hopeless. I would not contest any of these responses to the film. In fact, those are many of the reasons I wanted to see it in the first place. I was not, however, prepared for the blow held in the second act of the film.

The narrative begins in a convent, where novice, Viridiana, is ordered by her Mother Superior to visit her benefactor, her uncle, before she takes her vows. Struck by Viridiana's resemblance to his late wife, Viridiana's uncle first convinces her to don her aunt's wedding attire (last worn the night of their wedding and her untimely death, except for her widower's occasional fetishistic explorations). Then, following with his scheme, he drugs her, planning to rape her in her sleep, all in hopes of keeping her there at his estate rather than taking her vows. While he does not follow through with the rape, he lies to her the next day, only to retract the lie even as she fearfully and anxiously tries to escape. Before V has a chance to leave the town, her uncle hangs himself. End act I.

With what I can only suppose is guilt, perhaps shame, or maybe even some small bit of resignation, V does not return to the convent. Instead, she invites several people, living without homes in the nearby town, to come to the estate. She offers food, clothing, medicine and shelter for everyone, and I found quite interesting her establishment of rules and conduct for this forming commune. From the moment they arrive, this group bickers with one another over quarrels already formed in their lives in town, and it seems that unrest is constantly bubbling just under the scrim of V's order. When V, her cousin (the bastard son of her uncle to whom he left the estate), and Ramona (her uncle's long-time, trusted servant) leave to settle some remaining business in town, the order of V's commune breaks down in a spiral of actions that ultimately end in burlesque-like dancing to Handel's "Hallelujah Chorus," quarrels that turn into fights, and the near-destruction of the mansion's dining room.

It was at this point that Buñuel's film slapped me in the face. I found myself almost at a loss for reaction to this behavior. It seemed to be absurd. Yet, it was too close to my reality to be satirical. My mind turned immediately to scanning for a humanistic response. My proverbial gut was certainly of no use. In fact, I was confused by my initial "gut" reaction: I agreed. I thought, yes, of course this is what happened. And, then, I realized...why would I think that? This is obviously an outrageous portrayal of real bourgeois expectations. Leave "them" to their own devices and civility goes down the drain. That's absurd.

But, if that's absurd, then why am I so irritated and wound up about the behavior of my neighbors? Why did "where's the civility" spin through my thoughts at 5 am that morning? Do I have bourgeois expectations? Where's my idealism now? My socialist convictions are plucked at every day, yet I can't bear the thought of abandoning them all together. So, are these convictions only strong when I am removed from the very situations that drive them? Or worse, is Buñuel's depiction really the inevitable?


Perhaps if I was removed, I might be able to concentrate my thoughts on the limitless intriguing facets that this movie offers from the sacrilegous "Last Supper" to the conflation of the imagery and sounds of renovating the mansion with the Angelus given by Viridiana for her guests in the field. No, I am stuck on the precipice of idealism and resignation. I think it is this confrontation that would probably spread a great smile across Buñuel's face.