Francés/French | Subs: Castellano/English
251 min | DivX 640x400 | 591 kb/s | 205 kb/s mp3 VBR | 25 fps
1.4 GB + 3% recuperación/recovery
La tristeza y la piedad, realizada por Marcel Ophüls (hijo del genial director vienés Max Ophüls), donde se narra la vida cotidiana en la ciudad francesa de Clermont-Ferrand bajo la ocupación alemana, la subterránea, cuando no patente, disposición colaboracionista y comprensiva de gran parte de la población, de la gente corriente, hacia el invasor, la actitud de sumisión y apaciguamiento hacia el nazismo, el antisemitismo; se observan allí comportamientos pasmosos y se escuchan comentarios que sobrecogen y algunas reflexiones que dan que pensar.
The Sorrow and the Pity is not only the greatest documentary film ever made, but also one of the greatest films of any kind. A straightforward description of the film seems to promise limitless boredom: more than four hours of talking-head interviews in at least three different languages, blended with old wartime footage and occasional clips from the likes of Maurice Chevalier. But Ophüls' mastery of film technique allows him to create a thinking-person's masterpiece from these seemingly mundane parts. He interviews people who experienced the Occupation (in the late 60s, when the film was being made, many of them were still alive). Some are famous "big names" of history, such as Pierre Mendes-France, imprisoned during the war, Premier of France later in life, and Sir Anthony Eden, a British prime minister in the mid-50s. But even these men are noteworthy more for their actions as "regular" folks than as statesmen, and the true "stars" of the movie are the various "common men" who tell their personal stories. The Grave brothers, for instance, local farmers who fought in the Resistance, are as far as one might get from Jean-Paul Belmondo, but their pleasure with life and their remembrances of friends and foes during the Occupation establish them as real life heroes.
Nearly forty years down the road, Ophüls' methodology is as interesting as the history he tells. Merely claiming that Ophüls had an argument seems to work against the surface of his film, for he disguises his point of view, his argument, behind the reminiscing of his interview subjects. The film is a classic of humanist culture in large part because Ophüls, in giving the people the chance to say their piece, apparently puts his faith in those people (and in the audience that watches them) to impart "truth." However, the filmmaker is much cannier than this; he is not artless. The editing of the various perspectives in the movie allows the viewer to form conclusions of their own that don't always match those of the people who are doing the talking in the film. In fact, The Sorrow and the Pity makes great demands on the viewer, not just because of the film's length: Ophüls assumes you are processing the information he's providing, and so the film gets better as it progresses, with the viewer's attention being rewarded in direct correlation with the effort you put in.