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There’s a scene in L’Age d’Or - Luis Bunuel’s 1930 cinematic stumble through surrealism - which features what can only be described as clerical defenestration, and as a direct result I’ve spent the past week fighting the urge to complain. Which, in essence, creates quite a problem. I mean, just whom are you supposed to address any shock, horror or physical distress to when the flick in question is over seventy years old and both the protagonists and their offspring have long since emigrated permanently to the great Dali sofa in the sky? Is there a little-known sub-committee of the Motion Picture Association which is prepared to consider alleged breaches of taste, decency and ecumenical courtesy in celluloid’s ancient history? Will an ecclesiastical lynch mob convene to hear me out before revoking the day-passes to the afterlife of all involved?
There is, however, a wider issue when it comes to the disposal of your local neighbourhood priest, bishop or cardinal via the nearest open window, in that I find neither the act nor its portrayal especially offensive – we all know how clerics have a habit of cluttering up the place, generally getting in the way etc, and if a quick push from seven floors up is ergonomic, then why not? I’m not even particularly aggrieved by the rather obvious symbolism that Bunuel employed - clerical defenestration has a long and respected history (particularly in Europe, where no popular uprising was complete without a priest or two failing to fly), and whereas these days attacking the Church is akin to inserting a booted foot into the face of a prostrate pensioner, in the thirties it was considered the height of heretical daring. So, when it comes down to the specifics of this complaint, having no serial killer weaponry with which to grind against either priest lobbing or the portrayal thereof (hell – I haven’t even seen this film, and am unlikely to whilst the cinemas maintain their smoking ban and my microwave fails to pick up the Surrealist Channel), leaves me sat rather abstract, with nothing of any substance to complain about, and nobody sentient to complain to. What the fuck is the point of that? |
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