My Last Sigh: The Autobiography of Luis Bunuel,New

Product DescriptionA provocative memoir from Luis Buuel, the Academy Award winning creator of some of modern cinema's most important films, from Un Chien Andalou to The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie.Luis Buuels films have the power to shock, inspire, and reinvent our world. Now, in a memoir that carries all the surrealism and subversion of his cinema, Buuel turns his artistic gaze inward. In swift and generous prose, Buuel traces the surprising contours of his life, from the Good Friday drumbeats of his childhood to the dreams that inspired his most famous films to his turbulent friendships with Federico Garca Lorca and Salvador Dal. His personal narratives also encompass the pressing political issues of his time, many of which still haunt us todaythe specter of fascism, the culture wars, the nuclear bomb. Filled with film trivia, framed by Buuels intellect and wit, this is essential reading for fans of cinema and for anyone who has ever wanted to see the world through a surrealists eyes.Review'May be quite simply the loveliest testament ever left by a film director.' The New York Times Book Review'One of the best books ever offered by a moviemaker. Buuel is the proper human landmark for a moment when Europe met America and the schemes of religion, property, and progress were reassessed as dreams.' The New RepublicAbout the AuthorLuis Buuel (19001983) was one of the twentieth centurys greatest filmmakers. His many credits include Un Chien Andalou (1924), which he conceived with Salvador Dal, and The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie (1972), which won the Academy Award for Best Foreign Film.Excerpt. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.1MemoryDURING the last ten years of her life, my mother gradually lost her memory. When I went to see her in Saragossa, where she lived with my brothers, I watched the way she read magazines, turning the pages carefully, one by one, from the first to the last. When she finished, I'd take the magazine from her, then give it back, only to see her leaf through it again, slowly, page by page. She was in perfect physical health and remarkably agile for her age, but in the end she no longer recognized her children. She didn't know who we were, or who she was. I'd walk into her room, kiss her, sit with her awhile. Sometimes I'd leave, then turn around and walk back in again. She greeted me with the same smile and invited me to sit downas if she were seeing me for the first time. She didn't remember my name.When I was a schoolboy in Saragossa, I knew the names of all the Visigoth kings of Spain by heart, as well as the areas and populations of each country in Europe. In fact, I was a goldmine of useless facts. These mechanical pyrotechnics were the object of countless jokes; students who were particularly good at it were called memoriones. Virtuoso memorin that I was, I too had nothing but contempt for such pedestrian exercises. Now, of course, I'm not so scornful. As time goes by, we don't give a second thought to all the memories we so unconsciously accumulate, until suddenly, one day, we can't think of the name of a good friend or a relative. It's simply gone; we've forgotten it. In vain, we struggle furiously to think of a commonplace word. It's on the tip of our tongues but refuses to go any farther. Once this happens, there are other lapses, and only then do we understand, and acknowledge, the importance of memory. This sort of amnesia came upon me first as I neared seventy. It started with proper names, and with the immediate past. Where did I put my lighter? (I had it in my hand just five minutes ago!) What did I want to say when I started this sentence? All too soon, the amnesia spreads, covering events that happened a few months or years agothe name of that hotel I stayed at in Madrid in May 1980, the title of a book I was so excited about six months ago. I search and search, but it's always futile, and I can only wait for the final am