Just a year later, Ingmar Bergman unleashed his titanic Socratic dialogue, Winter Light (Nattvardsgästerna), a film that is manifold greater a work of art in every aspect than this film — technically, in terms of screenplay and characterization, as well as daring in its scathing political condemnation of organized religion. The best that Buñuel apologists can muster, by contrast, is offering bon mots like claiming that the film critiques the Roman Catholic premise that poverty is noble. Even if one grants that that might be the main thrust of the film (I do not), it does not do it nearly as well as other films that tackle the pros and cons of religion.

And technically, the cinematography is pedestrian in the extreme. There are no indelible images, although Buñuel tries to make the Last Supper bit impress. Yet, it is so contrived, out of nowhere - to the point where Buñuel had to add in other extras, for he lacked the requisite number of indigents - that it reminds one of an impudent thumbing his nose at authority, just to do so, for thumbing his nose is his only reason for the film.

As for the scoring, while the "Hallelujah Chorus" from Handel’s Messiah is always great to hear, it is out of place in all the instances it is deployed. Only the ending rockabilly tune shows any bit of inspiration. That and the scene with the leashed dog are all this film can claim in a truly artistic vein, but they constitute perhaps four of the film’s ninety minutes. The other 86 minutes are a chore.

Yes, Buñuel is not as pretentious and lacking in filmic basics as that other Surreal fraud, Jean Cocteau; so what? That doesn’t make Buñuel a master; not even close, despite all the praise tossed his way. Viridiana fails not for a huge error or two, but for an unending string of little wrong and inane things, such as ridiculous symbolism - Viridiana sleepwalks and tosses ashes into Jaime’s bed - and a film that moves far too quickly and gives no real insight into anything, especially its characters. For ellipses to work, they must be deployed within well-defined characterization, so that viewers can reasonably extrapolate the elided events. Without that, the missing elements shortchange both the tale and the characters.

Furthermore, the film’s criticism of Roman Catholicism is absolutely depthless; it has been done before and since, and done better. There is no intellectual rigor, nor a hint of poesy. The political intent overwhelms the minuscule art. And without real characters, who gives a damn what is intended? The exercise is rendered pointless by its own incompetence, something that haunts most of the Buñuel canon, which may explain why Viridiana - film and character - have such vacancies in their gazes.