Filmmaking seems to me a transistory and threatened art. It is very closely bound up with technical developments. If in thirty or fifty years the screen no longer exists, if editing isn’t necessary, cinema will have ceased to exist. It will have become something else. That’s already almost the case when a film is shown on television: the smallness of the screen falsifies everything. What will remain, then, of my films? I don’t think very highly at all of most of them. I have a certain fondness for only about ten, which isn’t many in relation to all that I have made: L’Age d’or, above all; Nazarín; Un Chien andalou; Simon of the Desert; Los Olvidados, the preparation of which brought me in touch with juvenile delinquency and plunged me into the heart of Mexican misery; Viridiana; Robinson Crusoe; The Criminal Life of Archibaldo de la Cruz; The Milky Way; The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie . . .
Those are the films that best express my vision of life.