Well, Bunuel certainly made a strong exit, here. This is probably one of his most beguiling movies, one that is foundationally built on characters that are contradictions of themselves.<br /><br />Mathieu is sleezy and exploitative... and yet he really does love, or thinks he loves, Conchita, and makes an exuberant fool out of himself doing so. Conchita is likewise attracted to Mathieu... except it's not clear if she's just using him and leading him along, or if she honestly just wants assurance that his feelings are pure. In other words, Mathieu is the loving abuser and Conchita is literally the emphasis on the prude/slut dichotomy. AAAnd so you get to watch them, for two hours, nearly destroy each other in basically one of the best dysfunctional relationships ever put on screen.<br /><br />Lots has been said about the two actresses playing Conchita. It gets to become pretty obvious after a while, but at first it is wonderfully surreal, the sort of subtle gesture that Bunuel is an expert at doing. However, I think it was more daring having only one person, then, play Mathieu--and especially narrate it. Mathieu's duplicitous nature is such that he is the token untrustworthy narrator, and yet it's quite clear throughout the movie that he's talking nothing but the absolute truth. This adds another layer of questions to the proceedings: is it possible that objectivity and subjectivity have finally merged? Is Conchita's double-nature only what he sees in her, or does she actually change face? And then, of course, there's the sack. It's always nice when something is pointed out on-screen that leads to mystery, but that mystery is never stated. It seems, in the end, that the sack is really the only object that gives meaning to the narrative.<br /><br />--PolarisDiB