Saw Belle de jour (1967) this evening at a Revue theatre with the beautiful Catherine Deneuve as a frustrated surgeon's wife who becomes a prostitute in the afternoons. Bunuel's film is deliciously ambiguous - the sequences, reality or fantasy/dream, we don't know, & perhaps in the end it doesn't matter. Deneuve a frigid doll with a wicked sex life.
Apparently Bunuel didn't know if the last scene was reality or dream either.
Will have to watch this one again in a year or two.
Sheath of feeling. Words groping to touch air.
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