When I think of the films of Luis Buñuel, the first image that comes to mind is that of the corpse of a murdered child. Her legs are strewn among the branches of deep, dark woodland, and her legs covered in snails.

The image in question is from Buñuel’s 1964 film Diary Of A Chambermaid; a relatively straight film for the director and lacking the overt surrealism that he was known for. Based on the admittedly trite novel by anarchist libertine Octave Mirbeau, the narrative follows new maid Céléstine (Jeanne Moreau) who takes up residence in the country house of an eccentric, troubled family.

She indulges the various male employers’ needs and fetishes which range from simple flirtation to a leather boot fixation. An abrasive gardener with fascist leanings, Joseph (Georges Géret), is most enamoured with her, however, though this doesn’t stop him violently murdering and raping a little girl called Claire (Dominique Sauvage) on the estate. Determined to prove his guilt, Céléstine tries to plant evidence and have him charged. But the man’s political leanings in an age of rising fascism guarantees his freedom and the film ends in Joseph’s new café in Cherbourg as a fascist parade marches by.

The film is essentially about the violence and fetishism that goes hand-in-hand with hatred. There are so many subdivisions within the film through its variety of characters, however, that to generalise about its intention can undermine its detail. The main theme is of course fascism; its sleazy rise, the hatred and hypocrisy that propels it and the silence that contributes to its growth.

It may be for this reason that I find the image in question so poignant, so disturbing and yet so in touch with the land too. The central murder at the heart of the film is never seen but is instead abstractly portrayed. Joseph is taking his cart through the woods when he comes across Claire. She was merely wandering through, collecting snails and eating blackberries. He offers her a lift but she refuses and goes back into the forest. He carries on his way but thoughts clearly begin to circle within him. He checks the surroundings to make sure no one is around before leaving the cart and running into the forest after her.

Buñuel cuts to an obvious symbolism, first a hog running in the forest and then a baby rabbit before cutting again. This time the image is stark and not strictly chronologically measured as clearly some minutes have passed between cuts. It now shows the girl’s legs intermingled with the bark and bracken, black blood covering her skin.

Most essential is the way Buñuel films this image. Snails are making their way slowly across her legs, escaping from their basket. There is so much potential reading into it, some of which is horrific (the slimy trail being left on her legs etc.), that it is surprising to find it not last longer than it does; such is the nature of the scene, it is likely that its short length is in avoidance of potential censorship.

There is an intriguing relationship to place in this image too, a disturbing naturalism in the relationship between violence, the body and the rural. The snails crawl over the dead girls legs like they were just another branch or log, and the legs are filmed as if part of the forest; mere foliage or debris. She becomes one with the soil through the violence committed against her. For all of its blood and soil wailing, this is the hypocrisy of fascism; the only blood in the soil will ultimately be that of the innocent.

Buñuel had a noted love of insects and invertebrates since before his filmmaking began. His image of ants rummaging around in a hand in Un Chien Andalou (1929) is one of his most famous. Ants are in this film too, crawling over a glass shed which is quickly smashed by an incoming piece of rubbish from the film’s aggravated neighbour. But the snails are the most horrifyingly memorable

Buñuel once admitted that he had ‘always found insects exciting.’ He never specified precisely what was exciting about them, however. The strangeness of insects and animals generally in Diary of a Chambermaid evidently creates potential symbolism – especially in an earlier scene where a butterfly is literally obliterated by a rifle shot – but I return again and again to the snails making their way over the dead girl’s legs.

The image reflects the quiet perversity on display throughout the whole film, the brushing aside of every moral fibre with unrepentant violence. But there is also a sense that the land will grow over everything, even the frustrations of those isolated by in the country houses; those who ultimately enable such fascism through mere boredom or disinterest. As Céléstine suggests ‘It’s strange, how the country always seems sad. I guess, people don’t have much fun here.’