PRINT September 1966

The Surrealist Film

WHEN ANDRÉ BRETON SPEAKS, in Nadja, of his peculiar habit of running haphazardly into movie houses at any time of the day, paying careless attention to the particular film’s title or its plot development, we recognize that at least one attitude of the literary Surrealists was to use the cinema as one’s private and detached dream atmosphere. In recent years this attitude has been extended in a more exalted form by Ado Kyrou, who, in his book, Surréalisme au Cinema, came to the sweeping conclusion that nearly all motion pictures promote Surrealistic experiences. The new and as yet unexplored medium, received, at an early date, considerable appreciation from the Surrealist writers: Apollinaire, who more than once acknowledged the potentialities available in film, initiated a film critique, written by Maurice Raynal, in Les Soirees de Paris in 1914; Philippe Soupault began writing film criticism in the January 1918 issue of SIC and at the same time published his “Poeme Cinematographique,” Indifference; Louis Aragon likewise contributed articles on film, capping them with his famous defense of Charlie Chaplin in the Lita Grey divorce case, Hands Of Love (1927); and like several others of his comrades-in-arms, Benjamin Peret wrote reviews and a scenario, Pulcherie Veut une Auto, which was published in Littérature (May 1923).

Although the literary Surrealists were tangentially committed to future realizations of the cinema, the most emphatic pronouncement explaining the operational affinities between the film and the Surrealist conception of a “state of mind” has come from none other than the greatest of the practitioners, Luis Buñuel. In a lecture given at the University of Mexico in 1953, he postulated:

“In the hands of a free spirit the cinema is a magnificent and dangerous weapon. . . . The creative handling of film images is such that, among all means of human expression, its way of functioning is most reminiscent of the work of the mind during sleep. A film is like an involuntary imitation of a dream. . . . on the screen, as with the human being, the nocturnal voyage into the unconscious begins. The device of fading allows images to appear and disappear as in a dream; time and space are flexible, shrinking and expanding at will; chronological order and the relative values of time duration no longer correspond to reality, cyclical action can last a few minutes or several centuries; shifts from slow motion to accelerated motion heighten the impact of each.”1

The post-War Dada painter-experimenters were much more successful than the Surrealist writers in actually making the first steps toward the envisioned expression in film. Francis Picabia’s scenario filmed by Rene Clair, Entr’acte (1924), has always been regarded as a Dada masterpiece, and, since in many ways Surrealism can be looked upon as Dada converted via Breton’s proclamations, it is beneficial to look at some of the prominent ideas in this work which were later available to the Surrealists. Its spirit is entirely that of anarchy and revolt, proposing a visual breakdown on the screen of time-honored conventions. What rebellion begins, Dadaist humor and absurdity finish, and, to take a paramount example, we recall the scene in which the camera is aimed through a glass floor looking up a ballet dancer’s dress in lyrical slow motion; this shot is followed by one revealing the dancer’s face as that of the heavily bearded Jean Borlin. In another sequence, Picabia seized on the perfect bourgeois rite as the scapegoat for his lampoon, a funeral procession to the cemetery. Clair began the famous chase sequence, in which the hearse becomes a runaway, by picturing the following mourners in the ludicrous distortions of slow motion, and gradually built the pace to such a frenzy that he was able to include parallel shots of ostensibly irrelevant materiallike that of a screaming roller coaster ride. Picabia’s script gave Clair free license to utilize several of film’s exceptional properties, and especially a “spatialization of time,” a term Erwin Panofsky has coined to describe film’s ability to expand the development of events in time beyond a simple linear format.

Hans Richter, the Dadaist, abstract painter, and filmmaker, made several experiments which predated, and share a certain comradely spirit with, the Surrealist cause. After making three abstract films in Germany during 1921 to 1925, he visited Paris in 1926 for the showing of a new work, Filmstudy, which marked a transition point, intermingling “abstract shapes with natural ones, eyes with circles, triangles with wedges, etc.” During his visit Richter discussed with Man Ray Breton’s new theoretical developments, which seemed acceptable enough to him as long as they proved compatible with “Dada’s bi-polar world of a perfect (actual) and absurd reality.” Filmstudy’s most outstanding accomplishment was that of establishing a credible dream motif, for it was in fact an actual dream which inspired Richter to make the film. He has stated recently, “I refused to look for a meaning in the whole. I simply let the ideas form themselves and develop from them selves from what we can call dream’s virginal state; and I abandoned myself with pleasure to the spontaneity of dream.”2

Richter’s next film, Ghosts Before Breakfast (1927–28) is difficult to regard in any terms other than those of classic Dadaism. Its significant relationship to Surrealism is borne in its attitude toward promoting a revolt of the ordinary object. With a chase after four bowler hats supplying a loose basis for a plot, Richter extracted common objects out of their conventional contexts and thrust them into illogical relations hips and strange, new associations. The hats fly through the air, windows open by themselves, a garden hose unwinds and rewinds by itself, or a tie and a collar refuse to fasten around a man’s neck. We are presented with a visual, animate realization of Breton’s statement that “the Surrealist progression in tends to provoke a total revolution of the object.”3 Richter’s new use of the object coupled with his thorough understanding of the coordination of filmic rhythms enabled him to construct a composition without having to rely on ordinary cause-and-effect continuities. His promotion of the revolt of the object led as a matter of course to his goal of a “complete liberation from the conventional story and its chronology (in terms of) Dadaist and Surrealist developments.”4

Man Ray also brought his ingenuity to the new medium, obtaining some exceptional effects of the Marvelous in his second Dadafilm, Emak Bakia (1926). He has said of this film, “(it) was purely optical, made to appeal only to the eyes, . . . the result of a way of thinking as well as of seeing.”5 In the exquisite closing sequence, he provides a sublime, tongue-in-cheek comment on the Surrealist, dream-oriented esthetic when we see Kiki, with painted eyes on her eyelids, languidly waking as though out of a deep sleep and opening her true eyes, smiling at the viewer then closing her eyes and falling back to her original position.

Man Ray’s work in film, taken as a whole, bears a similar parallel to the sort of transition many of the other Surrealist artists made from their Dada exercises. L’Etoile de Mer (1928) creates a perfectly adequate poetic sense of free association, in a murky, rather impersonal dream world of memory similar in concept to Resnais’ Last Year at Marienbad, while his last film (until the contribution he made for Hans Richter’s Dreams That Money Can Buy in 1944), The Mystery of the Chateau of Dice (1929), is perhaps a less successful attempt to capture the mystery and unexplained causalities of a world entirely ruled by the arbitrariness of Chance. Man Ray shot L’Etoile de Mer to depict a series of encounters between a man and woman as suggested from a Robert Desnos poem, literally intermingling images of the characters and symbolic objects and events with lines from the poem. Man Ray gives his sardonic sense of humor full play when he cuts the line, “Women’s teeth are such charming objects,” into a shot of the woman fixing her garter. Or again, the phrase, “Si Belle! Cybele” is inserted following a bedroom scene in which the man and woman have made love for the first time. A starfish, as the title might suggest, serves concomitantly as a sexual symbol evoking the obvious basis for a union between the man and woman and as a leitmotif picking up an unexplained focus of attention throughout the film.

Man Ray was able to avoid an orthodox dramatic plot development in this film by linking the individual view points to one or more of the others through the associative values of the images they present. Therefore, the starfish and newspapers blowing in the street become symbolic of the man’s view of the woman; a knife and a flower relate to how the woman looks at the event and her fantasies of it; lines from the poem and sundry side shots are Man Ray’s comments on the affair; and the scenes seen through a distorting, translucent glass or the shattering of a mirror correspond to the dream-like deformations produced by the memory of things past.

Antonin Artaud’s scenario, The Seashell and The Clergyman, and Germaine Dulac’s realization of it have caused a turmoil of controversy ever since the film was first shown on February 9, 1928. At the premier screening, the Surrealist group led by Artaud and Desnos fomented a small uprising in protest because Artaud was dissatisfied with Miss Dulac’s interpretation and disappointed that she had not allowed him to assist in the shooting or play the part of the clergyman. (This last is not simply mean carping, since Artaud had already received much laudatory recognition for his film acting, most notably as the young tempter-priest in Carl Dreyer’s The Passion of Joan of Arc, and knew better than anyone the sort of interpretation this part should take.) Even though she followed Artaud’s scenario more or less literally, there is little evidence to indicate that Miss Dulac either understood or was sympathetic to the Surrealist temperament. It is more probable (and her production bears this out) that she viewed it more in terms of a detached fantasy than those of a concrete surreality.

While the fantasy world is more often than not one constructed of totally impossible events, surroundings and assumptions, the Surrealists were committed to exploring and expressing what they saw as a new Reality. They felt that they were the first to have discovered the subconscious as a source for a new imagery, and they took great pride in the notion that what they were expressing was a new-found area of human awareness. Buñuel has quoted Breton as saying, “The most admirable thing about the fantastic is that the fantastic does not exist; everything is real.”6 Elsewhere Breton has said, “The imaginary is that which tends to become real.”

A look at Artaud’s introductory statement accompanying the scenario and published in 1927 (and translated for the June, 1930 issue of Transition)7 gives us an in sight into the vision of what he hoped the cinema might become and explains much of why he was so dissatisfied with the only one of his several scenarios to be filmed:

“You will look in vain for a film which is based on purely visual situations whose action springs from stimuli addressed to the eye only . . . untrammeled by psychological or irrelevant complications or by a verbal story expressed in visual terms.”

“The visual action should operate on the mind as an immediate intuition.”

“In the scenario which follows I have tried to realize this conception of a purely visual cinema, where action bursts out of psychology . . .”

“The scenario is not the story of a dream . . . I shall not try to justify its incoherence by the simple device of labeling it a dream. The scenario seeks to portray the dark truth of the mind by a series of pictures, self-engendered . . . but governed by an inherent and ineluctable necessity of their own, which forces them into the light.”

“The outer skin of things, the epidermis of reality, these are the raw materials of the cinema . . . The pictures . . . create an autonomous reality of their own. And from this interplay of images, a transubstantiation of elements, there arises an inorganic language which works on our minds by an osmosis and demands no translation into words.”

Artaud conceived the scenario as an exposition of the proportions of his own multi-faceted character. The clergyman and the soldier may be viewed as bifurcated halves of the same stem and dedicated to the promulgation of a sibling-like conflict. The clergyman, who is first seen in the guise of an alchemist, is introspective and withdrawn, but at the same time he is the possessor of a volatile personality tormented by unanswered passion and cloaked in dark clouds of mystery. His apparent antagonist is the massive, bemedaled soldier whose presence continually frustrates the clergyman’s pursuit of a beautiful woman. The soldier as an obstacle represents societal and traditional impediments in the path of the metaphysician, the mystic, the magician, or the artist who seeks to explore beyond that which is already known and accepted. The clergyman’s protracted pursuit of the woman (always man’s personified, enigmatic challenge) is the quest for that which is beyond him, derived from his sexual desires and energies. This allegorical construction provides an astonishingly similar parallel to Breton’s proposition that the creative spirit found its roots in erotic energy.

Much of commercial cinema has relied on threats of terror and suspense (always certain to elicit an immediate emotional response) to promote its mystery, but Artaud and the other Surrealists realized that the enigmatic challenges of the unknown created by simulating the subconscious irrational flow of images would serve the same purpose while legitimately releasing them from the confines of a narrative structure. The clergyman’s confrontation with the soldier listening to the woman’s confession, his chase following her down a path beside a lake and then through locationless hallways, and their mock marriage ceremony are all made up of scenes which flow out of a preceding one and into the next as fluidly as do the images we are familiar with from our dreams. Artaud, who was able to see in the Marx Brothers movies, Animal Crackers and Monkey Business, “a notion of something disquieting and tragic, a fatality . . . Which would hover over it like the cast of an appalling malady upon an exquisitely beautiful profile,”8 created his scenes to carry with them an undercurrent of unresolved physical and psychic tension beneath their absurdity and irrationality.

Artaud’s position vis-à-vis his audience has been accurately described as a desire to jar them into an awareness of and a receptivity to surreality.9 This observation is equally to the point in coming to terms with a rationale for the famous opening sequence of Un Chien Andalou, the first film to be officially recognized by the Surrealist group in 1929. The shot of a man (Buñuel) slicing across a woman’s eye (actually a cow’s) with a razor is a brilliant assault upon an audience which is immediately enraged and disgusted but at the same time drawn by an odd fascination with what they have just seen. One is reminded here of Richard Hulsenbeck’s article, En Avant Dada (1920), in which he prescribed that literature (and, by deduction, all the arts) should be action, “it should be made with a gun in the hand.” Furthermore, in Breton’s Second Surrealist Manifesto (1929) he stated that the perfect Surrealist act would consist of running into the street and firing a revolver into an area crowded with people. Buñuel and Dalí’s slicing of the eye is a similarly extraordinary and demanding metaphor for the Surrealist intention of shocking all uncommitted observers into an awareness of their new-found expanded sense of man’s conscious reality.

Luis Buñuel collaborated with his countryman, Salvador Dalí, whom he had known briefly at the University of Madrid before coming to Paris. During a three day session, in 1928, of conjuring up dreams and telling them to each other the two came up with the scenario for Un Chien Andalou. Buñuel prefaced the publication of the scenario in La Revolution Surrealiste (December, 1929) by saying that the film “would not exist if surrealism had not existed.” He has stated further that it was directly "the result of conscious psychic automatism and to that extent it does not recount a dream although it profits from a mechanism analogous to dream,”10 and that he and Dalí rejected as irrelevant any idea which, as far as they could see, might be explained rationally or technically.11

Un Chien Andalou consists of a progression through a series of tangentially connected scenes between a man and a woman in an atmosphere charged with eroticism and the violence of revolt. By working in a twilight zone between dream and ordinary consciousness, i.e., conscious psychic automatism, and by avoiding any line of conventional logic, Buñuel achieved a natural liberation, in much the same manner as Artaud or Man Ray had, from the methodical exposition of a step-by-step narrative. As an example, in an early sequence, a man wearing a maid’s apron peddles a bicycle through the streets, and a woman who is reading unaccountably puts her book down and goes over to the window just in time to see the man fall off the bicycle into the gutter, to which she responds with an odd sort of gesture of impatient resentment; next comes a close-up shot of the man lying in the street completely expressionless and then the woman is seen running out of the house to begin frantically covering him with kisses. In another instance, another man, who is the first man’s identical twin, tries to frighten the woman by literally wiping his mouth off his face, an act by which she is significantly unimpressed. The next shot shows him with hair growing over his lost mouth; the woman quickly looks at her armpit, which she happily finds unshaven. She confidently sticks out her tongue at him and turns to leave; we then see her as though she has just come out of the room she was in previously, followed by an act which is totally inconceivable in any other context: she is waving to someone way off in the distance, who turns out to be a lover at the seashore. As presented, these sequences all seem to be comfortably integrated, and in fact the individual images of each do fit together, but in no direct or ordinarily consistent manner. A feeling of imbalance and irrationality accumulates throughout the film so that the viewer is ready for anything to happen. The air becomes so highly charged and potentially explosive that Buñuel and Dalí have an absolutely free license to introduce almost any new image of the Marvelous possible.

Like the starfish in L’ Etoile de Mer or the seashell in The Seashell and the Clergyman, a seemingly uncomplicated object was employed as a pivotal element taking on a new personality and various associative values in order to act as a leitmotif throughout the film. In Un Chien Andalou, Buñuel and Dalí used an utterly functionless striped box as an unexplained focus of attention in several separate scenes. It is first seen around the waist of the man peddling a bicycle in a brief, identifying close-up. Later, a young girl is seen in the street indifferently contemplating a loose human hand; when a crowd gathers, a policeman comes on the scene, admonishes the girl, then matter-of-factly picks up the hand and puts it in the box, sending the girl on her way. Near the end of the film, the box is found by the woman and her lover (not the man in the earlier scenes) among the rocks at the seashore; it contains remnants of the maid’s apron and has been battered into several pieces by the waves washing up on the beach. Through its involvement in the actions of the film, the innocuous striped box has taken on an entirely new reality typical of the Surrealist objects as they were transformed in paintings and assemblages.

While the pacing maintains a certain uniformity throughout, Buñuel established the film’s action within a purposely ambiguous and arbitrary time scheme. The film opens with the title “Once upon a time”; the prologue follows, after which the words “Eight years later” are flashed on the screen; later, before the identical twin enters the house where the first man and the woman are, “Toward three o’clock in the morning” is flashed, followed shortly by “Six years before.” There are no corresponding filmic time changes to be related to these titles, by which Buñuel means rather literally that it is irrelevant to look at a Surrealist film with the same eyes we use for everyday cause-and-effect sequences.

In his second film, L’Age d’Or (1930), Buñuel (working with out Dalí) eliminated the time-designating titles and pictorially combined past and present events without any explicit recognition) of their temporal differences. In an early scene, four archbishops are seen reading prayers on coastal rocks, a group of bandits (led by Max Ernst) prepares to attack them but inexplicably die before they are able to do so; at the same time a landing party of priests, military officials, and ministers comes to shore nearby to found Imperial Rome, and finds the skeletal remains of the archbishops. After the experience of Un Chien Andalou, Buñuel felt free to mix time sequences quite arbitrarily without the need for attention-focusing titles or such devices as slow motion or parallel editing to amplify a linear development of events, as in Entr’acte.

The extraordinary visual power of L’Age d’Or is a result of Buñuel’s stylistic predilection for filming exterior reality as it appears and paying relevant attention to naturalistic details. In this respect, we note the affinity his work shares with Dali’s paranoia-criticism and the resulting “images of concrete irrationality.” During the twenties when the exploitation of new film devices was very much in vogue among the avant-garde, Buñuel was alone in voicing disdain for any unnecessary distortion or camera trick. The inclusion of footage showing actual houses tumbling down, the brutality of the natural landscape of the coastal rocks, or the newsreel of a massacre, like found objects, when taken in context become metaphors for the strange passion abiding throughout the film’s action. Most poignant of these is the opening, documentary-like sequence of fighting scorpions with shots focusing on their stingers and poison sacks. Their killing of a rat ironically sets the scene for the conflicts and poetic violence to follow.

What significantly distinguishes the Surrealist films from their Dada predecessors, and in particular what accounts for L’ Age d’Or’s monumental stature, is that at their core reside fundamental and wildly passionate conflicts. In L’Age d’Or the struggle goes beyond that of amorous desire seeking fulfillment, to encompass the classic battle of unrestrained, ideal love against the restrictions, conventions, and morality society has imposed upon itself. The outrageous acts of the ideal lovers seeking an eternal consummation spill over into the everyday lives of the members of structured society. The confrontation leads to the frustration of the lovers and its concomitant aggression becomes Buñuel’s principal vehicle for unleashing the poetic license of Surrealism. The unleashing knows no limitations, even to the extent that it afforded Buñuel the opportunity to pay a tribute he and all the Surrealists felt they owed to the Marquis de Sade (the closing scene of the survivors of the Chateau de Selligny) as an historical hero of passion in opposition to social restrictions.

Common objects, to the extent that they come into contact with the central human conflict, are thrown in to absurd and exceptional relationships. A toe, for example, which is part of a statue is used by the mistress (Lya Lys) to satisfy her erotic frustration; a plow becomes an instrument of the lover’s rage and disappointment; feathers, ripped out of a pillow, are transformed into beautifully sublime symbols of the lovers’ unfortunate plight.

IN L’AGE D’OR Buñuel had the added advantage of sound, which he employed throughout as a complementary juxtapositioning element. During the lovemaking scene in the garden, a gratuitous dialogue is inserted without any movement of the lovers’ lips, commenting on the literally unspeakably extreme state of their passion. The film’s final shot of a cross embellished with women’s hair is accompanied by an incomparably vapid paso doble (predating the similarly sardonic last scene in Viridiana where a rock’n’roll tune is heard in the background as Viridiana sits down to play cards with her cousin).

Buñuel took ample advantage of accidental, every day happenings which, when seen as impediments to the lovers, would act as catalysts to provoke their passion to metaphorical acts of out rage. When, during the scene of the founding of Imperial Rome, a little dog barks mockingly at the lover who is being dragged from his mistress, he breaks away momentarily and kicks the dog with all his might. Upon seeing a blind man who might impede the taxi from taking him to his mistress, the man deliberately accosts the invalid and knocks him down. When the girl’s mother, who has been detaining the lover from joining his loved one with a barrage of meaningless social niceties, accidentally spills wine on him, he explodes with a malicious slap to her face.

The outrage, comparable to that carried in the hearts of Faulknerian characters, that Buñuel is depicting is the same allegorical spirit with which all great revolutionary movements through history have been fueled. Henry Miller has said of the film, “The whole fabric of society is torn apart, layer by layer, tissue by tissue; one is given to see the nerves and blood vessels of the inner organs, the articulation of the skeletal structure.” Buñuel was not attempting to present an annihilation of the world, but rather to reveal a new, more meaningful core. “Violence, destruction, vilification, blasphemy perversion” (Miller), anything was possible as long as it served as a metaphor in the revelation of the new consciousness the Surrealists felt they had discovered and were committed to exploring in full (Breton’s stated goal of “a total liberation of the mind”).

In L’Age d’Or Buñuel leaves us with little doubt that what he is portraying could be called a dream or fantasy. The acts of emotional outburst are too closely related to situations of actual daily life. But at the same time what takes place in the film would never happen in the context of every day events: a father would not shoot his son for interfering with the lighting of his pipe while members of a Society gathering look on unconcerned, nor would a woman begin sensually kissing her father, who has just interrupted her embrace with her lover. What unfolds on the screen, in this, the pinnacle achievement of the Surrealist cinema, is the representation of the total passion of a human event pushed beyond previously known limits. Its result is a beautiful new world of imagery existing somewhere between the amorphous intractability of dreams and the passive acceptance of our everyday consciousness.

Placed next to the awesome power of L’ Age d’Or, Jean Cocteau’s The Blood of a Poet (1930) indeed seems a slight and fragile item.12 Certainly his work contains most of the ingredients needed to qualify it for admission into the Surrealist body of work. His hero is himself, the artist-rebel, confronting his position within and against the general human community. His hero’s rebellion is the vehicle which enables him to explore an expanded awareness of himself. Unquestionably the poetic titles inserted to describe a particular moment, and Cocteau’s commentary on the action, bear a similarity to the technique of directorial comment Man Ray used in L’Etoile de Mer. However, it is just this self-conscious approach which argues against looking at The Blood of a Poet (originally titled The Life of a Poet) in the same light as one does a totally Surrealist work.

Cocteau himself disavowed any attempt to link his work with that of the Surrealists, even though his esthetic evolved in the same period as Dada and Surrealism, and he took part in several activities situated in the environs of both movements. His first film effort is more concerned with the pursuit of Beauty, or artistic sensitivity, than with the metaphysical pursuit of what exists beyond known limits. In the third episode, the youth is felled by Beauty’s symbolic snowball, which the poet, in the fourth and last episode, tries in vain to recapture. The sequence of voyeuristic looking through hotel room keyholes (film is often described as a voyeuristic medium) is a dream-like contrivance to give the poet a chance lo look at himself and make an evaluation. Both scenes lead to the same conclusion, a metaphorical suicide. (There is a clear similarity in the press conference scene in Fellini’s 8 1/2 where Guido’s Narcissus complex becomes manifest as the mass of newspaper columnists, like a personified neurosis, engulf him as he looks into the mirror-topped table beneath him, before he crawls under it to shoot himself.) The poet is cursed by his own awareness of himself in relation to what surrounds him: absolute Beauty, which he may have known in the innocence of youth, always stands beyond his reach.

There is considerably more of the Surrealist or Surrealist-inspired cinema to be discussed: George Hugnet’s La Perle, secular works by filmmakers not directly connected with the movement, Maya Deren and other experimentalists’ efforts in this country in the forties and fifties, Hans Richter’s Dreams That Money Can Buy, Cocteau’s Orpheus, and all the later work of Luis Buñuel. That, however, is another and much larger study, yet to be undertaken.

Toby Mussman



1. As quoted in Luis Buñuel by Ado Kyrou, Simon and Schuster, N. Y., 1963, pages 110–111.

2. Eludes Cinématographiqucs, Surrealisme et Cinéma, No. 38–39, Printemps 1965, Pages 55–56.

3. From “The Crisis of the Object,” Cahiers d’ Art (1936), translated by G. R. Swenson as it appeared in Objectivity, 1965.

4. “Film as an Original, Art Form,” by Hans Richter, film Culture, Vol. 1, No. 1, 1955.

5. Self Portrait by Man Ray, Little, Brown and Company, Boston, 1963, Page 273.

6. Kyrou, op. cit., Page 111.

7. Originally titled “Cinema and Reality” and appeared in La Nouvelle Revue Français (Nov. 1927).

8. The Theater and Its Double by Antonin Artaud, Grove Press Inc., N.Y., 1958, Pages 142–143.

9. An observation made by Bettina Knapp in an article, “Artaud: A new type of Magic” which appeared in the Yale French Studies, “Surrealism” issue, No. 31. May 1964.

10. Art in Cinema, San Francisco Museum of Art catalog, 1947.

11. Kyrou, op. cit., from an interview with Franco is Truffaut, Arts, July 21, 1955.

12. An observation made by George Amberg in an article, “The Rationale of the Irrational”, appearing in The Minnesota Review, Spring, 1963.

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