There are certain filmmakers who achieve fame through their longevity, and those that earn it through originality. Luis Buñuel did both and rose to become one of the most influential film directors of all time, and someone whose work has been embraced by generations of film-lovers, critics and individuals in the industry, who were inspired by his devil-may-care attitude to his craft, and his incredible complexity when it came to making some of the boldest films across numerous different genres, all of which contained the same curiosities and fascinating societal perversions that defined the director’s work. Belle de Jour is a film that occupies the second half of his incredible career when Buñuel was already a confirmed constituent of the arthouse, and someone whose work was frequently the subject of analysis and discussion, none of which ever seemed to be able to fully encapsulate the utter brilliance underlying his films, even when the perception around him was nothing less than undying respect and devotion to his unconventional talents. Belle de Jour is one of the director’s most iconic films, a satirical dark comedy that once again sees the director venturing beneath the veneer of the logical world to explore some challenging themes surrounding the concepts of identity, sexuality and heteronormativity, which is told through the lens of sardonic wit, complex surrealism and a magnificently bizarre sense of logic that only someone who fully surrenders themselves to the iconoclastic vision of Buñuel will be able to appreciate, and where the deviancy of society is not reviled, but rather investigated with a delicate touch only someone with the immense curiosity Buñuel would be able to feasibly execute to such resounding success.

Séverine (Catherine Deneuve) is unhappily married to a doctor (Jean Sorel), with their relationship being one of reasonably amicability, but a complete lack of passion, no doubt the result of a husband who seems to be unable to satisfy his wife due to his more reserved, milquetoast nature, with his wife taking to elaborate fantasies, where she engages in various demeaning acts, such as bondage and other activities not normally present in an ordinary marriage, and which she would not dare suggest to her husband. Growing weary of her desires only being met in her dreams, Séverine takes it upon herself to go in search of the satiation she needs to overcome her frigidity. This leads her to the apartment of Madame Anaïs (Geneviève Page), who runs a small but profitable brothel that is frequented by many high-profile clients, who take advantage of the employees who are willing to do anything, particularly those deeds that are not fondly perceived in regular society. Believing her given name to be inappropriate for this line of work, Séverine is soon given the alias “Belle de jour” (“beauty of the daytime”), which momentarily allows her to step outside of her marriage and engage in the passion she has long sought. However, this is not as seamless a pastime as it would appear – restricting herself to only working during the day while her husband is at work, she soon becomes embroiled in a lustful relationship with a violent criminal (Pierre Clémenti), who begins to assert his tendencies on an unwilling Séverine, who is now caught between a loving but dull husband, and a lover who will undoubtedly force her into an even more compromising position. Séverine once again needs to look inward, not only to get herself out of potentially dangerous situations but to prevent herself from losing her sanity completely, which turns out to be increasingly difficult in her current line of work.

Thematically, Belle de Jour focuses on the troubled life of a sexually-repressed housewife, and the trials and tribulations she faces when she inevitably attempts to break from this cycle and go in search of her own satiation. In this regard, the film is quite polarizing, as some view it as a powerful statement on the expected docility of women that society at the time demanded, while others view it as an attempt to simply reduce a complex character to a set of frigid desires, which can only be satiated by engaging in sordid activities, away from discerning eyes, and where her liberation and femininity can only be found through deviancy and borderline criminality. However, Buñuel seems uninterested in the actual desire, intent more on exploring the context surrounding it, and using something as commonplace, but still quite undervalued artistically, as sexuality to construct a compelling character study that extends beyond simply a story of female desire, and more into a poignant satire that sees the director putting together a fascinating combination of the urban malaise of the upper-class in the 1960s, and the sexual repression of those left behind during the conquests of the more desirable or enticing individuals that surrounded them. Belle de Jour is certainly an imperfect statement when it comes to looking at feminine issues, and we can never escape the male gaze that is unfortunately indelible to the fabric of the film. Yet, if we look beneath the more lascivious subject matter, and instead consider the methods through which Buñuel navigates this challenging story, it’s possible to see the resonant theme of a woman attempting to break free from her preordained position in life, going in search of something more meaningful, and the inevitable consequences that come with liberation.

There are some images that are so iconic, they not only define an actor’s performance but also serve to be immovable remnants of film history, etched into the memory of filmgoers and cultural devotees. The image of Catherine Deneuve, wearing a snow-white dress while being pummeled with mud and dirt is one of the most memorable moments in 1960s artistry. Belle de Jour is the film that arguably solidified Deneuve as one of arthouse cinema’s most enigmatic stars, an actress who possessed both striking beauty and incredible nuance, which became fundamental components of her character of Severine, or “belle de jour”, a challenging figure that extends beyond simply a bored wife raring to try something new, but rather a more complex individual with unconventional desires and a general unease about her existence that she is trying to break free of. Deneuve is simply incredible in Belle de Jour, and whether utilizing her strikingly statuesque qualities, or immersing herself deeper into the character, conveying her despair and hopeless disillusionment with the world around her, she is astonishingly good, and it is unsurprising that she emerged as one of the finest actresses of her generation – her command of character, blended with her incredible intensity and commitment to the role, gives the film its incredible vivacity, and the process of seeing Severine metamorphosize into “belle de jour” is truly an enthralling experience. Belle de Jour has a terrific cast, but Deneuve’s performance in the titular role is by far the element of this film that lingers the most, with the complex portrayal of gender politics and female desire being channelled so masterfully through her incredible work here, in which she never wavers in commitment to the intentions of the film.

However, as tempting as it is to reduce Belle de Jour to a statement on feminine sexuality and the role of women in society, Buñuel doesn’t dwell entirely on this relatively straightforward concept, but goes deeper into the social context that surrounds the film. The director is intent on putting together an incredibly poignant indictment on the bourgeoisie, a theme that is certainly omnipotent in his films and manifests in a way that is quite remarkable here, where it isn’t as prominent as one would expect from a director who never concealed his true intentions, even if he went about them in quite unique ways. In Belle de Jour, he’s using the metaphysical quandaries of an ordinary woman, as well as her unconventional desires, to make a bold statement on the degradation of society, where our true personas are hidden behind veneers of socially-mediated roles, and only come to the fore when we find ourselves in a position of comfort. Buñuel is one of the few filmmakers who can make a socially-charged satire with broad strokes of cultural commentary without it coming across as overwrought or unnecessarily convoluted, mainly because the primary themes are always channelled through more palatable concepts, such as in this instance, where the idea of a woman on the verge of a sexual reawakening evokes a fascinating discussion on how we approach such taboo subjects, and where the challenging subject matter is investigated through some brilliantly subversive attempts to compose a poetic character study that is actually a thinly-veiled critique of both the class system, where the relationship between the working-class prostitutes and their high-ranking clientele is often a primary focus, and institutionalized heteronormativity, which persist as areas on which many similarly transgressive films seek to comment.

Belle de Jour isn’t considered one of Buñuel’s definitive masterpieces because of its revolutionary, free-spirited approach to sexuality, but also in how the director evokes these challenging themes stylistically and creatively. One of the key elements of the film is how the main character is constantly imagining ideal scenarios in which she is able to explore her sexuality, with a large portion of the story taking place within her dreams. The blurring of fantasy and reality is one of the most prominent aspects of Belle de Jour, and certainly its most interesting, not only on the narrative level, in which this film is incredibly relevant in the study of the early stages of postmodernism (a movement that Buñuel may not have necessarily been a massive part of, but certainly did inspire), but also on a creative level, in which we see the director employing his brilliant directorial vision to a film that is as stunning as it is fascinating – the saturated colours of the dreamscape contrast the bleak scope of reality, with the two gradually intersecting, until we begin to lose a grip on what is true and what is fictional in the context of the protagonist’s mind. Buñuel has famously remarked that he did not write this film to have any particular resolution, and rather the difference between reality and fantasy is entirely dependent on the viewer, who asserts their own interpretation onto the film, finding meaning in the various narrative recesses that exist throughout the story. It allows for active engagement, where we aren’t just voyeurs to the rampant exploits of a frigid woman coming into her own sexuality, but rather accompanying her on her metaphysical journey towards some kind of unattainable satiation.

Belle de Jour is essentially an exercise in subversion, with even the smallest details, such as the complete lack of a score and the way certain shots are framed, contribute to a general surreal unease that persists throughout, giving the film a certain aesthetic that is entirely unique to the brilliantly demented creativity of an artist who appeared singularly unable to abide by any rules, which is precisely why Buñuel is such an enigmatic, but undeniably brilliant, cinematic storyteller. Once again, the viewer’s enjoyment of Belle de Jour is directly proportional to how much we’re willing to put our trust in Buñuel, hoping that he will lead us down a worthwhile avenue. It may be bewildering, and it is unlikely we’ll find any satisfying resolution to the myriad ideas that the director introduces to us. Instead, we become pleasantly docile to this bizarre tale of lust in the bohemian era, a quietly intense exploration of the extent of desire, and the role of different individuals in the machinations of society at large. Contrast this with the incredible work done by Deneuve and the rest of the cast in realizing the story, and you have a thoroughly complex, unquestionably unique story of desire and repression that can stand amongst the very best. It’s not an easy film (even though the striking visual style may lead you to believe otherwise), but its a deeply compelling look into social normativity, and a truly memorable foray into territory that only the bravest of storytellers would dare explore.