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Centennial revisions: LuisBuñuel's Las Hurdes: Tierrasin panJordana MendelsonPublished online: 04 Aug 2010.

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Journal of Spanish Cultural Studies, Vol. 1, No. 2, 2000

1463-6204 print/1469-9818 online/00/020215-09 Ó 2000 Taylor & Francis Ltd

Centennial revisions: Luis Buñuel’s Las Hurdes: Tierra sin pan

JORDANA MENDELSON

Review textsMercè Ibarz (1999) Buñuel documental. ‘Tierra sin pan’ y su tiempo (Zaragoza:

Prensas Universitarias de Zaragoza). 206 pp. ISBN 84-7733-519-2.James F. Lastra (1999) ‘Why is this absurd picture here? Ethnology/equivocation/

Buñuel’, October 89 (Summer), 51-68. ISSN 0162-2870.Las Hurdes/Tierra sin pan: un documental de Luis Buñuel (1999) (Extremadura:

Museo Extremeño e Iberoamericano de Arte Contemporáneo). 166pp. ISBN84-7671-486-6.

Tierra sin pan: Luis Buñuel y los nuevos caminos de las vanguardias (1999)(Valencia: IVAM). 237 pp. ISBN 84-482-2281-4.

The 100th anniversary of Luis Buñuel’s birth this year has brought with it thestaging of important exhibitions and conferences and the publication of catalogues,anthologies, articles, monographs, and translations of the filmmaker’s filmographyand bibliography. In one of these catalogues, leading Buñuel scholar AgustínSánchez Vidal has written a scathing assessment of the current bibliography on thefilmmaker in his essay ‘Cine sin fronteras’:

Cuando se sigue de forma sistemática la bibliografía sobre Luis Buñuel,se advierte que no escasean las reducciones regionalistas, nacionalistas o‘territorializantes’, ni las orejeras metodológicas propiciadas por losfundamentalistas semióticos, los de la political correctness y los genderstudies o, pura y simplemente, el desconocimiento del idoma español y lacultura hispana. (Sánchez Vidal 1999b: 27)

Despite the polemical nature of Sánchez Vidal’s comments, his observations aboutthe methodological and national splits visible in Buñuel scholarship is notunfounded when one takes a general overview of the state of the field. He aptlypoints out that Buñuel and his films have been the subject of reductive analysesthat highlight the disparities among scholars working with different methodologiesand within different regional and national contexts. Even though Sánchez Vidaldescribes Buñuel’s oeuvre as ‘film without frontiers’, he argues that the state ofscholarship remains divided largely between those scholars who are, or are not,working within a Hispanic context. By and large, Spanish critics and historianshave insisted on the need to contextualize historically, biographically andgeographically Buñuel’s life and work, while scholars in the United States andEngland (and those publishing for English-speaking audiences) have focusedlargely on formal analyses. Among all of Buñuel’s films, none exemplifies this

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split more than his 1933 Las Hurdes: Tierra sin pan.1 Controversial when it wasfilmed and exhibited, it remains a sensitive topic even today (Sánchez Vidal 1999a:38). Indeed, Tierra sin pan provides the clearest example of what Sánchez Vidalcalled ‘regionalist, nationalist or “territorializing” reductions’.

Shot almost entirely in Las Hurdes Altas, the poorest region of Extremadura,in the spring of 1933, Tierra sin pan was censored almost immediately after beingshown at the Cine de la Prensa in Madrid by the Second Republic’s conservativebiennium. Gregorio Marañón, who was a member of the Patronato de Las Hurdesand the Patronato del Museo del Pueblo Español, accused Buñuel of creating adegrading image of rural Spain which he felt unjustly portrayed its traditions,folklore and spirit. The motivations behind Marañón’s judgement are multiple. Atthe core of all of them is a fundamental divide existing among writers, artists andscientists over how to represent rural Spain at a time when questions of agrarianand educational reform fueled national debates (Mendelson 1996). Evidence of thisdivide is the fact that Buñuel’s vision of Spain was recognized as a politicalgesture by leading politicized journals, including Rafael Alberti’s Octubre andJuan Piqueras’s Nuestro Cinema. With the election of the Popular Front in 1936, apermit was secured by Manuel Villegas López to show the film, after which hewrote an article reclaiming Tierra sin pan’s objectivity as a political weapon in theCatalán magazine Mirador. Following the outbreak of the Civil War, Buñuel’sfriend and Spanish Ambassador in Paris, Luis Araquistáin, funded edited soundversions in French and English and a pro-Republican epilogue was added to somecopies. While this summary contains only the most schematic information on thefilm’s history and leaves out important aspects of its production and distribution, itis clear that Tierra sin pan provides a micro-history for studying the tensions thatexisted during the 1930s (and may continue to exist in the bibliography on the film)among competing definitions of nationalism, tradition and documentary.

In order to contextualize the texts reviewed in this article, I take as my startingpoint Yasha David’s 1994 exhibition and catalogue Buñuel: Auge desJahrhunderts, which opened as Buñuel: La mirada del siglo in Madrid in 1996.The exhibition sought to demonstrate that Buñuel’s importance extended beyondthe boundary of film history and criticism. David’s exhibition brought togetherliterature, painting, photography, film and some of the most influential artisticmovements to demonstrate the impact of Buñuel’s ideas on the development ofEuropean art during the twentieth century. David divided the filmmaker’s workinto three intersecting themes: vision, desire and death. As part of the exhibition,restored versions of Buñuel’s films were screened and new documentation waspublished for the first time from private and public collections.2 On display wereoriginal typescripts of the film’s narration, as well as albums of newspaperclippings and photographs. In Spain, the exhibition cemented a movement alreadyunderway to re-examine Tierra sin pan as one of Buñuel’s most enigmatic films.The exhibition also set the stage for bringing Buñuel’s films into the museumcontext as a subject of study alongside other visual arts.

Although the catalogue made a significant impact in Europe, scholars in the

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United States have not yet incorporated David’s exhibition into their research. Inmany ways, current work on Buñuel is still grounded in formal analysis andinterpretative models that form part of the history of documentary film. Whenwriters seek to move beyond the purely cinematic qualities of the film,unfortunately they do so without engaging the historical work already done bySpanish scholars. Given the proliferation of studies on Tierra sin pan, such anoversight invariably weakens the critical or theoretical case of even the mostsophisticated analyses.

Of the large bibliography that exists on Tierra sin pan, it is useful to examinethree articles published in English that pre-date Buñuel’s centenary. To greater orlesser degrees, all three avoid connecting their arguments to historical context.None seek to draw visual comparisons between Buñuel’s film and concurrentrepresentations of rural Spain in film or other visual arts. Instead, they contributeto an understanding of the film’s formal relations with other early twentieth-century modes of documentary, resulting in classifications of the film as‘travelogue’, ‘documentary surrealism’, and ‘colonial surrealism’. The first ofthese classifications was presented by E. Rubenstein in his 1983 article ‘Visit to afamiliar planet: Buñuel among the Hurdanos’. According to Rubenstein, Buñueltook the viewer on a tour through a culture distanced in time and space. Heinterpreted the film largely through an analysis of the narration, point of view, andthe conventions which it shared with other 1930s travel films. Tom Conley’s‘Documentary surrealism: on Land without Bread’ was groundbreaking in itscareful analysis of film form. By meticulously analysing the film’s sequences,Conley convincingly argued for a reassessment of Buñuel’s documentary in termsof surrealism, Freudian psychoanalysis, and the history of Spanish painting. In his1994 article ‘Colonial surrealism: Luis Buñuel’s Land without Bread’, NicholasThomas similarly compared Buñuel’s films to other styles of documentary duringthe 1930s. In particular, he focused on the relationship between Tierra sin pan andearly ethnographic missionary films. Although his close examination of the filmquestioned the filmmaker’s position with respect to Las Hurdes and added anotherdimension to the possible cinematic contexts within which the film belonged,Thomas neglected to think about the possible political and historical motivationsbehind such similarities. Why would Buñuel, who like his surrealist friends in Parisprotested against French imperialism, create a film that mirrored missionary filmsto the extent that it would participate in the same discourse? Regretfully, Thomasdid not return to the historical context in which the film was made to justify hisinterpretation.

Turning now to the texts reviewed here, in the fall 1999 issue of October,James Lastra’s ‘Why is this absurd picture here? Ethnology/equivocation/Buñuel’added another compelling interpretation of Tierra sin pan to the state of theliterature. He paid less attention to the formal qualities of the film and linkedBuñuel’s depiction of the Hurdanos as scapegoats to a radical political agenda thatwould make an appropriation of the film’s subjects impossible or ‘useless’ tonationalism. To do this, he grounded his argument in the political, literary and

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social conditions that surrounded the film’s creation. Specifically, Lastra focusedon three aspects of the film: its connection to the French philosopher GeorgesBataille, its relation to the histories and legends of Las Hurdes in Spain, and thegrowing political crises emerging in Spain and Europe between the Wars. In allthree respects, Lastra offered a significant departure from previous criticism onTierra sin pan. His use of Bataille’s theories are key to bridging what Buñuelrepresents with a politics that is neither ‘left nor right’. Bataille’s ‘CriticalDictionary’, of which his entries on ‘The big toe’ and ‘Mouth’ form a basis forLastra’s interpretation, redefined conventional hierarchical notions of beauty andintellect by locating difference, heterology and the informe in human anatomy andurban topography. The aesthetic of collage which characterized Bataille’s interestsand the magazine that published his articles, Documents, depended, likeethnography, on the visibility of the signs of construction.3 In other words,Bataille’s writings argue for the inextricable relation between high and lowwhereby even the most repulsive of substances and scenarios form part of one’sconstitution. As Lastra argues, ‘I want to suggest that the Hurdanos, in a very realsense, play the same role in Buñuel’s national body that the big toe plays inBataille’s physical one’ (Lastra 1999: 57). Considering Buñuel’s film in the lightof Dennis Hollier’s writings on Bataille’s theories as ‘equivocation’, Lastra arguesfor a subtext about sacrifice and exile. In conclusion, he refers to the English titleof the Museum of Modern Art’s copy of Tierra sin pan, ‘Unpromised Land’, as aclear reference to the theme of Jewish exile. His reading brings forth an aspect ofthe film that has not been dealt with previously. However, because Buñuelrepeatedly objected to the exhibition of this copy of the film, it is difficult to link itback to the filmmaker’s original intentions (Sánchez Vidal 1999a: 51-2).

In this and other aspects of his argument, Lastra’s interpretation unfortunatelyfalls short, even though his work poses a significant challenge to Sánchez Vidal’sdivision of critics into ‘those who are [and are not] ignorant of the Spanishlanguage and Hispanic culture’. Lastra references past scholarship and primarysources in Spanish. His call for a closer examination of the historical and literarysignificance of Las Hurdes attests to his commitment to issues of context. Yet hedoes not incorporate the most recent scholarship published on Buñuel in Spainwhich has demonstrated the important visual parallels that exist between Lotar’swork for Bataille’s Documents and Buñuel’s Tierra sin pan. The close-up shots ofan open mouth, dirty feet and rotting donkeys in Tierra sin pan, combined with thefilm’s collage aesthetic, beg for an even closer analysis of the film’s connection toBataille. In this respect too, as with his treatment of the legends and histories ofLas Hurdes, Lastra does not push his research and analysis far enough. Had heconsidered recent publications from Spain he would have found that much of theinformation that remains speculative or underdeveloped in his article forms thebasis of current revisions of the film.

The catalogues and monographs published on the occasion of Buñuel’scentenary offer an opportunity to see how Tierra sin pan remains a key film forunderstanding historical and contemporary discourse on issues of nationalism,

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authenticity and methodology. The Museo Extremeño e Iberoamericano de ArteContemporáneo published a catalogue to accompany its exhibition Las Hurdes: undocumental de Luis Buñuel. The essays by Agustín Sánchez Vidal and JavierHerrera Navarro survey the film’s sources, its production, the crew, and itsdistribution and reception. Sánchez Vidal’s contribution builds on his earlierresearch. With its clear and concise account of the film and its history, it will beuseful to scholars who want a general overview written by one of the leadingscholars on Buñuel. Both Sánchez Vidal and Herrera Navarro have alsocontributed to the Diputación de Huesca’s exhibition catalogue Luis Buñuel: el ojode la libertad, which includes essays by other writers and artists, among themJosé-Carlos Mainer, Emilio Sanz de Soto, Horacio Fernández and EmmanuelGuigon. One of the most important differences between these catalogues andLastra’s essay is in the recounting of the historical representations of Las Hurdesin the years before Tierra sin pan was filmed. Whereas Lastra focused onBuñuel’s debt to Maurice Legendre’s Las Jurdes: étude de géographie humaine, asource which has been even more fully explored in the aforementioned catalogues,and the histories of Las Hurdes appearing in the works of Lope de Vega andMiguel de Unamuno, he ignored the two visits to Las Hurdes made by KingAlfonso XIII. These visits, which were filmed and photographed and covered inMadrid’s leading illustrated magazine Estampa, were important influences onBuñuel’s choice of subject matter and his use of documentary. As a result of theKing’s visit and the literary and scientific accounts of Las Hurdes, the region waslocated at the centre of many debates within the Spanish parliament and thepopular press. To have included this within his discussion would have allowedLastra to directly address the question of difference, discrimination and politics inthe Second Republic.

Even more comprehensive than the catalogues published in Extremadura andHuesca is the one which accompanies the recent exhibition at the IVAM inValencia, Spain. Curated by Mercè Ibarz, Tierra sin pan: Luis Buñuel y losnuevos caminos de las vanguardias is based on her 1997 dissertation, which wasalso published in 1999 as Buñuel documental. ‘Tierra sin pan’ y su tiempo. LikeYasha David, Ibarz situates Buñuel’s film in the museum. To do this, writes theIVAM’s previous director, Juan Manuel Bonet, is to consciously include film inthe history of the avant-garde in Spain. The exhibition and catalogue broughttogether works of art created by Buñuel’s collaborators, printed matter from theperiod representing Las Hurdes and Tierra sin pan, and a rich collection of visualand textual material through which the reader is able to reconstruct the film’sspecific cultural and historical contexts. Ibarz, who has established herself as oneof the leading scholars on Tierra sin pan, offers a critical evaluation of the filmand a detailed account of the history of the life and work of the film’s crew and themany levels of the film’s reception in her essay ‘Un film y sus historias. Seisdécadas de Tierra sin pan’ (9-23).

In addition to clarifying aspects of Buñuel’s influences and the pre-history ofTierra sin pan as a documentary that Yves Allégret and Eli Lotar were originally

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going to film in 1932, Ibarz and historian Paul Hammond detail the multi-disciplinary crew. Along with Buñuel and Romanian photographer Eli Lotar,whose life and work has been known to surrealist scholars for years (Krauss,Livingston and Ades 1981; Eli Lotar 1993), another surrealist, Pierre Unik, aboutwhom little is known, co-wrote the narration and was hired by the French magazineVu to write articles on Las Hurdes, published in 1935. Perhaps Ibarz’s greatestcontribution to the field comes with her meticulous account of the participation ofRamón Acín and Rafael Sánchez Ventura, both of whom were active organizers inSpanish anarchist circles. Ibarz interprets their participation much more broadlythan previous writers. Most histories recount that it was through the lotterywinnings of Ramón Acín that Buñuel was able to finance the film’s production.However, none have uncovered the extent to which Acín also had political andpedagogical connections to Las Hurdes, even before Buñuel began filming there.Similarly, Sánchez Ventura, whose name appears as an assistant in the film’sopening credits, was much more of an integral part of the film’s realization thananyone had previously imagined.

Unlike Lastra (1999: 52), who emphasizes Buñuel’s dehumanization of theHurdanos, Ibarz repeatedly refers to Buñuel’s relationship with the Hurdanos as‘humanizing’ (12). She demonstrates that the inhabitants of Las Hurdes Altas wereactive collaborators in Tierra sin pan. More than bystanders to Buñuel’s creativevision, Ibarz provides evidence that the Hurdanos were paid for their roles in thefilm and that, because of their previous encounters with photographers andfilmmakers, they were highly aware of themselves as subjects. In Ibarz’s terms,Buñuel forged a ‘pact’ with the Hurdanos which enabled him to craft a vision ofLas Hurdes according to his own pre-scripted scenarios. These scenarios werebased on a multiplicity of sources that informed Buñuel’s understanding of LasHurdes and his previous trip to the region with Rafael Alberti and Pierre Unik.According to Ibarz, the relationship between Buñuel and the Hurdanos wasfacilitated by Acín and Sánchez Ventura, both of whom already had experiencewith the inhabitants of Las Hurdes as political organizers and educators. It is bytracing their important contributions that Ibarz lays the groundwork for herinterpretation of Tierra sin pan as an ‘anarcho-surrealist’ film.

Ibarz sees the year 1933 as a turning point in Buñuel’s life and in Europeanhistory. She examines the possible reasons why Buñuel might have chosen to focushis attention on Spain following his two previous films with Salvador Dalí. Afterwitnessing the Hollywood film industry at first hand and having distanced himselffrom Breton’s orthodox surrealism, Ibarz argues that Buñuel found a way out of apersonal and artistic crisis through the collaborative nature of Tierra sin pan andits critical deconstruction of previous modes of documentary practice. For Ibarz,the power of Buñuel’s ‘cinematic essay’ lies in its continued vitality. Rather thanlimit her study to the 1930s, Ibarz uses the specificity of history to provide aground upon which to reconstruct six decades of the film’s distribution andreception. Synthesizing research conducted on the film in Europe, Latin Americaand the United States, Ibarz provides historians with a vivid account of one of

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Buñuel’s most enigmatic films: a film, she argues, that can tell us as much aboutthe filmmaker and his crew as it does about the historians and critics who haveanalysed it.

I cannot argue with Ibarz about the film as a vehicle for creative expression. Itoo understand Buñuel’s relation to documentary practice to be one of critical andcreative engagement, whereby the structure of the film lays bare its own history.One can no longer approach Tierra sin pan without thinking of Maurice Legendre,Miguel de Unamuno, King Alfonso XIII and Gregorio Marañón. Nor can one viewthe film as belonging solely to Buñuel, to one genre or to one nationality. Indeed,the active participation of Lotar and Unik demonstrate that one can not approachTierra sin pan in terms that are limited to Spanish concerns of the 1930s. Nor do Ibelieve that we can limit the film’s aesthetic to one description. Here I differ withIbarz. Rather than define the film as ‘anarcho-surrealist’, I understand it to be indialogue as much with anarchism as it was with communism and many otherpolitical and artistic ‘isms’ of the early twentieth century. Photographs of the filmappeared throughout the 1930s in Spanish magazines with communist sympathies,and writers like César Arconada, Rafael Alberti and Manuel Villegas López allwrote enthusiastically about the film. Unfortunately, there is no record in Ibarz’sstudy of the film receiving similar attention from the anarchist press, nor is there aclear stylistic connection between Tierra sin pan and the majority of visual artsreproduced in anarchist magazines.4 Further, as Ibarz points out, Unik was amember of the Communist party and Lotar held strong leftist sympathies, eventhough both Acín and Sánchez Ventura were anarchists and played a central role inthe conception and production of the film. My criticisms, however, are ones ofemphasis and interpretation since Ibarz’s study sets a new benchmark for futurescholarship on Tierra sin pan, both in Spain and abroad.

Examination of the current bibliography on Tierra sin pan shows that the filmcontinues to present a challenge to scholars seeking to separate form, content andcontext. It demonstrates the falsity of the dichotomy that, until recently,characterized Buñuel scholarship. Filmed in Spain during the 1930s, Tierra sinpan cannot be considered outside of the specific historic and social conditionswithin which Buñuel negotiated the representation of rural Spain. Yet, at the sametime, the complexity of the film’s form and its collage of sources (literary andphotographic, Spanish and foreign) make it impossible to interpret it as a merereflection of biographical, national or international circumstances. Closing downpotential interpretations of the film by classifying it as surrealist, ethnographic,anarchist, etc. only denies its fundamentally interdisciplinary character. Buñuelincorporated many forms of knowledge and expression into the process ofproducing the film, including legend, geography, pedagogy, political reform,Spanish painting and avant-garde dissidence. With this in mind, we shouldapproach the filmmaker’s centenary and the expanding bibliography on his workwith as much critical attention as we have lavished upon his films.5 As Ibarzargues, in the process we learn as much about ourselves as we do about Buñuel.Why does a film about Las Hurdes continue to pose questions about nationalism,

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modernity and the relationship between form and ideology? In trying to answer thisquestion, we also learn about the limits of our own disciplines and the historicalconditions that may inform how and why we continue to be fascinated by the lifeand work of Luis Buñuel.

Notes1 For many years the film was considered to be shot during the spring of 1932, due largely toBuñuel’s own testimony and to the date given in the introduction to the film. It has now beendemonstrated that the film was shot in the spring of 1933 and edited during the summer. See‘L’Âge d’or. Correspondance Luis Buñuel-Charles de Noailles, lettres et documents (1929-1976)’,Les Cahiers du Musée National d’Art Moderne, Hors-Série/Archives (1993), letter 138; cited inSánchez Vidal (1993).2 The Buñuel Archive, which contains 9000 objects and documents and has been the property ofSpain’s Ministry of Culture since 1995, will now be located in the archives of the FilmotecaEspañola and the Residencia de Estudiantes. See Saturday 19 February 2000 editions of El Paísand ABC.3 See James Clifford’s essay, ‘On ethnographic surrealism’ (1988: 117-51).4 For examples of the use of photomontage in anarchist publications, see Forment i Romero (1992:623-7).5 Articles on Las Hurdes continue to appear in Spain and abroad. I cite only two of the mostrecent, which were published after the completion of this review: Javier Herrera Navarro (2000)‘Recepción crítica de “Las Hurdes” de Buñuel en Europa durante la guerra civil española’ inSecuencias: Revista de Historia de Cine 11 (I semester), 72-87; and Mercè Ibarz (2000) ‘Tierrasin pan: en el umbral del cine de Buñuel’ and ‘Del material descartado de Tierra sin pan’ inArchivos de la Filmoteca 34 (February), 8-25.

Works citedClifford, James (1988) The Predicament of Culture: Twentieth-Century Ethnography,

Literature, and Art (Cambridge: Harvard University Press).Conley, Tom (1987) ‘Documentary surrealism: on Land without Bread’, in Rudolf

Kuenzli (ed.), Dada and Surrealist Film (New York: Willis Locker and Owens),176-98.

David, Yasha (1996) Buñuel: la mirada del siglo (Madrid: MNCARS).Forment i Romero (1992) ‘Josep Renau en la revista Estudios: las series de

fotomontajes’, Primer Congreso de Historia del Arte Valenciano. Mayo 1992. Actas(Valencia: Generalitat Valenciana and Consellería de Cultura), 623-7.

Krauss, Rosalind, Jane Livingston and Dawn Ades (1981) L’Amour Fou: Photographyand Surrealism (New York: Abbeville Press).

Eli Lotar (1993) (Paris: Centre Georges Pompidou).Mendelson, Jordana (1996) ‘Contested territory: the politics of geography in Luis

Buñuel’s Las Hurdes: Tierra sin pan’, Locus Amoenus 2, 229-42.Rubenstein, E. (1983) ‘Visit to a familiar planet’, Cinema Journal 22.4, 3-15.Sánchez Vidal, Agustín (1993) El mundo de Luis Buñuel (Zaragoza: Caja de Ahoros de

la Inmaculada).Hurdes a Tierra sin pan’, in Las Hurdes/Tierra sin pan: un

documental de Luis Buñuel (Extremadura: Museo Extremeño e Iberoamericano deArte Contemporáneo), 38-75.

Un cine sin fronteras’, in Luis Buñuel: el ojo de la libertad (Diputación

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de Huesca), 25-46.Thomas, Nicholas (1994) ‘Colonial surrealism: Luis Buñuel’s Land without Bread’,

Third Text 26, 25-32.

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