Faith in Strangers: A Chance Encounter with Buñuel’s The Criminal Life of Archibaldo de la Cruz (1955)

The experience of browsing film in person cannot be replicated by buttons and screens; it is holistic. The dull thud of case bumping case as you pass your fingers through the shelves. Whispered discussions and hums of agreement in an adjoining section of the store. Shoes scraping low pile carpet, sun flickering through painted windows. Incense smoke winding through the air. Importantly, the right conditions are created for something nearly lost in our data driven world: serendipity.

WORDS: Phoebe Thomas

Algorithms are good at making us feel unique. We feel as though we’ve stumbled upon hidden gems, when in actuality there are a number of processes guiding you to a predetermined set of information. We’re more constricted than we realise. In independent, community co-created spaces — like Snips, one of the last film rental stores in the UK, which we are lucky to have in Merseyside — you can think and choose for yourself. Recently, Snips has installed a recommendation section; a world away from streaming suggestions, these selections are sourced straight from Snips’ avid customer base, with varied and interesting picks.

Anastasia’s recommendation catches my attention. Her chosen film, she writes, is surrealist, proto-giallo, and fun. The sticker she’s written on partially covers the film’s case. I discern the head of a porcelain doll; her serene expression is incongruous with the glinting blades splayed behind her. With my interest piqued, I place my faith in this stranger; I take the film off the shelf, hand over £2.50, and rent Luis Buñuel’s The Criminal Life of Archibaldo De La Cruz (1955).

The simple case illustration, on later reflection, succinctly conveys the film’s mood and intent. Porcelain and sharpened steel. Beauty and terror. The Criminal Life depicts the unraveling of our protagonist, Archibaldo, after a traumatic incident in childhood has left him with an association of pleasure with pain.

A sculptor in his adult life, Archibaldo’s pursuit shifts from acts of creation to destruction when he is reunited with his childhood music box, a beloved toy attached to a dark divinity. As a boy, Archibaldo’s hated governess tells him that when the box is played, an enemy of the family will die. This prophecy is shortly fulfilled. When Archibaldo winds the lever, the porcelain ballerina twirls to a twinkling tune. In the same moment, a stray bullet spears through the open window — and into the heart of the governess.

In pre-coital encounters with beautiful, forthright women, Archibaldo’s murderous intent simmers, with dreamlike sequences illustrating his desire to take their lives. Purportedly a dark comedy, its humour is derived from the thwarting of Archibaldo’s would-be kills. Yet, Archibaldo’s palpable sadism, punctuated by a disquieting score that sours the saccharine tones of the music box, eclipses the comedy of the film. It is fun, as Anastasia states, but it’s not necessarily funny. Its ending is more unsettling than a cathartic resolution to a series of mishaps.

Cursory research into the production of The Criminal Life reveals that the film was made during Buñuel’s period of filmmaking in Mexico following political exile from America. With refuge and support, Buñuel worked within the studio system to create distinctly commercial works. The Criminal Life certainly has the hallmarks of favoured films of the era; it is thrilling, with romantic tension and melodramatic flourish.

Yet Buñuel does not compromise on his aesthetic and political values. Fantasy and reality entangle in an uneasy courtship, where we struggle to discern what is imagined and what has happened until another party can clarify the situation for us. The film is erotic and subversive, depicting the powerlessness of a wealthy man to his unfulfilled impulses. Archibaldo’s urges, moreover, are chiefly Freudian, depicting women as pure, virginal figures who, through perceived corruption, become jezebels; whose salvation, Archibaldo perceives, will be brought by his hand, at the end of his cutting blade. Certainly, The Criminal Life is not a cut-and-paste drama.

My introduction to Buñuel was his collaboration with Dalí in An Andalusian Dog (1929), played on my laptop in my narrow student halls’ bed after a day of lectures, as I’m sure it was for many. There are echoes of Buñuel’s establishing motifs in The Criminal Life, most notably in the use of a cutting blade seen in the iconic scene of a woman having her eyeball sliced open.

Before The Criminal Life, I hadn’t ventured further into his body of work. A brief search on Instagram directs me towards his most celebrated films, like The Exterminating Angel (1962) or Bell de Jour (1967). The Criminal Life does not appear once. I would, most probably, enjoy the films made during Buñuel’s late French period. But if I solely relied on the formulas underpinning social media sites and AI ‘enhanced’ search engines, what would I be missing?

Online algorithms scrape your data, create an estimation of who you are and what you would like, and feed you what you’re likely to enjoy. This is in the name of retaining your attention; an economy in and of itself. They’re not primed to encourage connections to individuals and communities, and care little for continuity and context. Many have experienced the frustration that comes with endless scrolling on streaming sites, a fatiguing process that often ends with picking something off a tailor made list, suited to your likes. In this way, algorithms are individualistic. You’re less likely to branch out, to tiptoe from your comfort zone, if you rely on computers and code.

Further, I feel that the potential of film recommendations to bring people together is vital. It’s not just hidden gems you can miss when relying on algorithms, but the chance to engage with communities, encounter different perspectives, and broaden your cultural horizons. Films recommended by friends and family are special, even if they’re not entirely to your liking; they will forever remind you of someone important to you.

Merseyside is rich with DIY screenings and film groups, full of people more than happy to share with you what they’ve been watching. Maybe you’ll enjoy these recommendations, maybe you won’t; this venturing into the unknown is fun. It’s something you don’t experience if you only consume media you’ll probably like. There’s an added bonus, too, of feeding back your experience with a community pick — you’ll be making connections with new people in a meaningful way.