In this film, Bunuel gives us the delirium of the moving image. The image is not a document; it is not a record: it is a multiplier, not just in the sense that it doubles this world but in that the image itself is multiple. This film careens. Its giddy with the possibility of itself. And what's so surprising is that this possibility, this multiplicity, does not give way to chaos. One of the conspicuous components of the film is its contrivance, its control, its steady timbre. As dreams defer, they multiply and as they multiply the fold the texture of the world onto and over itself. Which is to say, the dreams are not just random meanderings but workings over of the film itself, a metabolic engine, a dream machine.