The film is ever-flinching in mock-disgust at the behaviour of its characters, who repeatedly experience a kind of cena interruptus--fate never allows them more than few bites before derailing their attempt at a group dinner. Deadpan Buñuel, a former collaborator of Salvador Dali's and no stranger to the description "avant-garde," is a master of absurd conflict. In the opening sequence, the women diners discover a corpse in the back-room of a restaurant; the ensemble's ultimate obstacle is the subconscious whimsy of sleep, as they can't even successfully feast together in (brilliantly executed) fantasy. When one protagonist finally resorts to snacking alone, late at night, the moment suggests disenchanted relief as opposed to a fulfillment. It's the masturbation scene.

The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie is a mirror image of an earlier Buñuel feature, The Exterminating Angel, the surreal tale of a well-to-do group that gathers for supper and is unable to leave the room thereafter. The comedic humiliation in The Exterminating Angel comes in the form of turning socialites into literally foul (they're unable to bathe), overtly hostile creatures. The later work is, if you'll pardon my lack of imagination, more discreet in its resentment of affluence, its heroes reserving their greatest fears and frustrations for dreamland. But Buñuel's motives are no less transparent or satirical in The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, and while I applaud them, I realize they're hollow, suspect. The two films are from the same man who supplemented his autobiography (My Last Sigh) with detailed, somewhat xenophobic instructions on mixing the snobbish dry martini.

It's probably a wiser idea to regard Buñuel as an ironist than a politician; The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, made in 1972, certainly contains its share of self-referential plot points, such as the "Mirandan" diplomat's drug-smuggling operation (he's played by Fernando Rey, the ruthless heroin dealer of 1971's The French Connection). Such winks brought a geek's grin to my face the first time I saw The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, but what really endures across multiple viewings is the confident wit that transpires from the film's deranged structure. It makes me laugh.

The Criterion Collection DVD release of The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie qualifies as a double-feature, as it also contains a lengthy documentary on the life and career of Buñuel. I'll get to that.

I was introduced to Discreet in a course at York University, and despite the battered and pink print the professor screened, I was transfixed. I was anxious to witness Criterion's remaster; the film is back to being spotless, well lit, and yellow-hued. Letterboxed at 1.66:1 and enhanced for widescreen displays, the image is a pure and total revelation, as are the "new and improved" English subtitles. (The 2.0 mono track is in crisp-sounding French.)

Criterion's 2-disc set is a real treat for buffs. Platter 1, in addition to The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie and its original trailer, offers a re-edited version of The Castaway of Providence (24 mins.), a 1970 "documentary homage" to Buñuel by friends Arturo Ripstein and Rafael Castanedo in which casual recollections from Buñuel collaborators are interspersed with clips of the artist himself demonstrating his talent for pouring cocktails. Although the translations are riddled with typos (e.g. Spanish becomes "Sapnish") and the cutting is lousy, I preferred this intimate short to Disc 2's more clinical Speaking of Buñuel.

Ninety-eight minutes long and directed by Jose Luis Lopex-Linares and Javier Rioyo, Speaking of Buñuel attempts to place a collection of interviews new and archival with those who survived Buñuel in a context by linking them with spoken passages from Buñuel's journals and re-enactments of his earliest artistic endeavours, such as a magic lantern silhouette show. To give you an idea of what to expect: there is slightly greater attention paid to the rise of communism than Buñuel's fascinating partnerships with Salvador Dali and Garcia Lorca. Still, a worthwhile retrospective that doesn't shy away from debunking the occasional myth surrounding its subject. A Buñuel filmography finishes off the second DVD, while liner notes by Carlos Fuentes plus an excerpt from Buñuel's reputedly mistranslated autobiography round out the package proper.-Bill Chambers