The last twenty five years of Spanish filmography have produced a number of titles which have indulged in sociological themes, mostly using the years of the Franco Régime as a background when not a mere scapegoat. El Sur (Victor Erice)(qv), Las Ratas (Giménez Rico)(qv), Las Bicicletas son para el Verano (Jaime Chávarri) as well as several by the now deceased Pilar Miró, come to mind. But perhaps none reach the powerful endorsement achieved in Los Santos Inocentes, carefully and predictably directed by Mario Camus. Faithfully transferred from the book by Miguel Delibes, also author of Las Ratas, as well as singularly impressive narratives such as Cinco Horas con Mario, a true tour de force in contemporary literature, and the intensely lyrical and moving El Camino, Camus inspired the principal actors - Paco Rabal, Alfredo Landa and Terele Pávez - into producing some memorable scenes.
Scenes of illiterate peasants obeying their master, landowner, insensible to everything except his passion for hunting; peasants who were so hugely grateful for the handful of pennies so compassionately handed out by the rich duchess; peasants who grovelled in the filth of their mean shack and could barely write their own names. Spain: about 1962 if the registration number of the big black Mercedes is anything to go by. Spain, in the region called Extremadura, which even today is the poorest part of the country. Spain, governed by a dictator who himself was extremely uncultured.
Camus, armed with the simple but sincere exposition in Delibes' novel, manages to show this plight, but without the tremendism so frequent in Spanish books or films; without any soured feelings, but dispassionately, like a surgeon operating for the five hundredth time on gall-stones. The story was there to be told and not sympathized over. Not for the pop-corn eating public, more for the discerning cinema-goer who can give what the film demands: attention to details. The incision is precise, exact, giving greater credibility to this little masterpiece.
Scenes of illiterate peasants obeying their master, landowner, insensible to everything except his passion for hunting; peasants who were so hugely grateful for the handful of pennies so compassionately handed out by the rich duchess; peasants who grovelled in the filth of their mean shack and could barely write their own names. Spain: about 1962 if the registration number of the big black Mercedes is anything to go by. Spain, in the region called Extremadura, which even today is the poorest part of the country. Spain, governed by a dictator who himself was extremely uncultured.
Camus, armed with the simple but sincere exposition in Delibes' novel, manages to show this plight, but without the tremendism so frequent in Spanish books or films; without any soured feelings, but dispassionately, like a surgeon operating for the five hundredth time on gall-stones. The story was there to be told and not sympathized over. Not for the pop-corn eating public, more for the discerning cinema-goer who can give what the film demands: attention to details. The incision is precise, exact, giving greater credibility to this little masterpiece.