As an early sound film, L’Âge d’or speaks sparingly, preferring silence, crackle, and stray music to dialogue—a jolt rather than an explanation. The plot keeps slipping away: lovers advance, conventions buckle, and respectability is skewered by dream logic.
Buñuel trains his sights on the Church, the bourgeois table, and the cosy club of “proper” society. You can see seeds of his later set pieces—The Exterminating Angel’s social suffocation and The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie’s blocked dinner—already sprouting, unruly and gleefully impolite.
The surrealism is the point. Images land like jokes in a foreign tongue you somehow get: a kick to good manners, then a wink. Uneven and dated in spots, more provocation than payoff—but the sting remains. Not a banquet; an amuse-bouche of anarchy, still bracing.