All language subtitles for Primitive.London.1965.720p.BluRay.FLAC2.0.x264-VietHD

During the Belle Époque,
when this song was popular,

automobiles were a novelty,
aeroplanes had yet to fly,

and 67 million men were still to die
in two world wars.

Yet the sentimental message
still reaches us loud and clear.

Man is a sentimental creature.

And sentimentality is
a senseless waste of time.

In a city like London,
with its nine million people,

you have to look hard
for evidence of sentimentality,

but it is there.

"We are a civilized people, " they say,

then they'll be insulted when reminded that
they also belong to the animal kingdom.

Sentimentality shies away
from the realities of life and death.

In our world, 6,000 people die every hour,

yet few civilized people
have seen a dead body.

Every hour, 17,000 people are born.

Yet, unconsciously, sentimentally,

we prefer to gloss over
the first and last fact of life.

Medical science has made childbirth safe.

But no matter how sophisticated
the resources gathered around the birth,

the event itself is, in every sense,

a fundamental and unchanging miracle
constantly renewed.

A gynecologist attending this birth said, "It
was the most difficult I've ever known, "

and he had delivered over 5,000 babies.

All men are born equal,

but this baby will have to fight
harder than most for life.

The first convulsive gasp for breath.

The cord is cut. The last link of the child
to his mother is no more.

Now he is a separate being,

and must, as life is pounded into him,
begin to discover his separate identity.

These feet must carry
him far in this world.

That is, if he lives at all.

He must tread warily in a society
which seeks to categorize individuals.

The lines are drawn,
his route through life mapped early.

The child defines the limits
the adult will observe.

The friendships now established,
the values, set the pattern for the future.

Primary school will lead him
through higher education,

possibly to affluence and influence.

Modern life guarantees him
a pleasant, comfortable life.

Another school
will make him a wage-earner,

a man with a National Insurance Number.

And his only influence will consist
in dropping a vote

into the ballot box on election days.

These lines are drawn early.

They lead to ordered categories,

however, he will find
a no-man's-land called adolescence.

Perhaps he will become a mod.

"Mod" is a generic term for modern youth.

He rides a motor scooter,
wears brightly-colored clothes,

and tolerates the girls of his tribe
as accessories.

He doesn't know that the emergence
of the peacock trend in male dress

was forecast by sociologists
after the end of World War II.

Sociologists saw that, in the 60s,

there would be more eligible boys than girls
for the first time in many centuries.

Clothes would be brighter.

And to meet this demand,

men's fashion boutiques made
their first appearance in London.

Objects of ridicule at first,

they now set fashion trends for the young.

The colored trousers, the scarlet jacket,

none of this would have been suitable
for a man 15 years ago.

The clothes are distinctive,
they are the uniform of each tribe.

They proclaim his alliance
to the group of his choice.

The rockers are another teenage category.

They deride the mods' dress code,

but their outfits are just as outlandish.

Metal studs on leather jackets.
Leather is worn in all shapes and forms.

Jackets, trousers, boots allow
for tribal identification.

To discover their philosophy,
we shall return to them later.

Another group, the beatniks.
The name itself is an act of rebellion.

They pride themselves
on their non-conformity.

But their very revolt
serves to emphasize the norms

against which they
proclaim their rejection.

- What's your name?
- Michael.

- How old are you, Michael?
- Twenty.

- Do you work, Michael?
- No.

- What do you do?
- I write poetry.

- You write poetry?
- Yeah.

- Is this your aim in life, to write poetry?
- Yes, it is.

- Had anything published?
- No, not as yet. No.

Can you read me one of your poems?

Sure. The only one I can remember
offhand is one of my early ones.

"I turned right into heaven and saw that idiot
Saint Peter polishing the keys to heaven."

That's all I can remember of it.

Tell me, I'm intrigued, that key
in your ear, what's that for?

Well, it's purely for decoration.
It's my nickname.

- What nickname?
- It's Jailer.

- Jailer. Tell me one thing, Michael.
- Yeah.

- Do you believe in free love?
- Yeah.

- Where were you educated?
- Berkhamsted Public School,

Northwestern Polytechnic,
and in my bedroom.

In your bedroom? Yes, I see.

Many of us.

- Do you believe in marriage?
- If people love each other, they are married.

- I see. How about you, David?
- I believe in it, um...

It's the choice of two people
as individuals who are happy together.

You mean, if you like one another,
you live together?

Yes. I think one should live together
for a certain time beforehand, though.

- What do you think about it?
- I don't believe in marriage.

Would you live with a
girl if you liked her?

- Certainly.
- How about children,

would you have children?

I believe there ought to be
some form of contract,

that is, in case you have children.

- How old are you, Sally?
- 16.

Sixteen. Where do you work,
or what do you do?

I work at the central office,
at a Waterloo office.

- You work. Are you a beatnik?
- No.

- Really?
- No.

- Suzanne, how old are you?
- 17.

- Seventeen. What do you do?
- I'm a stenographer.

- Are you a beatnik?
- No.

- No? Why do you come here?
- 'Cause I've got a lot of friends here.

- Boyfriends or girlfriends?
- Both.

- Do you come here often?
- Yeah.

- Would you like to marry a beatnik?
- I don't know.

How about you? Would you marry a beatnik?

No, I wouldn't.

- What's your name?
- Larry.

- Would you like to say a few words?
- "A few words."

No. Okay, go ahead, Larry.

- Tell me, what do you do for a living?
- Nothing.

- Nothing at all? How do you live?
- I don't, I exist.

- But someone supports you.
- My old man.

Your old man, that's your father?

- What's your name, dear?
- Anne.

- Do you know Larry?
- Yes.

- Are you his girlfriend?
- No, but we're very intimate.

- Intimate?
- Yes.

- That is, you live together?
- Yes, together.

Thank you, Anne. Tell me,
what do you think about beatniks?

- I think they're great.
- You think they're great?

Well, could you tell me what a beatnik is?

- A big loser...
- A big loser...

- And you, are you a big loser?
- No, I'm not a loser.

Well, you just told me beatniks are losers.

- She's not a beatnik.
- I'm not a beatnik.

- You're not a beatnik?
- No!

- And you, Anne, are you a beatnik?
- No.

- Larry, surely you are?
- Oh, yeah, a poor bum.

- You're just a bum?
- He's a crook.

- He's a crook?
- Yes.

Are you sure?

- How much is your camera worth?
- The camera? Two or three hundred quid.

- Do you want to sell it?
- No, but I'll think about it one day.

Because there are a lot of pawn shops
on the street.

Pawn shops on the street!

What's your definition of a beatnik?

Well, I don't think it should be defined,

because if you ask the average person
in the street what a beatnik is,

they'll immediately say,
"People who don't wash, are afraid to work,

"who just have long hair
and are parasites on society."

And you think this is entirely wrong?

- Yes, it is entirely wrong.
- Very good. Thank you very much.

- You've been playing together long?
- Yeah, about two years, man.

- Two years?
- Yeah.

What's your ambition?

To be the greatest professional
harmonica player, that's my ambition.

Wonderful. Tell me,
what do you do in the summer?

Go down through the south of France,
usually to Cannes,

and busk around the cafés, the beaches,
to make a few bob.

- How do you get there, man?
- Oh, we go by train.

It costs £12.10 from London to Cannes,
you know.

Oh, I see. Sound like an advert
for British Railways.

- Well, that's more or less it.
- I see. And in England, what do you do?

We sing more or less all over, on
the street, in train stations,

and a few folk clubs,
that kind of thing, you know.

Which station? Mainline?

No. Piccadilly Circus on the Tube, usually.

- Piccadilly Circus? I see.
- Yeah, nights.

- And how do you get on?
- About £8.

- Got a girlfriend?
- No, man.

Man, you know, I just take it as it comes.

But as I'm not living at home,
now it's Brompton Road.

- That's where I live, Brompton Road.
- Do you believe in marriage?

I can't really say right now.

I don't have an opinion on that.

- But in any case you'd rather give it a miss?
- Yeah.

There are others belonging to no group

because they themselves don't know
what society they belong to.

They dissipate their identity
with their passivity.

They become reduced
to human adjuncts of a machine.

And the machine's flashing lights create
a travesty of action,

which gives them
the impression of doing something.

It's just a sedative that covers
an attitude of cynical indifference.

And there are adult activities which display
a curious mixture of all these elements.

- Good morning, Charles.
- Morning, Larry.

- Good morning, Basil.
- Oh, morning.

Under the weather?

No time to take your fizzy health drink
this morning?

- He was on the booze last night.
- I understand.

What are we doing this morning?

Let's see, just one small job.
Almost nothing. Five words.

- We should be finished in an hour.
- I'll bet.

- Mac.
- Morning, boys, what's the job?

Well, we were just talking about you.
I'll show you,

this is the original storyline.

I see. All right, now.
Let's have a closer look.

"The customer enters supermarket, passes
coffee display, stops, then shot of a package.

"Hand moves towards Brand A,
stops, and then..."

That's been scrapped, Mac.
The sponsor thought that...

Even to show Brand A being considered
would be wrong.

- Right. How did you know?
- So?

So then the customer is going to see
a display of our product.

- That's not enough, you know.
- You're right about that.

The sponsor didn't feel that that shows
that our product beats all the others.

- So?
- So, now we have the customer entering

the grocery store and asking advice
about the best coffee.

Don't tell me. The grocer,
a nice, friendly old man

who acts like everybody's favourite uncle,

looks wise, points to a sign which reads,
guess what?

"Señor Coffee is real good."

- Mac, you must have written the script.
- And that's been scrapped.

Let's just say it's been altered a little,
but it's the same in essence.

All right. Well, now,
what sort of voice would you prefer?

I was thinking of something like...
Like this, perhaps.

"Señor Coffee is real good."

Or perhaps...

""Señor Coffee, it is really good."

Or...

"Señor Coffee, it is real good."

Very good, Mac. Very good.

But our agency just wants something softer,
easy to absorb.

Ah, I see, you mean, like...

"Señor Coffee is real good."

That's fine. Great, we should be
finished in 10 minutes.

Wanna bet?

The 20th century is
full of synthetic booby traps.

We deal in synthetic emotion,
synthetic music,

ready made opinions
and hand-me-down philosophy.

In this school, girls are taught
the technique of the striptease dancer.

The law of supply and demand
works everywhere.

These people remain ignorant
of the art of dance.

They're just learning the basics
to earn money.

As these girls come into London
from the provinces and suburbs,

they find a need and they fill it.

The sadness is not in them,

but in a society that demands
what's contrived and synthetic.

In their case, it is mostly a cynically
indifferent and often cruel eroticism.

These peoples are struggling
with their own need for self-expression.

They're not fighting
for their talent to be appreciated,

just for a bit of money.

There's no star status to aim for,
no hope of achievement.

It's the type of work which enables a girl
to capitalize on a pair of good legs

and a well-built body.

The clubs these girls work in
are a far cry from the plush nightspots.

They're basement clubs
with a minimum of decor.

Overheads are as minimal
as these girls' costumes.

Stimulating the male
is essential to the female.

A topless dress...

I can do anything, I'm the director.

And I'm the writer, and
I say you can't do it.

- You do it the way I tell you, okay?
- Okay.

Now, cut to close shot.

- What's that?
- It's a cow.

A cow I can see.
What's it doing in my picture?

- What do you got against cows?
- In fields, nothing.

In my picture, I want girls.

Where's those shots of the girls
in topless swimsuits?

- Harry, are you stupid?
- That's a very beautiful shot, Louis.

- It has grace, artistry.
- Yes, but there will be problems.

- They'll never show it, Louis.
- Not enough grace or artistry, you mean?

- Too many girls.
- You interest me, Harry.

You've got anything against girls?
Are you married?

- No, Louis, you know why.
- You want an award. That's it, isn't it?

No, I feel the need to express myself.

- You're aching for recognition.
- Yeah.

- You're intellectually aware.
- Yeah, yeah.

- You're stimulated.
- Yeah, Louis, yeah.

- You believe it.
- That's it, Louis.

You're fired.

Now what are they doing?

A few years ago,

young ladies learned the gentle arts,
piano, dance.

In this harsh new world,

they need to learn
the gentle art of self-defense.

Judo.

Judo flourishes.
It has become an Olympic sport,

but it is of no use in war.

It can only be used for defense
and cannot be used to attack.

Judo was developed in 1882
from the earlier Japanese art of jujitsu.

The male-dominated Japanese society

can never have envisaged
this female assault on the male.

Who could deny a woman with such skill?

"I don't want to force you, darling,
but don't you agree I need a new dress?"

Don't hurt him too much,
he's the one who signs the cheques.

Kendo, like judo, originated in Japan.

Kendo respects the use
of ritual and courtesy.

Unlike judo, kendo is aggressive.

It is attack, attack and attack again.
No defense is taught.

The slashing, stamping stance
derives from the battle exercises

of the ancient samurai warriors.

And in the modern, aggressive world,

there's no dearth of fans
for this brutal game.

Kendo has no practical application.

Unless the student has ambitions
to become a samurai.

But its purpose is terribly aggressive.

Today, selling is aggressive, too.

- Once for the sound level.
- "Señor Coffee is real good."

- Fine for me.
- Sound is good, Mac.

- Can we get it?
- Why not?

Morning, people. How's it going?

Hello, Roger. About to roll.
You're just in time.

Well, you just carry on.
I'll probably only stay a few minutes.

- Where have I heard that before?
- Who's doing the reading?

- Mac. He's over there.
- Oh, so it is. Then we're fine.

- Morning, Mac.
- Morning, Roger. How is the agency?

Fine, fine.

You told him the sort of reading we want?
Something nice and easy?

I told him. Roger was just saying
the sponsor wants a nice, easy advert.

- Okay, got it.
- Ready to roll.

- Ready.
- Roll it.

Stand by.

This is take one of
Señor Coffee TV commercial.

Fifteenth submission, rectified
and revised. Action.

Here we go.

- Señor Coffee is real good.
- Cut. How is that, Larry?

- Level sounded good to me.
- What do you think, Roger?

- First-class.
- Perfect.

We'll do it again just in case?

- How about it, Larry?
- May as well. Just for safety.

Well, as we are going again,
do you mind if I say a word to Mac?

Go ahead.

Mac, could you emphasize
the last word just a little,

just to emphasize the fact
that the product is good?

Emphasize "good".

- Right, will do.
- But don't lose that nice, easy tone.

- Take two.
- "Señor Coffee is real good."

- Cut.
- Great improvement, great improvement.

- What do you think, Basil?
- It impressed me.

- Is that winding up?
- Well, no.

As we've got a little time,
I'd like to make an observation to Mac.

- Mac, could you this time accentuate "real"?
- Yes, certainly.

- I think it will flow better.
- Take three.

- "Señor Coffee is real good."
- Cut.

- How was it, Roger?
- Fantastic. Really first-class.

Nothing harsh. A nice, soft sale.
There's just one thing, though...

There's always a search
for the biting emphasis,

to get the edge on the competition.

This applies to everyday life as well.

We see it at work
in this famous London hatter's.

Sometimes you have
to rummage through stock

to find the hat that
fits more or less well.

Here at Lock's of St James,
this is not the case.

No, that's not a hat,

that's the device for measuring
the structure of the head exactly.

The machine that makes
tiny pinpricks on paper.

This becomes the personal pattern
of the shopper,

and will allow the hat salesman to
make sure the hat fits like a glove.

Stored away in these files, there are
tens of thousands of measurements

belonging to some of the world's
most distinguished heads.

The paper pattern is fitted to this device.

No matter where the customer may be,
in any part of the world,

he merely has to indicate
the style and color,

and he will receive headgear
that fits him perfectly.

A quick pass of the iron.

A derby, better known as a bowler,
is the epitome of elegance in London.

It originated as the helmet
protecting the skull

from injury in case of a fall
from a horse during a fox hunt.

Now he's set for life.

Unless his new elegance causes
his head to swell, or he gets a haircut.

Hair makes for different problems
with different people.

These two girls start with
widely different hair,

but both are determined
to get the same final hairdo,

sleekly groomed and coiffured heads.

Well, when a woman wants something,
she usually gets it.

With the fizzy, tight curls,

the problem of straightening
has to be dealt with first.

While for the straighter hair,
the process goes ahead more quickly.

For the more recent problems
of the frizzy head,

the chemists came up
with this de-frizzing cream.

Now, every man knows he can't expect
science to help him fight baldness, sadly.

But if women suffered from baldness,

the scientists would be working
night and day to find the answer.

Now, with the hairpins removed,

it just needs a bit of styling

and, voilà, the final effect.

Both as sleek as chemistry can make them.

And they talk about equality of the sexes.

There is one field, however,
where no man can compete with a female.

In the world of club entertainment.

Since Salomé, beautiful girls
have always found it easy

to dazzle men with displays
that are often erotic.

The reverse is not true.

The male works alone in his gymnasium.

Cultivation of the male physique has never
lent itself to commercial exploitation.

The cult of the male body beautiful

remains one of personal satisfaction.

Rippling pectorals, powerful muscles,

swollen biceps,

all this is more likely to bring a laugh
rather than a sigh from the lips of women.

Bodybuilders are concerned with
muscle control and muscular definition.

They do the work for functional reasons.

But these men are in earnest.
Their muscles work for them.

Here is a way for the muscular male
to exploit his strength,

if not his physical beauty.

This is the world of wrestling.

No holds barred,
no quarter given and none asked.

The man in the tee-shirt is Mick McManus,
a wrestling star,

billed as "the man they love to hate."

During workouts like these,
professionals practice the throws and holds

that bring a huge audience
to professional wrestling

and make it one of the
top TV entertainments.

We use the word "entertainment" advisedly.

The wrestlers themselves
recognised this a few years ago

when they all joined
the British Variety Artistes' Federation.

Single combat has always been
the prerogative of the male.

When provoked, he would sally forth
in defense of honor, title or reputation,

carrying his lady's favour

and ever-ready to meet his opponents
in mortal combat.

Chivalry was the code.
Pride, the touchstone.

Women just don't go in for single combat,

except in beauty contests, of course.

Every day, someone somewhere
is being chosen as Miss Something-or-other.

Clothed or unclothed,

the girls parade to show off
the physical shape

they've been able to obtain
by any means necessary.

The prize may be cash, a screen test,
or a promotion tour in aid of some product.

But what are these girls really after
and what are they fighting for?

To be noticed. They want to be discovered.

By whom, for what, they're not certain.

But they are sure that somewhere,
someone is watching, admiring,

and deciding that she's "the one."

Each one dreams of being noticed,

of being swept up on a gush of hot-air
publicity to undreamed-of heights

while they ride the magic
carpet of affluence.

But there's no skill in it,
no element of ingenuity,

no long hours of solitary practice.

Either you have it, or you don't.

The judges will decide.

It's true, isn't it?

What's that we were saying
about single combat?

Merciless? No holds barred?

Well, suppose you do cheat a bit.

The dressing room looks more like
a magicians' convention

than a beauty contest.

The judges can't see into the dressing
room, so what does it matter?

They do say one girl pulled a rabbit
from her bra,

but it turned out to be a publicity stunt
for Playboy magazine.

With the way the world is,
you don't have to worry about it any more.

Just look as if you do. Sound as if you do.
It's enough. It's marketable.

One of the strangest impulses among humans
is the desire for personal decoration.

Tattooing is perhaps one of the earliest
manifestations of this impulse.

Before man decorated the walls of his cave,
he decorated himself.

It was an identification mark
showing which tribe a man belonged to.

This practice has survived
into the 20th century

and owes much to the servicemen seeking
to escape the sameness of their uniforms.

But then more and more
young girls are going to tattooists

and presenting a puzzle for psychiatry.

The design being worked out here
is simple and anonymous,

but will be prominent
in a swimsuit or a low-cut dress.

How did this primitive urge reach
this self-proclaimed modern generation?

Is it an extension of the emblems

which declare adoration
for the idol of the moment?

Or is it a further manifestation
of the loss of identity?

The terror of anonymity
which so besets so many youngsters?

No one knows.

This form of bathing is very ancient.

The Turkish bath aims to liquefy...

- I'd like a word with you.
- Yeah, Louis?

Perhaps you'd like to
explain this sequence.

Well, Louis, to be honest,

Turkish baths should really
be called Roman baths.

- Roman?
- Sure.

Because it was
the Romans who invented them,

and the Turks who stole the idea.

Why was that, Harry?

Well, the early Christian fathers
were disturbed

by some of the goings-on in the baths.

- Yeah? What sort of behaviour?
- Well, you know, misbehavior.

And?

They closed them,
but the Turks kept up the practice.

You got something against Turks now?

- No, Louis, that's the way it was.
- And?

Well, the crusaders came,
brought the idea back again

and called them Turkish baths.

And this misbehavior,
that started up all over again, huh?

No. No, it didn't. See for yourself.

- We got any girls in this picture, Harry?
- Sure. Coming up next.

- And what are they doing?
- Taking a bath.

Well, then let's skip ahead.
Cut to the girls.

There you go. I told you. Taking a bath.

- With their clothes on?
- Sure. They're jean-shrinking.

Which one's Jean?

Their trousers.

The idea is ingenious.
If their trousers aren't tight enough,

they get in this bath
and shrink them around their legs.

I get the picture.

You like it, Louis?
Because I've got an idea.

- Congratulations!
- Remember the hat-fitting bit?

- The pins and all that jazz?
- Sure.

Well, suppose we worked on a machine with
a pin system to help the fitting of jeans.

You know, a girl-shaped machine.

- Hey, where you going, Louis?
- To get a cup of coffee.

Call me when you get through, Harry.
I'd appreciate that.

Sure, Louis. Okay.
Now while Louis is out of the way...

Great! Great!

- Hey, what's this?
- Hi, Louis. Just a bit of music.

In the two distinct groupings
within the teenage population,

the mods go for groups
like The Zephyrs we've just heard.

And the rockers go
for less sophisticated groups.

They prefer motorcycles to motor scooters.

Their chief instrument is noise,
in their music and their machines.

Group identity is established
by bizarre motifs on machines and clothes.

Admission to this group is via a ton-up.

That is, achieving 150 kilometers an hour
on their motorcycles.

Their boast about this matches
their overemphasis on masculinity.

The atmosphere they wish to create

is reminiscent of the behaviour of a
gangster in a cheap waterfront flophouse.

In their innocence, they've not yet
realised that such overemphasis

calls the basis into question.

Their attitude is assertive, but aimless.
Their philosophy, negative.

- How old are you?
- About 18.

- About 18?
- Yeah, 18.

Where do you work?

Well, I normally work
with a builder's merchant,

but I'm looking for another job now.

Have you had any trouble with mods?

Not with mods, no. They try to make us out,
but we... They can't do anything.

Why do you wear these clothes?

Well, I just like it, and...
You know, you...

If you come off the bike
and you don't bounce, it's slippery.

And so that's really good.
It hurts less, that's all.

If you could pass a new law, Colin,
what would it be?

Ban all the scooters off the road.

If you were, say, Prime Minister,
what would you do?

Get out of here quick.

What do you think
about the mods and the beatniks?

They don't like us.

No, no. Remember that time
they came to the club? Eh?

Same as The Palais.
They don't let us in.

Of course, some of them try
and cause us some...

Yeah, some problems.

If you screw one of their
girls or something,

- because you're all in leather and so on...
- Yeah, that's it.

- Do you read a lot?
- No.

- A book. No books at all?
- No.

If you could pass a law,
what law would you like to pass?

Well...

Better roads, I suppose.

'Cause I can't go fast enough.

- You've had an accident?
- Once.

- Bad?
- Yeah, pretty bad.

- You get hurt?
- Yeah.

- But it hasn't scared you?
- No, no.

- What do you like most of all?
- Women.

In Great Britain alone, a killer strikes
every 75 minutes, 24 hours of every day.

That killer is the automobile.

On the 17th of August, 1896,

a young woman was knocked down
and killed by an automobile

on the demonstration track of the
Crystal Palace Exhibition in London.

She was the first victim of an army
of 10 million Britons

since the automobile was invented.

More people have been killed on the
roads of Britain in the last 10 years

than by all the air raids on Britain
in World War II.

Yet the reaction to these figures
is one of almost complete indifference.

They're part of our way of life.

Or death.

And each day the death toll rises.

The measure of the public's indifference is
seen when set against their reaction

when faced with
another, thankfully rarer, cause of death.

Murder.

On the 6th of August, 1888,
Martha Turner, a prostitute,

was hurrying through the streets
of White chapel in London's West End.

She was the first victim
of a murderer who was never unmasked,

Jack the Ripper.

There is a modern Jack the Ripper
at work in London today.

You might call it
an occupational hazard, I suppose.

Any one of the men we pick up
could be the new Jack the Ripper.

The men we meet are so strange.

In any case, strange and perverted.

Not surprising, really, that you find
some real bad ones among them.

Gwyneth Rees, age 22,
found strangled here, November 1963.

Hannah Tailford, age 30,

found strangled here, February 2nd, 1964.

In six months,
six women have been murdered.

All six girls were strangled.
All were prostitutes.

All were found on or near the Thames
within the same stretch of river.

Helen Barthelmy, age 26,

found strangled here, April 24, 1964.

Irene Lockwood, age 26,

found strangled here, April 8th, 1964.

Mary Fleming, age 31,

found strangled here, July 14, 1964.

The girls in the shadows wait,
and so, perhaps, does he.

Car keys are dropped into this glass.

This is a key party.

Key parties are a new game of chance.

It's the latest thing at London parties

to whet the appetites of the jaded.

The evening begins with more innocent
games to put party goers in the mood.

Each night, such parties are organized.

The innocent games put newcomers
at their ease,

and they slowly begin,
with the help of laughter and alcohol,

to lose the ability to clearly distinguish
right from wrong

or to know the limits of this game.

But this husband is not so sure.

Those keys do have a significance,

even a most troubling significance.

Well, we'll come back at
the end of the party.

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.
Thank you very much for the warm welcome.

What a wonderful intro.

Lovely, lovely. You eating here?

- Yes, I am, thank you.
- You are?

- Are you enjoying the food?
- Yes, very much.

- You really are. Nice food?
- Thank you.

I mentioned that because...

You see, I had a friend of mine
who used to work in the toilets here.

I hope you don't mind me saying this.

He was transferred to the kitchen
and had to quit because of the smell.

Eat in good health. Enjoy your food.

There is something disturbing
and even twisted

in the new wave of comedians.

They're all comedians now,
but they're not comics.

There was a time
when a comical comedian had

a lovable personality.

He tried to create a bond of affection
between himself and the audience.

To do this, he wore baggy pants, a red
nose, or loud-striped or chequered suits,

like the caricature of the bookmaker.

That approach has now been relegated
to the circus clown.

It's okay for kids.

And me, I'm simply a genius.

So let's talk about dear old Harold Wilson.
I went to see him one day.

He wasn't home, so I waited.

He came around eventually, exhausted
after a hard day's nationalization.

And Mrs Wilson met him with his
carpet slippers and dressing gown and pipe.

And they sat down to watch my show...

But I think that there is only one man

capable of leading Great Britain
in these decadent times.

A man of great talent.

The modern comedian is a bitter man.

A man able to give voice to
the unspoken resentment of a prim audience.

He tells the story
behind their unconscious malaise.

...dedicated to Malta,
Cyprus and Kenya, entitled...

"They've kicked us out".

I really must protest your insulting
remarks about the mother country.

What do you mean?
I never mentioned Israel once.

I'd like to introduce you now,
ladies and gentlemen,

to a young man who's made the
very British Empire what it is today.

Much smaller.

Stand up and take a bow, off of a cliff.

Finally, and in conclusion,
and as my last remark,

and also to end this debate,

I'd like to present to
you a public manifesto

for a brighter, better, cleaner,
smut-free Britain.

Number one. Hairnets for
the Rolling Stones.

Number two.
Fake boobs for nursing mothers.

Number three, Millie as Colonial Secretary.

Number four...
I've already done three, haven't I?

Anyway, lastly, Barry Goldwater
as Minister of Defense.

I say, young man,
what are you doing up there?

What am I doing up here?

Madam, and I mean it, I'm doing up here...

I'm doing up here publicly
what you're doing back there privately.

Innit marvelous?
Now I know where they've all gone.

The police drove them off the streets
and they're all in here tonight.

He'll find the comeback

you'd wished you'd had ready
when the boss told you off.

You'll no longer have to come up with
your own insults.

Even they come ready-wrapped.
There's an expert to do it for you.

You can buy aggression almost anywhere.

At our party, the spoon game is
starting up. Things are spicing up.

Parties used to be given for people
to meet and talk to one another.

They might develop friendships.

But here nobody cares about tomorrow.

The future doesn't concern them.

The furthest these people
are willing to look into the future is

who goes home with whom.

The only rule is that you don't go home
with the partner you came with.

The keys will decide.

What's important is not leaving alone.

Eat, drink and be merry,
because tomorrow you'll have to lie.

And speaking of lies and exaggeration...

Hit coffee. Okay, I've got it.

That's right. Hit the product. Mention
it with pride. That's it, with pride.

With pride.

Ready, Larry? Ready, Charles? Roll.

Take 57.

"Señor Pride is real good."

- Cut.
- That's it, Mac. Simply great.

- A terrific interpretation, wasn't it, Basil?
- But Roger, Mac said "pride".

I know. Great, wasn't it? Just right.

Mac said what?

"Pride!" Oh, no, that's wrong.
It's coffee, then S-E-N-O-R.

- Mac, haven't you got a script?
- No, sorry, it's all that talk of pride.

Well, concentrate, Mac.
And as we're going again,

I'd like to remind you,
the sponsor likes to hear his name.

Sponsor's name.

- Rolling.
- Take 58.

"Señor Coffee is real good."

- Cut.
- Practically there.

I like that easy style, Mac.

By the way, the agency department head
likes to hear all the words.

You're tending to lose "is" there,
Mac, like this,

"Señor Coffee's real good."

I'll try not to lose the "is."

Take 59. Action.

"Señor Coffee is real good!"

- What about it, Roger?
- Fantastic.

Simply great, simply great.
A terrific interpretation.

Nothing harsh, a nice soft sell.

There's just one thing...

Throughout history, man has created idols.

Someone or something they can see as
projections of themselves, but writ large.

Billy J. Kramer is one
of the current idols.

A personal appearance by him
anywhere in Britain

is certain to draw screaming crowds
and create headaches for the police.

The teenagers will scramble and fight

to get close to or touch
the object of their idolatry.

The young man
pushing through the crowd is Terry Dene,

one of the former pop idols,

but glory fades fast.
He's no longer an object of adulation.

Today he sings better than he ever did.

But he's not known to this generation of pop
worshipers, and is no longer recognised.

They only recognise their present idol.

When Terry Dene was king,
this audience was five or six years old.

Terry Dene is now 24 years old.

Their adulation is as intense
as their rejection is quick and absolute.

Ten-pin bowling had a slow start
in Great Britain during the 1950s.

But it's the boom sport of the 60s.

Its violence,
actually a subtle aggressiveness,

this heavy missile
destroys with the strike.

The symmetrical pattern
is violently broken.

The machine remakes the pattern.

Symmetry is restored.

Ten-pin bowling caters to
the aggressive spirit,

a harmless release of the stress
of modern urban living.

The operating theater is ready.

The patient, trusting to the
surgeon's skill, awaits the knife.

The instruments are prepared.

Skill and knowledge are brought to bear

for the success of
the delicate and critical operation

on a goldfish.

The fish is kept alive by water
passed into the gills.

A needle is injecting a mild anesthetic
to blunt the pain of the operation.

The surgeon needs a magnifying lens
to inspect his diminutive patient

and locate the source of the trouble,

a fungoid growth on the tail.
Very dangerous.

There goes the fungoid growth.

Left to himself in the wild,
the patient would die.

Weakened by disease, he would probably
fall prey to some predatory marauder.

Here in civilized captivity,
he's fed a solution of whisky

to act as a heart stimulant.

All the benefits of modern science
in exchange for life imprisonment.

Man loves animals.

He waxes sentimental about them

except when he eats them.

Civilized man refuses to acknowledge
that he is a predator.

The housewife doing her shopping
is prepared to believe that

chickens are born plastic-wrapped
and oven-ready.

Any other thought
is likely to spoil the appetite.

These are chickens fattened for market
arriving at a processing plant.

They're taken from the hen houses
quite young

and hung by their feet
from this moving belt.

They've lived little more
than seven or eight weeks.

Now, they're stunned by an electric shock

that renders them unconscious.

An unconsciousness
from which they will never rouse.

The belt rolls on towards the knife.

They're now part of a machine,
a product for processing.

This blood is a sacrifice
to the hunger of animals

that no longer hunt for themselves.

With most of their blood drained,
the birds are next prepared for plucking.

The machine takes them forward

into a channel of high-pressured jets
of boiling water.

Scalded, the feathers will fall out.

Here the largest feathers are ripped out

and the process of depersonalizing
these birds begins,

making them into that
anonymous thing, food.

The smaller feathers are removed
by this threshing machine.

The neck feathers are ripped out.

The denuded birds are passed once more
through human hands.

From hatched egg to this serial killing
in seven weeks.

A short span during which
these birds never scratched earth,

caught a worm or saw daylight.

Now, they take off,
rising for their first and only time,

Looking more like a flight of
prehistoric pterodactyls than chickens.

The machine is inexorable. But not for all.

This bird has found himself free.
But he doesn't know freedom.

He will be returned to the machine,

and eventually arrive here, where the
last remnants of feathers are removed

by women whose eyes find
every last wisp of down.

Not all is immaculate, however.
Even the machine is not perfect.

The birds now have their legs
neatly folded into place.

Perfect symmetry is
required for the market.

It is these methods,
with their undeniable efficiency,

which has brought chicken-for-dinner
out of the luxury class

and onto the ordinary table.

The price of chicken has been halved while
the price of most other foods has doubled.

Now, the last stage, packaging for market.

From the arrival of the live chickens
to their removal in cardboard boxes,

15 minutes have passed.

The chickens will end up at the supermarket

where the housewife would prefer not to think
about the martyrdom of this poor beast.

Now let's take a look
at another industrial product.

Let's follow one of the graduates
of the strip school we saw earlier.

Can't afford to be late.
They take it out of your wages.

I do about six to eight shows a day,
all in different clubs.

And if I'm, say, just two minutes late,
they fine me 10 bob.

Ooh, my gloves. They're very important.

Clothes are a big expense in this business.

Most of the girls start
between the ages of 16 and 18.

How long they stay
depends on their bodies.

Most of us drop out in our mid-twenties.

Of course we earn money,
but you've gotta be fast.

We do about 40 shows a week,
and very few of us get more than 20 quid.

That happened to me once.

I dress and undress about 100 times a week,
except for Sundays because they're closed.

Lots of girls are coming into the business
because they think it's going to be easy.

They soon find out different.

Some of the girls get married
and still go round the clubs.

Most of us are glad to get out.

Rain can ruin your makeup.

Makes it a drag, you know,
to keep redoing your makeup.

And these dressing rooms. They're dirty.

Some of them are downright filthy.

When ten girls use the same room
and no one wants to clean up...

Me neither, obviously.

To go from club to club,

you wear old clothes
that don't show dirt so easily.

With pullovers, you have
to watch your hair.

Hairdos cost money.

I've done this routine so often
I could do it in me sleep.

Many of us come up from the provinces.

The lure of the stage.

But nobody bothers with you
if you're a stripper.

No need to go to theater school.

But there's no chance of
being discovered down here.

How long it lasts
depends on the club management.

They don't always have the same idea.

One day they say don't show too much,

and the next day they tell
you to take it all off.

Depends on who's in, I suppose.

All this stripping is hard on the clothes.

But what it's hardest
of all on is the feet.

There are certain ailments which
always seem enormously comical to others,

that is, to non-sufferers.

Corns or calluses of the
foot are among them.

This operation is very delicate and unique.

This chiropodist is one of the few in Britain
able to remove a corn by entire dissection.

That is, by carefully cutting between
the live and the dead tissue

to remove the corn in one piece,

as opposed to merely paring away
the surface dead tissue

and possibly leaving a living root
to grow again.

This technique has its opponents, but for
the sufferers there's only one reaction,

a long sigh of relief.

The business of publicity has itself become
a glamor symbol.

Our key-party continues.

Music and alcohol have served
their social purpose,

to blur the edges of what is acceptable.

There's only one word for this kind
of adult entertainment:

perversion.

The husband watches but he can no longer
distinguish who or what very well.

Events go forward
under their own momentum,

and now it's time for the lottery.

They will move on to the lottery,
which is the sole purpose of this party.

The total degradation of love,
the sex lottery.

Lady Luck is blind.

She assigns partners for the night
based on car keys.

The die is cast. No exceptions made.

Now whose turn is it? It's the wife's.

Destiny will assign her partner.

Is her husband sufficiently
anesthetized with alcohol?

She asks who's won her.

Apparently, her husband doesn't react.
However, even if he did, he has to give in.

Emotion has no place here.

And there, it's his turn.

"She's doing it, why shouldn't I?"
is a set phrase that fixes everything.

This is the death of love.

When you bet your wife on a car key,

then the respect essential to love
is thrown away.

In the name of
a moment of transitory pleasure,

ordinary decency is
thrown out of the window.

Life must be dull for anyone willing
to compromise it in this fashion.

Psychiatrists will explain that one
of the marks of the delinquent personality

is an incapacity to look ahead.

An incapacity to postpone present
excitement in the hope of future happiness.

These people are true delinquents.

Where, now, is future happiness?

A wasted hour in exchange
for a lifetime of regret.

They put their happiness in jeopardy,
risk their marriage

and mortgage their children's future.

Their present responses
may seem plausible

when seen through the bottom of a glass.

But the party was tonight.
What will be left tomorrow?

There's one certainty in all this.

The hangover lasts longer
than the state of intoxication.

Here the well-heeled set is amused
with song, dance, and some simple games.

What counts is laughter.

We are going to watch a rocking-horse race in
which these big children will participate.

With some difficulty,
the jockeys mount their steeds.

One, two, three and they're off!

The age and weight of the competitor
is not important.

It's enough to make people laugh
at the expense of others.

There are quite a few tumbles.

And here's the winner,
doubtless a former cavalryman.

The prize is worth a few falls.

Every night is New Year's.

The eternal human cry for renewal.
And here is renewal.

This is the same baby we saw being born.

Now, 14 days later, he's doing fine.

The human is a tough animal at birth.
He needs to be.

Before him now is a struggle to live
in a world he has yet to discover.

Maybe he'll find the world to be good.

Or maybe, in some way,
he will make it a better place.

Feed well, little fellow. Grow strong.
You'll need your strength.

You've a long, strange road ahead.