All language subtitles for Mondo Cane ENG

MONDO CANE

"...to neglect
your respectable engagements"

and to be here with us,
remembering and celebrating

one of the many children
that this generous land

gave to the world
of culture and art.

"Rodolfo Guglielmi,
a son of this land..."

We are at Castellaneta,
in the province of Taranto,

where Mister Semeraro,

vice minister
of the cultural affairs,

is commemorating the honorable
citizen Rodolfo Guglielmi,

son of the late Giovanni
and Gabriella Barbi,

born here on May 6, 1895,

who died in America
on August 15, 1926.

"...But his persistence,"

his energetic nature,
prevailed and captured

the attention of those who
worked in the movie industry

then starting to come to life.

...his path was not spread
with roses,

but there were thorns,
and many of them.

The Latin actors were given
the most hateful roles:

the hoodlum, the bad guy,

"the man to be eliminated."

At Castellaneta, the community
consists of a few families,

all related.

A lot of the Guglielmi blood
flows among this crowd

that counts dozens of
close and far relatives

of the great late actor.

Among them we can easily find
some legitimate resemblance

with the fateful Rodolfo
who smothered with love

the women of half the world.

"And I'm now glad
to stress the opinion"

expressed on Valentino
during his trip to Italy...“

For 30 years,

the young men of Castellaneta
have been waiting

for the movie industry
to discover among them

the heir of the great Deceased.

Finally, tonight
the lights go on.

The cameras start humming.

Many anxious eyes
look into the lenses.

Yes, in this little rural
town of the Apulia,

where the land is not generous,

the opportunities offered by
the movie industry seem more

appealing than those offered
by the agricultural reform.

Castellaneta's night
smells more like pomade

than like ripe crops.

And the young one's dream,

enraptured by the sweet
rhythm of tango.

"...of the other communities."

But, alas, in Rossano Brazzi,

Rodolfo Valentino has
found his heir a long time ago.

It's for him today
to perpetuate in America

the Valentinian myth
of the Italian lover.

That sort of Mr. Love-muscle
that for thirty years

thirty thousand American women
expect to be an Italian.

Poor Brazzi!
Look what happened to him

when he went to
a big department store

to take shirt measurements
for advertising purposes.

But if American
women are for real,

these women are not joking.

Do you know what they want from
their suntanned Rossano Brazzi?

Well, all we can tell you is
they don't want his autograph.

East of New Guinea,
lies the Trobriand archipelago.

And this is Kiriwina,
the biggest island,

surrounded by dreamlike
beaches and probably

the most beautiful
coral ocean in the world.

Here, the sun shines eternally,
the land is generous,

and nobody works.

Consequently, the general mood
leans toward having a good time.

These women, attractive
and carefree about love,

have been practicing for
centuries on these beaches,

one sport that, here too,
is very popular:

hunting the male.

This sport made them
so famous in the world

that today there isn't
one respectable anthropologist

who doesn't refer
to this archipelago

as one of the few places
in the world

where women still
practice polygamy.

As you can see,
even in Kiriwina,

the rules of the game
remain unchanged.

The male, once captured,
is democratically assigned

to the healthy and thrifty love
appetite of the community.

With maybe the only difference
that here, it's not a custom

to tear up his shirt.

And the male?

Not a problem. Here, like
elsewhere, the male is smart

and knows how to stay
away from danger.

Unfortunately, the male of
the Trobriand, when in fear,

keeps making the mistake
of climbing on something

where, sooner or later,
he will be caught

and forced to nest,
one way or the other.

As you may have noticed,
hunting the male is a sport

that has many analogies
all over the world.

Maybe these women practice
the hunt more like a sport,

so to speak, in the open air
and bare-chested.

But this is the only difference.

After all, in the Riviera,
a region famous for games,

male hunting is practiced in
the open air and bare-chested,

if not literally so.

This woman's child
has been killed.

Now she must nurse a small
pig whose mother died.

This is how the law
of the Cimbus goes,

in the heart of New Guinea.

There's still a place
on this earth

where there is no difference
between the life of child

and that of a pig.

Under an immense sky,
on high mountains

that seemed to raise the land
to the sources of light,

men live surrounded by darkness.

The land, still waiting to know
the secrets of plow and seeds,

is not generous.

It's the Kingdom of Hunger.

Many of these men
have eaten human flesh,

which used to be
their ancestors' usual food.

The tribe has come down
to the village

where a general celebration
is about to start.

Which, according to a tradition
imposed by poverty,

only happens once every 5 years.

A violent celebration during
which, for 3 days and 3 nights,

they will gulp down meat
until they burst out.

Soon, hundreds of pigs,
the only wealth they gathered

through many years
of starvation,

will be killed
and devoured in a few hours.

Then, back to the long fasting.

It'll take five
more terrible years

before the survivors
will come back to celebrate

three days of feasting, wearing
bird of paradise feathers.

The cooking of the pigs

is probably more brutal
than their execution.

Here, cooking a pig means,
more or less

burn it here and there.

The dead animals still have
their guts full of bowels.

But the natives don't believe
in such formalities.

Hunger can't wait
for the big moment

when the tribal chiefs
announce that finally,

after 5 years of waiting,
the meal is ready.

Someone thought
about the children,

and gave up eating the bladders.

Maybe playing soccer
is also an instinct

as ancient as hunger.

Here too, the chiefs
are allowed to eat

as much as they want.

As long as they do it
without looking hungry,

as they are an example
of good eating manners.

Along with the tribal chiefs,

the dogs enjoy a special
treatment too.

It's maybe some sort
of gentle feeling,

something unexpected
among so much cruelty,

so, we'd be happy
for having discovered it.

Or maybe, these are just
the dogs of the chiefs.

Then we wouldn't have
discovered anything new.

But the country
where compassion for dogs

goes beyond the limits of
human imagination is America.

We are in the canine
cemetery of Pasadena,

in the outskirts of Los Angeles.

The same that inspired
Evelyn Waugh's famous book.

It's one of those
windy and sunless days

when the sky of California
turns to the color of despair.

Here, the memory of
the deceased, all of them,

is so happy, and this
place is yet so pathetic,

that we could shed a tear or two
over the small graves

of these venerable creatures.

Over their dead ancestors,
these dogs behave in a way

that only to human standards
is irreverent.

Conversely, only to canine eyes

could the intense human behavior
appear inexplicable.

At Taipei,
in the Formosa island,

dogs receive a different
kind of attention.

They are selected,
raised with extreme care,

made fat, and they get cooked
following old and complex

recipes, for the joy of
a large public of gourmets.

Such restaurants, where the
customers can directly choose

from the cage,
the most appetizing pet,

are extraordinarily
popular all over China.

In these areas, people are very
fond of Dachshunds, Poodles,

Boxers, Great Dane cubs,

but, usually they have
a preference for the Chow-chow,

those very cute dogs
also appreciated

for their intelligence
and their faithfulness.

In Rome, when Easter
is approaching,

hundreds and hundreds
of chicks are immersed

in a colored bath and locked up
to dry in a 50 degree oven.

They are selected, tested
and multicolored guaranteed,

and they are ready to be
locked up in the Easter eggs.

It is unfortunately estimated
that out of every 100 chicks

that undergo this treatment,
about 70 end up being

victims of
some unpleasant accident.

In Strasbourg, known as
the capital of foie gras,

over half a million geese

undergo every year
this kind of treatment.

Their liver, in order
to swell and get fatter

and reach the right weight,
needs high nutrition.

So every day, the specialized
staff stuffs them

albeit with the help
of a little force,

such a big amount of food
that even the greediest goose,

without supervision, would be
unable to digest in one week.

Up until two years ago,

to prevent the geese from
losing too many calories,

they used to nail
their feet to a plank.

But now, thanks to these
very small cages,

most of all,
thanks to the funnels,

we can obtain
the same amount of foie gras

with a more humane
and civil treatment.

In Japan, about
500 miles from Tokyo,

there is the most sophisticated
cattle farm of the world.

Eight hours a day
these experienced masseurs

take care of the bulls in
order to soften their flesh.

Plus, every bull receives
six liters of beer a day

in order to expedite
their fattening process.

The beer is given to the animals
directly from the bottles

to prevent the liquid
from losing its dilating power.

All the steaks
coming from these bulls

end up in three or four
specialized restaurants

in Tokyo and New York.

They cost approximately
7000 liras a kilo.

Here, where drinking
beer is unknown,

they resort
to the use of tapioca,

a starch that has more or less
the same fattening qualities

as potatoes.

We are at Tabar,
the largest island

of the Bismarck Archipelago,

where, by tradition, the most
beautiful women of the tribe

are locked up in strong cages

similar to those we've seen
in Strasbourg to fatten geese

and they get filled with tapioca

until they reach
at least 120 kilos.

Then, they will be
offered as wives

to the village's dictator,
Utame Alunda,

famous all over the islands
for his physical power

and his odd personality.

The fattening process
goes from 3 to 6 months,

meanwhile, Utame Alunda
didn't remain idle.

These are some of his most
recent children,

that he loves to show to
the foreigners in this dance,

as a proof of his virility.

This is his last spouse:

eight children and
one hundred thirty kilos.

This is his favorite wife.

Ten children and 150 kilos.

And this is
the great chief Alunda:

27 children and 34 kilos.

The American woman, instead, if
she wants to be a lucky lover,

needs to lose weight.

We are in Los Angeles, in one
of the many Vic Tanny gyms,

the famous health gym
specializing in

feminine reshaping.

Here, hundreds of American
women come to spend most of

their recurrent widowhood
in order to eliminate

the weight gained
during their last marriage

and to reconcile
with the law of gravity,

while waiting for the next
inevitable wedding.

Due to the constant flow and
financial weight of its patrons,

the Vic Tanny is a heavy
and prosperous industry.

A must stop in the American's
long trip around marriage.

The next train to the next
honeymoon leaves from here.

A train that whistles,
pants, puffs, sweats, blows,

and then brakes
and stops here again.

In Hong Kong,
where it's harder to get fat,

about two million hungry Chinese
crowd these local markets

where, for about
100 liras a kilo,

you can chose at will,

crocodiles, toads, snakes,
turtles, lizards, et cetera.

Prices, in spite of
the great range of choice,

are generally
considered excessive.

In New York, instead,
for big spenders,

there is the Colony,
one of the most expensive

and sophisticated
restaurants in the world.

While the average American,
in order to survive,

must settle for the usual steak,

here, the rich Americans can
fully enjoy all this bonanza.

Fried ants, stuffed
roaches, butterfly eggs,

battered worms, rattlesnakes,
muskrats, et cetera.

Most of the Colony's patrons

are internationally famous
gourmets, politicians,

diplomats, tycoons,
church leaders,

aristocrats, et cetera,
et cetera.

Here, a light breakfast
costs about $20.00,

about 12,000 liras.

But, considering the exceptional
rarity and taste of the food,

the price is usually
thought to be fair.

To open a store like this
in Singapore,

where snake is the national
dish, is always a hassle.

Malaysian customers are very
picky and before they decide

what to buy, they always
choose meticulously.

In order to really be edible,
snakes must have innumerable

prerogatives: weight, length,
color, age, skin conditions,

a particular season for each
race, et cetera, et cetera.

The Malaysians,
who know them all,

once they choose their snakes,

don't lose track
of them for a moment.

It is estimated that,
out of 100 sold snakes,

at least 50 are discarded
as totally inedible

and are regularly shipped

to the American
and European gourmets.

There is a little village in
the Abbruzzi where the snakes

are part of an ancient
and gentle tradition.

At Cucullo, on Saint Dominick's
Day, the statue of the saint

is carried through
the procession.

And the believers follow it

with their hands full of
these harmless creatures.

In ancient times,
as the legend goes,

the valleys of this region
were infested with vipers

which the saint,
with the power of his love,

made harmless by depriving
them of their poison.

Beyond its pagan aspect
and its unusual folklore,

the ceremony reveals
an ancient and deep

act of faith toward goodness.

The name of the village
is Nocera Tirinese,

in the region of Calabria.

The day is a Good Friday,

and the police are trying

in vain to implement
the priest's request.

He's been trying for
a few years to convince

the believers to give up
the ritual, the “battienti”.

The “battienti” perpetuated
through the centuries

a tradition whose
origins are obscure.

On every Good Friday,
they flagellate their legs

using wooden disks
full of fragments of glass

and run to spread
their blood on the streets

where, in a few hours,
the procession,

with a crucifix, will pass by.

Nocera Tirinese is a small,
hidden village in Calabria.

It's their way to exalt
Christ's flagellation.

These girls, all between
16 and 20 years old,

who parade in the streets
of Sydney,

belong to the Life
Savers Girl Association,

that is, the girls
who rescue the people

who are about to drown
in the Pacific Ocean.

So now the Australians
have two Armies:

The famous Salvation Army,
whose goal has been,

for a long time,
the rescuing of the souls

and this one,
more recently established,

whose goal is
the rescuing of the body.

But, to avoid unpleasant
misunderstandings,

the two armies have been
given different uniforms.

Today, the Association
celebrates, on Manley Beach,

the decade of its formation
with a big display.

Of course,
under the circumstances,

the rescues are imaginary,
therefore, any reference

to real drowned people
is purely coincidental.

But the most interesting
phase of the rescuing

is undoubtedly the CPR,

a treatment judged as
very beneficial by all those

who have received it.

On these beaches, the physical
importance of the life savers

speaks for itself.

The ocean is tricky
and the young Australians

are getting more and more
reckless each day.

For 4 days, this long stream
of small white flakes

has been leading us toward
our next adventure.

They are migrating butterflies,

killed by the radioactivity
of these waters.

We are in the Pacific Ocean,

a few miles
from the Bikini atoll.

Ten years ago,
after the explosion

of the last American H-bomb,

a few types of birds
which used to stay

in their underground nests
only during the brooding,

learned that,
if they wanted to survive,

they must no longer come out.

Such an instinct, caused
by a long forgotten event,

was transmitted to
the following generations.

And now these birds, rather
than coming out of their holes,

let themselves be captured.

But this is just one sign
of the dramatic alteration

of the fauna
in this archipelago.

Everywhere,

the animals seem to mistrust
their natural habitat.

Even some fish,
like this particular specimen,

which can usually
live out of the water

only for a very short time,

not only have learned
to leave the polluted

and radioactive ocean
for many hours a day,

but they even migrated
to the top of the trees.

Thousand of eggs
that will never hatch

cover the surface of the atolls.

They are the eggs of sea gulls
and other birds.

Sterile eggs that died
before they were even laid.

This sea bird went out
looking for food,

but every night,
it still comes back

to sit on them.

The atom killed the seed
of life in the eggs.

Atomic contamination,
even more tragically,

destroyed the sense of
orientation in the sea turtle.

Tired and lost,
rather than toward the sea,

the animal walks
into the inner land,

where it will be killed
by heat and fatigue.

Some eggs of the barret
hatched in this island

and the chicks watch
the turtle's agony in amazement.

The turtle, like in a mirage,
believes it's back in the sea.

Hundreds of turtles
die every day

in this hot desert of sand.

The barrets nest inside
the big skeletons.

The little ones look for
some meat among the bones.

The natives of the Malay
islands bury their dead

in this immense
underwater cemetery.

Their religion teaches
that the sea washes the bodies

and frees them from sin.

Only during the day are these
waters empty and still.

At night, the sharks
rush in to perpetrate

their devastating action.

They only leave the bones,
which the friends

and families of the dead
arrange, with macabre pity,

among the bizarre
coral branches.

In these waters, the sharks
of the Malay coast learned

how to feed on human flesh

and become man eaters.

Catching man eaters is
the only resource in Raiputh,

a village on the Malay coast.

Fishermen who were disabled
by the sharks' bites

pile up in the sun
dried fins on the beach.

They will sell them
to rich Chinese communities,

where they are thought to have
a strong aphrodisiac power.

Every day in Raiputh,
a fisherman doesn't come back,

or returns in this condition.

But the village is poor and the
Chinese pay well for their vice.

So the sacrifice goes on.

The only alternative to despair
and pain is revenge.

Today there has been
another victim.

In these waters,
a 12-year-old boy

has been devoured by a shark.

Today the fishermen of Raiputh
give up their prey.

They give it back to the sea

with a poisoned sea-urchin
stuck in its throat.

It will suffer at least
for one week before it will die.

In the Roman cemetery
of the Capuchins,

death has been assigned
a decorative task.

A few centuries ago,
maybe the monks wanted

to give this place
a sense of immortality.

In spite of its gruesome
results, this work shows

a certain sense of beauty, which
is always motivated by love.

Love that survives death,
death that survives love.

MARIO AND INES

Still in Rome,
on the Tiberina island,

the “Red Sacks“ brotherhood
keeps carrying out its mission.

The “Red Sacks“ brotherhood
started around the 1600's

upon the initiative
of some Romans who,

during the plague, wanted
to bury the abandoned bodies

of the poor and the unknown.

Nowadays,
after so many centuries,

the “Red Sacks“ still look
after their mortal remains,

the sole but eloquent evidence
of the old compassion.

Protecting the bones
from the ravages of the time

is the task of some local
families who gather here

once a week on Fridays
to work and to pray.

Just like these Germans
from Hamburg,

let's drown the memory of
so many cemeteries in the beer.

Instead of focusing
on the cult of death,

in this happy German beer-house
on Repabahm Strasse,

our attention goes now
to the cult of life.

Life as happiness
for being alive,

freedom of spirit,
agility, physical health,

sociability,
peacefulness, oblivion.

But most of all,

complete absence of any memory
or thought of death.

Who said, “Drink beer
and you'll live to be 100“?

But the Japanese in Tokyo,
after a very busy night,

come straight in here
to get back in shape.

This is a Tokyo Onsen,

a real service station
to wash and lube

those Japanese who got drunk
on the previous night.

The perfect functioning
of the company depends on

some hundred girls
in shorts and bras,

so that the patrons,
besides so many tortures,

can at least comfortably
enjoy the landscape.

According to a gentle
Japanese custom,

the patrons must be naked.

We covered him according
to a gentle custom of ours.

Japan is maybe the cleanest
country in the world.

The rituals of bathing
and massage

are as old as its civilization.

In Tokyo, a city with
10 million people,

6 million women tend every
day to 4 million men,

pampering, flattering,
sewing and rubbing them,

in order to make their lives
more pleasant,

according to an old,
admirable tradition.

So, Japanese men,

with every inch of
their bodies taken care of,

without the smallest
personal effort,

can taste
the heavenly relaxation

that their god
will only grant them

in the afterlife.

Chinese men too,
give themselves up

to the hands of a woman on
the day of their last makeup.

They entrust
to her seductive arts

their uncertain fate to come.

Buddha is a wayward god,
very impressionable,

and when he opens the gates
of the flowering garden,

he cares more for the looks than
for the virtues of the dead.

This is the funeral
of a rich Chinese

in a temple of
the city of Macao.

Friends are bringing food
to his altar,

so he can nourish himself
during his long trip.

Then they bow before
the mourning family.

In a corner,
a woman burns his money,

which, only this way,
will be able to follow him

and preserve for him,
in heaven, what to every

Chinese is the utmost good
of this life and the other:

wealth.

The heirs attend in tears
the sad ceremony.

Not only here in Singapore,
but in all Malaysia,

the Chinese represent over
a third of the population.

Never tired to figure out
a thousand ways of making money,

they are nonetheless famous
for their physical laziness.

They don't swim, run,
jump, or play soccer.

As the Chinese
don't waste their money,

likewise, they don't waste
their energies,

which they prefer
to use around the table

or in bed.

Between snacks, the Chinese
find the time to fill

their houses with children,
legitimate and illegitimate.

This guarantees a big bunch
of birthdays to celebrate

with abundant meals.

The Chinese celebrate
everything by eating:

Religious and national
holidays, business,

a competitor's failure,

an averted danger, births,

and even death.

Here we're not allowed
to photograph.

We had to force
the situation to show you

Singapore's “home of the dead“.

All the terminally ill
end up dwelling here,

in this tragic hotel
for the dying.

The Chinese homes,
full with children,

have no place for them.

Down the streets,
their relatives,

relaxed and confident,
wait for their funeral.

If you don't die soon,
sing the Chinese,

your good dinner gets cold.

If they see us eating,
say the Chinese,

they'll get hungry too.

Death is still late
and the Chinese urge the gods

with a dance.

To the cars, the house
of the dead is America.

California kills three
of them every 2 hours.

They get dumped
in these cemeteries,

but their remains
will not be eternal.

Compressed to save space,

thousands of Fords, Chevrolets,
Chryslers, Oldsmobiles,

Cadillacs, Lincolns, Buicks,
no longer need any repair.

But they're not yet at the end
of their destiny.

Soon they will be shipped to the
great European car factories,

where the modern mechanical
reincarnation

will bring them back
to life as cars,

with a new, more humble
label: “economy vehicle“.

Correction: not all of them
will come back as cars.

In Paris, in one of the most
respectable modern art stores,

we recognized the remains
of an old Ford,

whose name was changed
into a charming

“Esprit de la Carrosserie“,
“Spirit of Chassis“.

The price:
half a million francs.

The Czech painter
Yves Klein is ready.

Music gave him the thrill.

These models, covering
themselves with paint,

are the human brushes
that soon Klein will use

to turn his creative
fever into art.

You may have guessed, by now,

that Klein's favorite
color is blue.

Moreover, blue is his only form,
his only color.

Blue like his pictures that sell
like hot cakes in Paris.

Blue like the event that
our camera is approaching,

which most venerable critics
consider as the utmost

Klein masterpiece,
whose dominant color,

as any connoisseur may guess,
happens to be blue.

Dripping with blue,
the human brushes

leave their prints
on the canvas,

while Klein guides
them from afar,

with the energy of
his creative genius.

The work, that we had
the privilege to catch

in all the phases
of its creation,

is on sale for only
4 million francs.

In search of tropical,
impressive views,

and the picturesque aspects
of primitive life,

three thousand American
tourists arrive in Honolulu.

Yearning for romantic
experiences and eager

to face unexpected adventures,

they will follow the program

of the “Hawaiian Travels
Organization“ that,

for only $4,000, taxes included,

organized for them 10 days
of a “very exciting holiday, “

as it is advertised
in the brochure,

a vacation across a “tropical
dance and paradise of love.“

The paradise of love and dance.

The first page of
the Hawaiian Travels'

long and detailed
program says that

the landing ceremony
will take place in a charming

Hawaiian atmosphere
and according to

the romantic customs
of this love island.

Therefore the company's
management invites

the gentle ladies not to be
jealous of the innocent

attention that the splendid
Hawaiian girls

will direct to their husbands.

Soon after,
the company's photographer,

provides the tourists
with their arrival souvenirs,

which includes,
according to the program,

smiles and flowers leis
that the splendid

Hawaiian girls
lay on their guests

with amazing generosity.

The speaker is now informing
the tourist

about the main customs
of this tropical paradise.

He says:

"Ladies and gentlemen,
fate has been generous with you"

by giving you the privilege

to visit this island
before it was too late.

The beautiful women
who are giving you

this charming performance
are the last specimen

of a race that is disappearing.

It's a pity you can't savor

a bit of their
very sweet language.“

They sing:

"Welcome, welcome,
strong and handsome white man."

Welcome, welcome, seductive
and beautiful white woman.

You will teach me the secret
of your elegance wherefore

you can seduce your men.

I will teach you the secret
of my dance wherefore

I seduce mine.

Come, come to learn the Hula.

This, ladies and gentlemen,
is the Hula.

You think it's too difficult?

Of course, ladies and gentlemen,

but nothing is impossible
as Abraham Lincoln used to say.

Look at that dancer.
She's the best in the island.

But, ladies and gentlemen,
when she was a child,

she was struck by polio
and do you know what

had the power to free
her poor crippled limbs?

The Hula, ladies and gentlemen.

"The Hula and her willpower."

They listened, clapped,
had fun and got moved,

exactly as it was written
in the program.

And now that the program
prescribes a Hula lesson,

they go to learn Hula,
nice and diligent.

This candid generation
of once hard workers now

believe in the Hula, in theirs
and other people's happiness,

while they enjoy
a little murdering rest,

with their first symptoms
of arthritis.

They still believe
in this tropical paradise

that they have destroyed
and where the only real,

genuine native dance we can
still attend, is this one.

After six hours
of cold steel training,

Sergeant Rhuba Narcktitle
is being made up as a woman.

The situation
is pretty embarrassing,

for a fierce warrior who,
only a few years ago,

during the war against
the Malaysian communists,

decapitated 36 partisans.

But today is a national holiday

and the tradition wants him
to celebrate it with a dance

in a woman's costume.

The fierce Gurkhas
live in the mountains of Nepal.

For one and half century,
they have been mercenaries

under the English empire.

According to the tradition,
their celebration must be

attended by
all English officers,

their commander-in-chief
included.

Seeing them in this circumstance
and dressed like women,

nobody would believe
they are the fiercest

and most faithful soldiers
in the world.

Still, during the last war,
when they were captured

by the Japanese, 300 of them
preferred to be decapitated

rather than betray
their promise of loyalty

to her British Majesty.

Today is the anniversary
of that memorable day

and the Gurkhas celebrate it
with great solemnity.

This time too, the bull's head
has fallen with one strike.

The honor of
the battalion is saved.

The spirit of the fallen
Singapore soldiers is at peace.

The English officers
watch with satisfaction.

The English colonel
encircles the heads

of the champions
with a white strap,

a symbol of strength,
fidelity and bravery.

About a month later,
in Portugal, a few bulls

take their revenge
goring and killing 4 people,

and injuring 18.

We are at Vila Franca
de Xira, where the people

happily celebrate
the traditional “Forcada”.

Later on, in the arena,

the nobles too give
a proof of their courage.

On these mountains of
the Garoka region in New Guinea,

lies the border between
history and prehistory.

Here we found the last cave man,
still armed with a club.

He doesn't even know metal,
he lives in the unreachable

caves of the mountain with
his women and children,

he's as wild and suspicious
as a beast.

We don't know how
he'd react if he spotted

our camera pointed at him.

Rather than by a camera,
these images seem to be

caught by a huge telescope
pointed into time.

They could be the shadow,
the photographic memory

of the stone age.

This day, this moment,
goes back 4 or 5 thousand years.

Nothing particular is happening.

Now as in the past,
life goes on under the eternal

guide of their instinct
for work, leisure, children,

food, human contact
and an orderly social life.

50 miles north of there,
a Catholic mission marks

the extreme outpost
of civilization.

Five missionaries have been
killed in recent years

before the sound
of a bell could awake,

through these old valleys,
the instinct of faith.

Here, after hundreds of
centuries spent in the dark,

men discover, for the first
time, that there's a doubt,

a question they cannot answer,

sense of anguish,
unknown so far,

which is not hunger
or thirst or physical pain,

but that hurts,
nonetheless, like a wound.

It's the anguish that follows
men from the beginning

to the end of world.

But they still don't know it.

Only yesterday
they discovered the world

and themselves and today
they need to believe,

to hope that they'll be better
in a better world.

But one fine day,

the aboriginal comes down
from the mountains and,

as he approaches the coast,

his experience runs across
hundred of centuries

in a few days.

Here, at the gates of
Port Moresby airport,

where the aboriginal ends
his journey through the time

and where he cannot find
a reason to all the things

he learned, but saw too quickly,

the “Cargo Cult“ has
burgeoned inside of him,

that is, the cult of
these cargo airplanes.

Along the great oceanic
course between

Hong Kong and Australia,
flown every day by tens

of cargo airplanes
that stop here in Moresby,

the Cargo Cult has a temple
almost everywhere.

Here is one,

with the altar built at
an altitude of 3,000 meters.

The small airplane
is at one end of the track.

On the other end,
the control tower.

The native of
the Rozo and Mekeo tribes

wait for some airplane,
attracted by their bamboo decoy,

to land on this track.

To them, airplanes
come from heaven,

sent by their ancestors,
but the white men,

those cunning thieves,
take charge of them

and lure them
in the big Port Moresby trap.

Build your airport too,
says the Cargo Cult doctrine,

and wait with faith.

Sooner or later
your ancestors will find out

the treachery and will lead
the airplanes to your track.

Then you'll be rich and happy.

They wait motionless,
scanning the sky.

There is no other world
beyond these mountains,

so the big birds that fly up
there can only come from heaven.

In heaven,
there are only their dead

and only their dead
could build them.

The spirits of the dead
do not know the whites,

so all those wonderful things
carried by the airplanes

are sent to them by
their dead ancestors.

They destroyed their villages,
they abandoned their jobs,

but here they are,

still waiting with faith
at the gates of heaven.