Editorials
Luis Buñuel’s ‘The Exterminating Angel’ and its Ties to Modern Horror
Even if the name doesn’t immediately ring a bell, most horror fans are likely aware of the work of Spanish filmmaker Luis Buñuel. The director, who made films from 1929 all the way until 1977, is responsible for one of horror’s most iconic sequences: In his 1929 short Un chien andalou (The Andalusian Dog), a woman’s eyeball is graphically sliced open. While his collaborator, Salvador Dalí, often gets credit, as its director, Buñuel played a major role in creating the film that would inspire over a century of transgressive filmmaking.
Un chien andalou wasn’t Buñuel’s sole influence on horror. In fact, his whole career is tinged with horror influences, and many of his films use the lens of surreality to depict the grotesque, transgressive, and provocative. His 1930 film, L’Age d’Or, takes imagery from Marquis de Sade’s “The 120 Days of Sodom.” We see only the aftermath as the survivors of a vile libertine orgy are summarily executed. Although Buñuel gives just a glimpse of this profanity, Pier Paolo Pasolini later adapted de Sade’s book into Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom, which is celebrated and reviled as one of the most shocking films ever made.
Un chien andalou and L’Age d’Or aren’t alone in their horrific imagery; Buñuel flirted with the macabre for his entire career. His 1933 pseudo-documentary Land Without Bread amps up the brutality of the primitive Las Hurdes region of Spain, adding in staged animal deaths, and the partially staged funeral of an infant. Other films such as El Bruto, The Young and the Damned, and Viridiana waltz with themes of murder, incest, rape, and other depravities. While any one of his films is worthy of examination through the lens of horror, I believe his most persistent is his 1962 film, The Exterminating Angel (El ángel exterminador).
The Exterminating Angel is a surreal satire that tracks a group of wealthy socialites who become trapped in a room by an invisible force. That force is never explained, nothing blocks their egress, but any attempts to leave are denied by anxiety, distraction, and terror. As their imprisonment drags on, the film’s bourgeois protagonists are taunted by the open doors to the dining room and the food within, just out of reach. Instead, they’re forced to tear apart walls to find water, slaughter animals for food, and burn furniture for heat, and eventually plot murder, all while their confinement drives them further and further into madness.
Of course, every horror fan is already aware of the thin line between normal, day-to-day life and complete and utter brutality. Just look to virtually every final girl and the violent comeuppance they inflict on their slasher. Although there’s plenty in The Exterminating Angel for horror fans to love, some may think it doesn’t go far enough. It stops before it reaches downright cabin-fever-fueled carnage. If you’re in that camp, you’re not alone. Buñuel himself called the film a failure, and had he been able to remake it, he would have liked to show the imprisoned aristocrats descend into cannibalism.
Within the film’s already fascinating plot, there’s plenty of poignant social commentary that will be just as familiar to horror fans. Though the film can be interpreted a number of ways, many of its themes are undeniable and as relevant today as they ever were. We see isolation drive madness. We see tribes form in times of strife. We see murder become more and more appealing. More than anything, however, The Exterminating Angel explores the hypocrisy of the social elite and the thin strands of society that keep them from utter depravity.
While the rift between rich and poor was as alive-and-well when The Exterminating Angel was made as it is today, Buñuel instead depicted a somewhat different gap. The Exterminating Angel shows the moral disintegration of the elite when left to their own devices, regardless of their relationship with the lower class. The central figures in his film are miles above its other characters, in their wealth, power, and social standing. The servants, the military, the politicians, all have the good sense to flee before things go bad. The protagonists on the other-hand, dig in, entrenching themselves in their situation. Buñuel even hammers the point home by showing their initial entrance to the film’s central dinner party twice. Ultimately, for the audience, prosperity makes their Icarian plunge into degradation, depravity, and death all-the-more entertaining.
There’s a good reason for this. To the layman, unfathomable wealth and the power that it brings is, well, unfathomable. The elite commit crimes with impunity while the layman takes a lousy plea deal. The elite own yachts, private jets, and sports teams while the layman makes monthly payments on a 2006 Mazda Miata (on a salvage title, no less). The elite buy politicians while the layman struggles to make rent. This divide breeds resentment and envy, and their position makes it oh-so-satisfying to watch fall. Seeing monsters like Harvey Weinstein and Bill Cosby brought to justice will be celebrated for years. Who doesn’t like rooting against Jeff Bezos, Martin Shkreli, and Mark Zuckerberg and other CEOs who put their own profits ahead of people’s lives?
When Buñuel made The Exterminating Angel, he was living in Mexico after being essentially exiled from Spain for his inflammatory filmmaking. While his early filmmaking elicited the wrath of Francisco Franco’s fascist regime, his later films, including The Exterminating Angel, were no less scathing in their critique of Spain’s ruling class. If Roger Ebert’s glowing review of the film is to be believed, the guests represent Spain’s ruling class, who’ve become trapped in a hell of their own creation, where their bestial nature is revealed.
This theme isn’t uncommon in films about social and economic divides. In 2019 and 2020 alone, at least half a dozen horror films explore similar themes, and dozens more have been made in the last decade. Though some are more overt than others, they all explore the savagery and evil that the powerful are capable of when left to their own devices.
Go watch The Exterminating Angel.
It’s a breezy 95 minutes, and doesn’t drag at all. I’d also encourage those interested in the surrealist filmmaker to check out his other films. Un chien andalou and L’Age d’Or are certainly fascinating films, but their plotless, meandering nature makes them more difficult to watch compared to his later films. His final three films, The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoise (1972), The Phantom of Liberty (1974), and That Obscure Object of Desire (1977) are among his best.
If you’re more interested in some of the discrete parallels between The Exterminating Angel and more recent films, I’ve included a few examples below.
Ready or Not
In 2019’s Ready or Not, Samara Weaving plays Grace, a former foster child about to marry into the Le Domas gaming dynasty. On her wedding night, she’s subjected to a life-or-death game of hide-and-seek that the family plays to fulfill their end of a demonic pact.
For Grace and the audience, the rites of the Le Domas family are bizarre, cruel, and inhuman. They show an indifference towards human life that horrifies any observer with a hint of humanity. To the family, these events are part of life, and necessary to maintain their status. Every member takes it in stride, even the transplants — those not born into power, but who gained it through marriage — accept the murderous activity as worthwhile as long as it allows the family to maintain its power.
Much like The Exterminating Angel, Ready or Not shows the easy brutality of the ruling class. As we’ll see is a common theme, they consider the lower classes to be little more than animals, fit for hunting. They are, however, forced to go to these lengths to maintain power, with no option to give it up. Much like the dinner party in The Exterminating Angel, the family curse that granted them wealth demands their subservience. They’ve made their bed (albeit one with extremely high thread-count sheets) and they must sleep in it.
Satanic Panic
Satanic Panic follows Samantha Craft (Hayley Griffith) as she delivers pizza to a particularly wealthy neighborhood. Sam quickly learns that not only are these wealthy suburbanites poor tippers, they need her virgin womb for a Satanic ritual. Hilarity ensues.
The rites and ritual of the upper class are common themes in this style of film. In The Exterminating Angel, the dinner guests are bound by ritual. Theirs are the ritual of high-society: politeness, rigidity, obedience to hierarchy, and the like. Only when these rituals are broken, do the guests become trapped. In Satanic Panic rituals (albeit satanic ones) are essential to the film’s villains. Their central ethos of “Death to the weak. Wealth to the strong.” is central to nearly every film that explores these divides.
While Ready or Not and Satanic Panic are perhaps more “lowbrow” than much of Buñuel’s filmography, they share his view that the upper class are happy to sacrifice those below them for gain. They’ve given up a degree of humanity for power, and will sink to any depth to maintain it.
The Hunt
Much like Ready or Not, Craig Zobel’s 2020 political-splatter-satire (splattire?) focuses on a group of wealthy liberal elites hunting politically conservative human prey. Though The Hunt’s announcement in 2019 seemed to piss off nearly everyone, it was released in 2020 with little fanfare (the pre-pandemic timing certainly didn’t help either). While politics shrouded people’s early impressions, it became clear upon release that the film satirizes just about everyone, regardless of political leaning.
The film’s conservative stereotypes range from FloridaMan-incarnate to an unhinged conspiracy-vlogger, while its liberals are the most insufferable, tone-deaf coastal elites imaginable. Though The Hunt’s murderous liberals are a far cry from the fascists that Buñuel lampooned, the economic divide between the hunters and the hunted is as clear as night and day. The film’s victims, in particular its protagonist Crystal (Betty Gilpin), are all working-class people, while its villains are a slice of the absolute top tier of society, who can operate outside the law and hunt other humans on a relative whim.
Once again, extreme prosperity has driven the powerful to malicious boredom. Couple that with their juvenile temperaments and unlimited resources, and they have no problem chasing down their lessers like wild game.
Us
The societal divide in Jordan Peele’s 2019 film is more symbolic than the previous films mentioned, but just as on the nose. The film sees a society of subterranean doppelgangers rise up to murder their terrestrial doubles. The film makes it obvious that, in part, the dichotomy between humanity and their doppelgangers is symbolic of the gap between the upper and lower class.
In Us, the doppelgangers physically exist below humanity, and the “upper class” perceives them as less than human. We learn, however, that they’re capable of human actions, and ultimately are solely capable of mimicking the rituals of humanity proper. This relationship is reminiscent of that between the upper and lower class, and while Us depicts the ritualization of the mundane, the alien-ness of those activities is not unlike the more blatant examples in Ready or Not or Satanic Panic. Ultimately, we’re reminded by the end of the film that in many ways, the divide between the two halves is artificial, and a product of environment, not the fundamental lack of humanity that’s initially implied.
Of course, social divides, and the depravity of the powerful aren’t the only themes explored in The Exterminating Angel. Confinement plays just as important a role. Single location films are commonplace in horror. Cube, Evil Dead, Saw, and dozens of others deliver scares on a low budget by confining their characters to a single room. Nearly every haunted house film takes a similar approach, confining the haunting to a single building. These films, however, follow the vein of The Exterminating Angel by trapping their characters with an invisible force….
Parasite
Although not strictly horror (though certainly possessing some horror tropes), Bong Joon Ho’s Parasite has more overt parallels to The Exterminating Angel than any film in recent memory. The film’s pitch-black humor, coupled with sudden bursts of surreal violence feels like a page straight from Buñuel’s repertoire.
Once again, the wealthy are still treated as alien compared to the lower-class family at the film’s center. Unlike this list’s other entries, the wealthy are targets. Their inability to interact normally with the working class makes them easy to fool, and perfect prey for the film’s family of grifters.
Both films are deeply interested in the confinement of their characters. Despite having the freedom to come and go, the servant-class family in Parasite effectively trap themselves in the world of the rich, and find themselves unable to escape figuratively and literally throughout the film. While Buñuel was obsessed with the wealthy, Bong Joon Ho’s Oscar-winning film is far more interested in how the lower class acts in the world of the wealthy.
Swallow
Carlo Mirabella-Davis’s film Swallow explores many similar themes to The Exterminating Angel. Swallow’s protagonist, Hunter, comes from a working-class background but has married into wealth, and in doing so has become trapped in home-maker life. Her emotionally abusive husband dictates nearly every facet of her life, and she’s left with little escape besides her compulsion to swallow increasingly dangerous objects.
Although played straight, Swallow seems constantly on the verge of surreality, if only because of the grotesque nature of Hunter’s compulsion. Rather than depict the objects as disgusting, the items she consumes are all shot to look as appetizing as possible. Marbles, thumbtacks, and even dirt are revealed through a loving lens, and look shockingly tantalizing as Hunter swallows them. The result is unsettling and somewhat fetishistic, and would fit right at home beside Bunuel, who’s no stranger to fetishistic filmmaking.
Mother!
I’ve saved Darren Aronofsky’s 2017 film as it’s overtly Buñuel-ian. A woman is tormented by an unending torrent of guests who her husband invites in and who refuse to leave. The film has all the surreality, impossible circumstances, and thick socio-political vibes of The Exterminating Angel, but wrapped in an anxiety-ridden horror shell.
I don’t think I’ve said it, at least not explicitly, but the first time I saw The Exterminating Angel it terrified me. I can’t quite explain why, but the purposelessness of the characters’ confinement plucked my existential dread nerve in just the right way. Mother! plucked that same nerve.
Both films evoke tiny, needling anxieties. Mother! deftly hits the “my neighbor is talking to me while I get the mail” or “I wish these dinner guests would leave” anxieties. The Exterminating Angel, similarly, hits the “can’t we leave this party?” and the “can’t I just end this conversation?” anxieties. Both films, at times, feel like cinematic panic attacks — downward spirals with no escape.
As you can see, despite a lack of significant mainstream recognition, Buñuel’s influence lives on in modern horror, as do the themes he explored. His blend of surrealism, pitch-black humor, transgressive imagery, and social commentary fits perfectly within the zeitgeist of contemporary horror.
Although these are a few obvious examples, they’re in no way alone. The wildly successful Purge series pits upper and lower classes against one another (and themselves) in an annual murder holiday. The Saw series has its Buñuel-ian moments as well, though it goes further and further off the rails as the series progresses. Other auteur and arthouse horrors evoke similar vibes. Hagazussa, The Witch, Santa Sangre, Jonathan Glazer’s Birth, and countless others all tread similar ground, and countless future films surely will as well.
Editorials
How Marina de Van Uses Body Horror and Pain to Explore Trauma in ‘In My Skin’ and ‘Dark Touch’
Pain is the language of New French Extremity.
Known for excruciating violence and gore, what often distinguishes these visceral films is the depiction of emotional turmoil manifested as the destruction of human flesh. Few filmmakers make this comparison so literally as Marina de Van.
The French writer/director burst onto the scene in 2002 with her shocking In My Skin, a tale of self-discovery via grisly self-harm. Eleven years later, she would write and direct Dark Touch, the harrowing story of a traumatized girl who expresses her pain through telekinetic force.
Though they differ wildly in tone and subject, both In My Skin and Dark Touch deal with the horror of unexpressed agony and its tendency to break the skin, ripping and shredding through anything in its path.
In My Skin (2002): Self-Harm as a Response to Emotional Repression

This intensely personal film stars de Van as Esther, a corporate analyst on the verge of having it all. Her adoring boyfriend Vincent (Laurent Lucas) is poised to move in, and she’s been targeted for promotion thanks to her diligent work. During a high-pressure networking party, Esther wanders outside and trips over an open construction site, ripping her pants on an abandoned tool. It’s only later that she notices blood on the floor and realizes that she’s torn the skin of her calf as well. Surprisingly, Esther has not felt a thing.
The surgeon who stitches up the wound marvels at this lack of sensitivity, wondering if the problem is not her shredded flesh — she’s still able to feel the lightest touch — but a misalignment in her head. This wound unlocks a disturbing pattern of dissociative self-mutilation as Esther begins cutting and gouging her skin to cope with moments of emotional stress.
Her first intentional act of self-harm follows a minor mistake in a document. After noticing that she’s misused a word, Esther fixes the error, then sneaks away to slice her thigh with a stray piece of metal. Though she has caught the mistake herself, Esther anticipates punishment for imperfection. The subsequent wound on her thigh is proof that she has paid for her transgression and can now return to solid ground, having completed the cycle of shameful correction.
As we peel back the layers of Esther’s life, we’re aghast at the toxicity of her environment. The inciting fall happens shortly after she politely declines a dinner invitation from her older colleague, an inappropriate sexual advance dressed up as an offer for mentorship. At another party, her male coworkers drag her towards the pool, threatening to pull off her pants when she screams that she’s not wearing a bathing suit.
Esther flees this disturbing scene, but not because of the men’s aggressiveness. She’s disturbed to find that her struggle to break free has reopened the still-healing wound on her leg, causing unsightly blood to seep through her pants. Like many women in the corporate world, she’s been conditioned to view her presence as an optional privilege and to create comfort for her male colleagues. Should she negatively react to their atrocious behavior, they may deem her “too emotional” and take away her hard-earned position.

But this toxic environment only exacerbates Esther’s need to self-harm. At a working dinner, a wealthy client pressures her to drink expensive wine, then continues to refill her glass. Increasingly unmoored, Esther finds her hand creeping onto her dinner plate. After repeatedly dragging it out of her food, she notices the appendage lying limp on the table, completely disconnected from her upper arm. This surrealist moment in an otherwise grounded film is a turning point in her violent journey. Esther sees how desensitized her body has become and the lengths she will go to perform unobtrusive compliance.
Desperate to regain control, Esther gouges her forearm with a steak knife stolen from the table, hiding the carnage under a napkin. Humiliated, she concludes the evening in a nearby hotel, where she indulges this dangerous new compulsion. For hours, Esther lovingly slices her arms and legs, gnawing on loose flesh and suckling blood from extensive wounds. She seems enamored with her ability to feel again without being perceived by anyone else.
Disturbed by her scars, Vincent offers shaky support while contributing to Esther’s unexpressed pain. During an intense discussion about buying their first home, Esther forgets her PIN at an ATM and bursts into tears on the street. Vincent offers an easy solution, only showing his frustration behind closed doors. He lashes out at his stunned girlfriend, conflating her emotional stress with his own inadequacy.
Clearly destabilized by her tears, Vincent baits Esther into soothing him, an echo of the cycle she performs at work. We see that even at home, her emotional needs come second to men who are unequipped to handle their own feelings. Esther has internalized the responsibility of managing Vincent alongside the message that any break in her calm demeanor will lead to more suffering later on.

In the wake of this argument and a rebuke from her boss, Esther suffers a panic attack while walking to work. In a daze, she buys another knife, then takes a hotel room for the day. Blood runs over Esther’s face as she again luxuriates in self-mutilation. De Van finds an uneasy juxtaposition between gruesome carnage and euphoric escape. Alone again with her exquisite pain, Esther seductively runs the knife over her face, digging into the skin around her eye. She chemically preserves a severed piece of flesh then lovingly tucks it inside her bra, a keepsake to honor this violent vacation.
The next day, Esther prepares for work, pulling office attire over her blood-stained skin. De Van does not follow her out the door, leaving us to imagine how she will be received by the men in her life. Will they finally see what they’ve put her through, or will life continue as before, with Esther pretending that nothing is wrong and performing perfection until her body gives out? De Van ends the film with the striking image of Esther lying on the hotel bed, fixing the audience with a knowing stare. Though she carefully hides her fragility, we alone have seen the true cost of survival in this destructive world.
Dark Touch (2013): Trauma, Abuse, and Supernatural Revenge

In many ways, this shocking story of catharsis through violence feels like a thematic response to In My Skin and Esther’s unexpressed pain. Also written and directed by de Van, Dark Touch follows an Irish girl named Niamh (Missy Keating) who becomes the sole survivor of a massacre.
We first meet this little girl screaming from her bedroom window, then running through the stormy night to the house of family friends Nat (Marcella Plunkett) and Lucas Galin (Pádraic Delaney). Niamh’s parents smooth over the incident, presenting the illusion of a happy home. It’s only when the doors are closed that we realize something is dreadfully wrong. De Van implies the worst as the sinister couple creeps into their daughter’s room, commanding her to be a “good girl.” But Niamh is saved from horrific abuse by furniture that seems to move on its own.
De Van leans into her French Extremity roots in what will become a gruesome execution. Niamh’s mother is crushed by a splintering bureau, a loose screw driving itself into her face. Her father watches his wife’s grisly death, then falls on the blades of an ultra-modern light fixture. Flames spread through the house as Niamh cradles her infant brother in a tiny cupboard. When rescuers arrive on the scene, we learn that the baby boy has died, mysteriously smothered by an inhuman force. Now an orphan, Niamh goes to stay with Nat and Lucas, who struggle to meet her emotional needs. Unable to explain her traumatic past, Niamh finds that things move whenever she cries, an outward manifestation of her silenced rage.

Though Nat and Lucas offer support, they only seem to make things worse. Lucas volunteers to stay in Niamh’s room when she has a bad dream, oblivious to the discomfort his presence might cause. Growing impatient when she can’t fall asleep, a snide comment betrays his empty concern. Niamh finally finds solace in photos of the couple’s older daughter, who died from cancer years ago. She clings to an image of the little girl blowing out birthday candles while covered in bruises, drawn to the familiar juxtaposition of a child suffering through visible pain while going about life as if nothing is wrong.
But this too enrages Lucas. When he finds the pictures under her bed, the weeping father shakes Niamh and demands to know what gives her the right to bring up such a devastating memory. While perhaps understandable, Lucas’ reaction tells the traumatized girl that his comfort is the true priority, and she is not allowed to soothe herself.
Niamh’s only friends in the tiny town are young siblings from a similarly violent home. Whistling to them in the night, Niamh uses her emerging telekinesis to kill their abusive mother in an attack similar to the one that destroyed her own family. When Nat arranges for Niamh to attend a birthday party, she bristles at the other girls’ treatment of their baby dolls. They slap and rip at their faux children’s hair, seeming to process their own quasi-abusive upbringing. As she bursts into tears, Niamh spreads fire through the party and melts the faces of the mistreated dolls. That night, she lures the children to school and then destroys the building, violently disrupting what she interprets as a continuous cycle of child abuse.

Next, Niamh turns her attention to her foster parents, telepathically trapping them in her former home. For hours, she puts them through a series of torturous humiliations we assume she endured at her own parents’ hands. Now, Nat and Lucas must suffer in silence as Niamh finally reveals the extent of her misery. Forced to sit with their tormentor at a dinner table, Nat and Lucas quietly weep as flames spread throughout the home. Like Naimh once did, they go through the motions of a happy family, unable to protect themselves. Their foster daughter smiles as the fire consumes them all, finally putting an end to her tragic life.
Despite this murderous conclusion, Niamh is not a traditional villain. She’s a horrifically abused little girl who can’t find a way to express her pain. Though she’s managed to remove herself from immediate danger, every attempt to heal is met with stigma, resentment, or the burden of caring for someone else. When her trauma becomes too uncomfortable, she’s advised to simply stay out of sight.
Like Esther, Niamh exists in a world that expects her to create comfort for everyone else, regardless of the suffering it causes her. But Niamh’s agony can no longer be contained. Abandoning all hope for a happy life, she channels her rage and destroys anyone who crosses her path. Perhaps this is not fair to Nat and Lucas or the children of this tiny town. But what happened to Niamh is also unfair, and her trauma can no longer be ignored.
Though they do not narratively connect, Dark Touch feels like a spiritual successor to In My Skin. Both Esther and Niamh try to swallow their pain, but find it too great to be contained. We leave Esther struggling to stay afloat in a world of male toxicity. Picking up Niamh’s story at a similar moment, we watch the child escape her own abuse only to find that the world doesn’t really care. Her community will only offer support if it doesn’t disrupt their own lives.
Though de Van does not offer us hopeful endings, there’s grim satisfaction in revealing the world as it is, one built on the expectation that women will suffer in silence. Both In My Skin and Dark Touch seem to argue that a society built on women’s pain does not deserve a second chance.










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