Conchita in “Cet obscur objet du désir”: A Timeless Enigma

Luis Buñuel’s final film, Cet obscur objet du désir (1977), offers a compelling study of obsession, power, and the ever-elusive nature of human longing. At its center is Conchita, portrayed—quite audaciously—by two actresses: Carole Bouquet and Ángela Molina. Although these performers differ in appearance and manner, many first-time viewers fail to notice the switch, sensing only a vague sense that something is “off.” This subtle dual casting mirrors the way Conchita herself eludes being pinned down; she’s at once icy and sensuous, tender and cruel, shifting in form to match—and mock—the male protagonist Mathieu’s fervent but futile desire to possess her.

Such casting isn’t simply a gimmick; it reflects Buñuel’s larger critique of how men project their fantasies onto women. As Conchita reappears in different places and jobs, she seems less like a single, consistent individual and more like a floating ideal—an amalgam of youth and beauty that captivates Mathieu without ever granting him satisfaction. The more he pursues her, the more he becomes trapped in a loop of longing and denial, his frustration intensifying each time she rejects or humiliates him. Conchita’s power lies precisely in her ability to evade definition: by constantly changing, she ensures that Mathieu can neither fully know nor possess her.

From a surreal perspective, these “coincidental” encounters and abrupt transformations highlight Buñuel’s belief that desire itself is unstable, shaped by the fleeting illusions we project onto others. Conchita symbolizes this fluidity by appearing in a variety of guises, revealing how easily a man might fall for the mere idea of a woman. It may not matter which actress portrays her—Carole Bouquet’s cool detachment or Ángela Molina’s earthy passion—because, for Mathieu, she merely represents an abstract “object of desire.” The character’s essence depends less on who she is than on what she arouses in him.

Yet, it’s important to note that Cet obscur objet du désir isn’t solely about male fantasies. Conchita’s calculated withholding of intimacy undermines the typical power imbalance where a wealthy, older suitor might expect to win over a younger lover. She denies him that certainty, turning the tables to control the terms of every encounter. This dynamic, alongside the film’s cyclical narrative structure and subtle editing choices, underscores the idea that erotic obsession feeds on absence—an itch left perpetually unscratched. The result is a film that refuses easy resolutions: Conchita remains forever elusive, a multi-faced reminder of how we chase after fantasies that no single person could—or should—ever embody.