All language subtitles for Manderlay.2005.720p.WEBRip.x264.AAC-[YTS.MX]

Downloaded from
YTS.MX

Official YIFY movies site:
YTS.MX

It was in the year of 1933,

and Grace and her father
were heading southward

with their army of gangsters.

After leaving Dogville,
they had returned to Denver

only to find that the mice
had been well and truly playing

while the cat was away,

and new forces had taken over
their former possessions.

The result was a particularly
unappealing retreat that had brought them

through the state of Alabama
this spring

in search of new hunting grounds.

Now, they will not admit it,

but it's a fact.

Deep down inside,
there isn't a woman alive

who doesn't nurture
these fantasies...

whether they involve harems,
being hunted through the jungle

by torch-bearing natives.

However much they go on and on
about civilization and democracy,

sexy it ain't.

Grace and her father
had resumed their legendary discord

even as they pulled out of Dogville,

and although Grace
had been employing the technique

of letting things go in
one ear and out the other

for a pretty long time now,

she was, to be frank, somewhat weary
of her unbearably overweening daddy

who still believed any nagging woman
could be pacified

with a good old
bouquet of carnations.

I bet you wouldn't have had
the guts to talk like that

if Mother had been alive.

No. You're right, my girl.
I would not.

We're goins', boss.

Miss? Lady?

Can I talk to you?

Can I talk to you?

Miss?

They gonna whip him.
I knew they would.

It just ain't true;
he ain't stole nothin'.

They put that Rhenish wine
from Mam's bedside table in his cabin

just to give 'em
something to whip him for.

That's the law...
one bottle and it's a whippin'.

That's Mam's law.

What are you talking about?
Who? Who are they gonna whip?

Timothy.

Why?

That's how they do us slaves.

- Slaves?
- Yes, ma'am.

Surely you heard of slaves.

It's what we is at Manderlay.

This godforsaken place.

That's howl got out.

When a whippin's in the offin',
they take out a section of the fence.

Listen, Grace,
it's a local matter.

It's not for us to poke our noses in.

Why should we not
poke our noses in

- just because it's a local matter?
- It's certainly not our responsibility.

You think the Negroes
wanted to leave their homes in Africa?

Wasn't it us who brought them
to America?

We have done them a great wrong.

It's our abuse that has
made them what they are.

Untie him.

Stop!

'Fraid not, lady.

Slavery was abolished
70 years ago.

If you won't obey that law
of your own accord,

we will compel you to do so.

Help me get her inside.

Get water for Mam.
Act quickly, Rose.

Spare me your hypocrisy.

You dumb old slave.

Get out!

Leave us alone.

If you're looking for sympathy,
don't expect any from me.

Listen...

I'm very old...

unfortunately dying.

I should like to ask you
for a favor.

If it involves allowing you to go on
exploiting these people like slaves,

I'm sorry, I'll just have to say no,

no matter how dying you are.

Slavery's over now.
I can see that.

It had to come one day.

All right.

I'll probably refuse you,
but you might as well ask.

There's a book
under my mattress.

I should like you to retrieve it...

and burn it for me.

- It would be best for everyone.
- I'm sure you think so.

But it's my View that anything,
no matter what,

is best served by being
brought out into the open.

I beg you, one woman to another.

Woman to woman...
makes no difference to me.

The sins of the past are sins I cannot
and do not wish to help you erase.

Now I must leave you.

I believe my father's men
have unlocked the gates.

Now everybody can come
and go as they please.

Please let everyone else know
on the plantation

that from now on, they can
all enjoy the same freedoms

as any other citizen
of this country.

The Constitution can be found
at any courthouse.

And here's a tip
for when you sue the family.

There's a weighty written evidence
concealed in this very room.

She's dead.

The old devil.

Oh, I'm sorry.

I didn't mean it, Missy.

No, no, if any of us
deserves an apology, it's not me.

I'm afraid.

There's nothing to be afraid of.

We've taken
all the family's weapons.

No.

I'm afraid of what will happen now.

I fear we ain't ready...

for a completely new way of life.

At Manderlay,

we slaves took supper at 7:00.

When do people take supper
when they're free?

We don't know these things.

Free men eat when they're hungry.

Free women as well.

Considering the times
and the situation,

Grace's words
in the dead woman's room

on mealtimes for tree citizens
might have seemed a trifle over-spirited.

We should not believe
that there lay any content in these words

for the wretched
and starving people of America.

Grace rejoined the gangsters

who had indeed
concluded their disarmament

of the plantation's
powers that had been,

though their findings
were meager...

the shotgun
and an old toy pistol.

All right, we can go.

Let's just wait a moment.

What are you waiting for?

For them to come and thank you?

Or for them to burn
the whole place down

and dance some tribal dance on the ruins
by the glow of the torchlight?

You are a bigot, Daddy,
and you always have been.

We owe these people.

We brought them here,
we abused them,

- we made them what they are.
- I admit I don't do deals with the Japs.

Can't trust 'em
when there's big money at stake.

But a bigot?

Well... why don't they come out?

That's exactly
what you said last time.

Last time?

Remember when you were six?

You thought it was so sad
that your beloved Tweety

was all shut up in a cage,

and nobody could persuade you
not to let him out.

Tweety was a proud little bird.

Well, his dignified exit
didn't do Tweety a hell of a lot of good.

We found him the next morning
underneath your window,

- frozen to death.
- I know!

He'd been bred as an indoor bird.
He really didn't have a chance.

And what do you think
those Negroes in there are?

How many generations do you think
those families made their homes

behind that fence?

I bet you most of them
have taken up employment

in their former jobs
with the family, contracts and all.

Of course, now they'll get
a few dollars for their efforts,

but they'll soon drink that up,
and maybe they'll borrow a bit more

from their employers,
who have, no doubt,

opened a little store
full of colorful wares just for them.

And of course, they'll never
be able to pay back the money,

and they'll be trapped yet again.

What you did was all very noble,
my girl, but...

when push comes to shove,
you've just made everything far worse,

just as you did with Tweety.

So all we can do...

is hope there's no frost.

What you said about
contracts and loans...

- that's fraud.
- Fraud.

See, I've read...

that...
Yes?

Freed slaves are given
a mule and a plot of land

so that they can
establish themselves.

Yep, that's true.

But when it came down to it,
the fella who owned the mule and the land

had rather keep it all
for himself,

so nothing really
ever happened with it.

Anyhow, it may take them a while
to gather the evidence

against the plantation for when
the family goes on trial.

Trial?

Tater-pie, there are times
when you seem even less with it

than your dear mother.

Oh, I seem to have
underestimated 'em.

We've at least one man
with a genuine thirst for freedom,

and he's gettin' out,
and he's in a hurry.

Yeah, he's hightailin' it, all right.

Yeah. That' 5 Stamps.

- Pardon me.
- Not a lot of dignity there.

He's scared out of his wits.

Would it be possible
to have a word with the young lady?

Yes, yes.

Don't mean to inconvenience you.

That's exactly what you're doin'.

You're not inconveniencing anyone.

This is a grave day
for everyone, I know that.

I just thought we must've seemed
a mite bit ungrateful.

We should like to thank you properly
for what you've done.

It'll only take a moment.

- Yes, of course.
- Ten minutes.

Then I'm gone.
Not a second longer.

Grace was conducted
through the wretched living quarters

bestowed upon the slaves
with their pitiful leaky cabins.

Her actions would comprise
an unconditional enrichment

of these people's lives.

There was no doubt about that.

Or was there?

Actually, Grace did not see
much of the glow she had hoped for...

the glow that could've
convinced her

that no one would end up
like her little pale yellow canary.

These were human beings,

but of the kind on whom
pain had been inflicted, Grace thought,

as she was suddenly interrupted
by a strangely exotic accent.

When we were slaves,

we were not required
to offer thanks for our supper,

and for the water we drink
and the air we breathed.

Nobody needs to say
thank you, but...

But what?

I mean, there is something
we ought to be thankful for?

I didn't mean "but."
I meant "and."

And...

There's no reason
to be grateful for anything

as natural as your freedom.

I'm the first to apologize
for everything...

you and your people
have been subjected to.

See, these gates should've been
unlocked 70 years ago.

Only 70 years ago?

But before that, of course,
they were completely justified.

No.

No, no, you misunderstand me.

What can I say?

You need say nothing at all.

We've heard of your kind.

You're a society lady
who spends her time

rescuing wretched niggers.

I should like to say thank you.

Missy done give her time
and effort to helpin' us.

Time I'll bet she could've spent
on all kinds of different things.

'Cause was perfect justice
when God made some of us slaves

and not others.

The nigra is vile by nature.

I know it ain't popular to say so,

and it ain't 'cause of Bert
that I say so. Hmm.

No, Victoria
did not base her perception

exclusively on her experience
of her husband, though God knows,

it weighed heavily.

Bert was a useless eejit

whose character Victoria
regrettably, so far in vain,

had done her best to improve
by hitting him with any implement

at hand on any given occasion,

no matter how much he had
threatened to take his own life

by throwing himself into
Manderlay's deep well.

Grace looked at Wilhelm,
the old house slave, and understood.

He had not brought her here
for anybody to thank her.

He just wanted her
to see them all...

the unfortunate flock
that he very rightly feared

would have few chances
beyond the perimeter fence.

Living proof of the devastating
power of oppression.

- Listen up.
- Yes, sir.

This has all been put on paper.

I just needed to check
the wording first again

as these things
are legal and binding.

Bingo.

- What are these?
- Don't rightly know, ma'am.

They're the contracts, ma'am.

The family
has been so considerate

to offer us all employment.

Grace was not a lawyer,

and unqualified to assess
the validity of the contract

she held in her hand,

but she feared that, unfortunately,

any judge in the county
would deem it fair and proper.

It appeared to Grace
that instead of employee,

they might just as well
have retained the old term of slave.

A body would only sign it

if he or she was utterly ignorant
of life in liberal society,

or if he or she
really had no choice.

Folks, I suppose that
you're in urgent need of cash.

- Mark?
- Cash?

I once knew this fella
from a little township

nobody know the name of,
so there ain't no grounds to mention

what it was called.

He had cash.

Not piles of it.

We are prepared
to lend you some money

as covered by this
other piece of paper,

and we can also set up
a little store here, if you like.

After all, it's a long way to town.

And if you buy enough
for all of us,

I bet you're liable to get
a real nice bulk discount,

and the goods'“ be cheaper
than in town.

Ain't that right, Miss Grace?

I have no idea.

Please sign, everybody.

What this be?
What it is?

All right.

Let's go.

Turn it off.

Damn it.

Daddy, you said that I
didn't have the power to help Tweety.

You were right.

I was a child then.

So what is it this time?

This time,
I have the power to act.

You said so back in Dogville,

that your power
would be mine, too,

and that I could use it
in my own way.

That power was to carry on
the family farm.

That I was open to new ideas.

The power you ask for now
will undoubtedly

be applied to something
that's foolish at best...

Daddy, you promised.

Oh.

You were a bastard to Mother,

but when you promised
her something, she got it.

Okay.

You've been given
what I promised you.

Maybe things haven't been
split right down the middle,

but this is as far
as I'm prepared to go.

I want nothing
to do with your plans.

And you won't be able
to get in touch with me

if anything goes wrong
and you need me, as usual,

to get you out of trouble,
because fortunately, my dear,

you'll have no idea where I am.

- Manual-bums“.
- No.

I need a lawyer to sort out
some paperwork.

No. No! Never!

Never!

I'd never let Joseph go.

He's the only man I know
who can draw up a contract

so there's only one
possible interpretation,

and though I haven't needed
that talent as of yet,

I still might need it one day.

I'll give you Viggo
and Bruno for him.

Never.

I've given you my best associates,
and you know it!

Daddy, I was meant
to have been given half.

If Mother had been alive...

Oh, damn it, Grace!

So that very day,
and into the early hours,

Joseph employed
the celebrated unambiguous phrases

his previous employer had given him
so wretchedly little opportunity

to practice.

New contracts needed drawing up,

and old ones
needed nullifying...

all with the astonishing good will
that parties always evince

in the company
of rapid-firing machine pistols.

These were the deeds of gift.

You transfer the property
to the former slaves in joint ownership.

The last document
is your contract of employment

by this community.

Employment? I don't...

quite get what you mean by that.

It'll be without pay,

and the right of termination
is rather one-sidedly

in the hands of the employer,
but nevertheless.

Manual labor...

for you and your family
and Mr. Mays.

Hard labor.

Say something, Bingo.

My father's back
ain't so strong.

He climbed up
to reach the chandelier

one Christmas day,
and he fell off the banister

and struck a table.

Well, that's what happens
when you've got chandeliers.

When I consider
that your understanding

of the worth of other
human beings

has reached the desirable stage,

you and Mr. Mays
and your family

will be allowed to go.

Go?

- And leave our home?
- Yes.

And I assure you that
even starting from scratch,

your prospects will be
a lot better than your former labors

would have been.

With regards to
the presence of me and my men,

we'll only act
as your counselors.

The guns are merely a precaution
in case of any threats

to the new community.

We intend to stay here,

but only until
the first harvest is home,

after which, any of the new
shareholders who wishes to do so

may cash in his or her deed of gift
and receive a dividend.

All right, will you
collect your deeds. Mark?

Nobody was particularly enthusiastic

or confident about
these late-night legal formalities.

Victoria.

Flora.

But Grace could see beyond this,

and if she saw little else
than fear and disquiet

in all these eyes,

at least she saw gratitude
in one single pair...

namely, in Wilhelm's
mild old gaze.

Bert.

Got a deed of gift here
that ain't been accepted.

Will Mr. Bert approach forthwith
and take delivery of his deed of gift?

Mr. Bert.

Mr. Ben?

Ben' had actually
prepared his escape

from his ferocious wife.

Despite her lack of faith
in his abilities,

Bert had succeeded
in meeting a woman

through the fence,

and she had agreed
to help him to abscond.

And there he was,
waiting at the agreed place

at the agreed time.

A helping hand,
the woman had said.

What a peculiar coincidence
that two women

should come to the aid
of the Manderlay slaves

at the same time.

Grace and Bert's ”helping hand. ”

And the similarities between them
were also peculiar.

Young, beautiful, white,
in male company.

Actually, male company
in alarming numbers.

Where's the nigger?

Grace had moved
into the freed plantation

among its new shareholders.

She was there
as a guard, no more.

But no one could stop her
from using this beautiful spring

to make her own little observations
on the people of Manderlay

in the hope of spotting
the burgeoning change in character

that freedom ought to bring.

But unfortunately,
she saw little of just that.

She saw Victoria for the third time
looking down the well

in hope of a glimpse
of the body of Bert.

She saw Flora and Elizabeth
swooning for Timothy as ever.

She saw the men
spending their time on card games

playing for tufts of blue cotton
under their leaky root.

And she saw how everybody
would ignore the eager Mark

whenever he opened his mouth,
not knowing that he was notorious

for never being able to give an
intelligible answer to anything.

Well, we called him Puddin' Head,
but his real name wasn't Puddin' Head.

Grace saw Victoria
beating her eldest son

for stealing a moldy cookie.

And she saw the unstoppable,
irrevocable hierarchy of the beatings.

Victoria beating Ed,

Ed beating Milton
and Milton, Willie,

who finally vented his frustration
further down the food chain

on Claire,

who far too rarely
managed to make use of the window

with the outside handle
that her loving father Jack

had installed
as an emergency entrance.

Which also allowed her to fall asleep
every night to her favorite view

of the twinkling stars.

Every noontide,
Grace witnessed with pity

how the former slaves
were arrayed on the parade ground

with mysterious numbers
and marks beneath Mam's balcony,

as if nothing at Manderlay
had changed.

However, one of them
did not submit

to this all-too-soothing
power of habit.

Timothy, of course.

In a flash, his exotic pride
almost took Grace's breath away.

This day, Grace walked on
past the old peach house

where the whites
were now detained,

put to work on sundry,
more or less needless little repairs,

on her way to the farm
housing her gangsters.

So how's everyone doing?

I'm afraid the men
got nothing to do,

and it's not so good
for the morale.

In situations like that, your father
always came up with something.

I bet he did.

But it's patience that's required.

Not this much patience,
Niels says.

Niels' grandpa
was a cotton grower,

and he says the cotton
should have been sown ages ago.

The soil doesn't look ready.

Might be because
nobody's plowed it.

Maybe things are different here
from where your grandpa lived.

No, ma'am.
Don't reckon so.

Well, if... if it should've
been sown,

surely the people here
would be the first to know.

As she did not want to impose,

Grace's intercourse
with the former slaves

had been limited
to brief greetings and the like.

But now it was time for a talk
with some meat to it.

Excuse me. Sir?

Mark? May I ask you something?

It's about planting the cotton.

I've been around
for sowin' and harvestin'

and birth and death.

Right.

So when should the cotton
be planted?

There's strict rules for that.

You can't mess around
with that sort of thing.

Manderlay has always been
renown for the precision of its harvest.

The swallows always migrate
right afterwards.

They settle here for the night
on their way across the marshes.

But the planting?

It's a science, my dear lady,
and the weather,

which you might have expected,
plays a fearsome role.

Yes, yes.

And when will it
be time this year?

Not too soon and not too late.

Yes, but when?

Should the cotton
have already been planted?

I'm not the sort of fella
to pass on information

unless I'm damn sure of it.

Unless the facts of the matter
are 100%.

In other words,
the facts need be beyond dispute.

You know when to plant?

No.

I better ask Wilhelm.
Is he in his cabin?

This mornin', he went down
to the bathhouse.

He'd gotten a little frayed
around the edges, as they say.

- It's a funny thing...
- I'm sorry.

I'll go find him myself.

Excuse me, Wilhelm.

I've come about the fields.

The fields should've been plowed
and harrowed three weeks ago,

and the cotton planted
two weeks ago.

But does everybody know that?

Oh, yes. But I reckon
they thinkin'

somebody else oughta go out
in the field first.

In the old days, Overseer Mays

would've driven us out there.

Maybe it's because nobody
really trusts you, Missy.

Yeah. But Wilhelm, they could
be doing something else instead.

Repairs to their homes.

They badly need it.

The cabins have always
been a sore spot.

But Mam said we ain't got
no materials to fix 'em up.

But we're going to need
what we make on the cotton.

How else will people survive
on their own?

Yeah, if folks felt
they was given somethin'...

something brought out by this,
these new times...

that made their lives better
in a convincing way,

right here and now!

I don't know
what that might be, but...

But we don't have time for that.

We've been forced to sow late before.

The harvest might be improved
if we planted a bit late.

Even says that in Mam's Law.

Mam's Law?

Yes, Mam's Law.

It's all the rules
for running the plantation.

But we weren't allowed to read it.

It was just for Mam and the family.

Only for Mam and the family,
Grace thought.

Certainly no more.

And there on Mam's bed,
skimming through the old book,

wen-fined with bizarre
and vicious regulations,

she came upon a page
that looked strangely familiar.

A table with numbers
from one to seven.

Somewhere Grace had seen
something similar, for sure.

Mam's Law revealed it all.

The Manderlay plantation
with its glamorous front mansion

and pitiful rear where the slaves
had their quarters

had been kept in an iron grip
by these very numbers.

They represented the psychological
division of the Manderlay slaves.

Sammy was a Group 5:
a Clownin' Nigger.

The formidable Victoria was of course
a Number 4: a Hittin' Nigger.

No wonder her husband Bert
had found it necessary

to accept ”a helping hand”

even if it was
another color from his own.

Wilma and Mark
were Losin' Niggers.

Wilhelm was a 2: a Talkin' Nigger.

Flora was a Weepin' Nigger.

Et cetera et cetera.

There were Pleasin' Niggers
and Crazy Niggers by the dozen.

The final category,
Number 1: Proudy Niggers

consisted nowadays
of Timothy, as expected,

who was of course not there.

And Elizabeth.

No. It said 7, not 1.

She was a Pleasin' Nigger,
also known as a chameleon...

a person of the kind
who could transform herself

into exactly the type
the beholder wanted to see.

This was how the slave system had
been kept alive for so long at Manderlay:

bondage,
even through psychology.

As Grace, in deep thought, gazed
across the fields of Manderlay,

she recalled
another page in Mam's Law,

dealing exclusively with
the weeding of the paths

in the romantic
"Old Lady's Garden,"

the name of the narrow band
of woodland that skirted the plantation.

"Trees and tree trunks,”
Grace thought.

So there were materials
at Manderlay, after all.

Excuse me.

May I ask you all something?

Isn't it true that somebody
who's even poor and colored...

can still take the trouble
to maintain their home?

How dare you?

You think colored folks prefer holes
in their roofs and wallowing in mud?

Then all you need to do
is to mend these holes.

But I told you.

There ain't never been no materials
for that kind of thing at Manderlay.

No materials?
That's not true.

When I'm in the fields,
I see timber wherever I look,

just waiting to be turned
into boards for a roof,

or an extension
or maybe even a whole new cabin.

That be Mam's garden.

You can't cut that down.

Then why can't we cut down
The Old Lady's Garden?

Have you really spent that many
happy hours up there on your knees

weeding her romantic paths?

That's true.
There's loads of timber.

We ain't seen it as anything
but The Old Lady's Garden.

I don't know what you think,

but to me, it sounds like
a splendid idea.

And at a stroke, these seated,
reclining, resting people

had turned into people
going full tilt...

walking,
mooing, working people...

without anyone having to threaten
them in the slightest

with "The Lady's Hand,”

as Grace had been told
the great whip was called.

And Grace had won
a kind of victory.

A small beginning of something
that would one day erase

an the negative, inherited
behavior patterns of Manderlay.

But as Grace had suspected,

the appetite for
improving the living quarters

unfortunately exceeded that
for preparing the fields.

A few of the former slaves
had volunteered,

and with the white family
and Grace herself,

they made up a sort of gang
to prepare the soil for the seeds

under the gaze of
a demonstratively hostile Timothy

with his mysterious
white handkerchief.

- He wasn't born here?
- He's a Munsi.

It's a line of African royalty.
It's a very proud line.

He don't drink either,

or gamble like the others be doin' with
their little blue tufts of cotton money.

It was Mam's Law.

We weren't allowed no real money.

Grace knew about the clever system
of currency in Mam's Law.

Not real money that you
could use in the outside world.

The Munsi don't gamble 'cause
they don't believe in winnings.

They believe you have to be
humble to your crops

and only take
what's absolutely necessary.

I've never heard
of these Munsi before,

but I do believe
I once heard of the Mansi.

They different.
They was slaves of African kings.

They gamble.

They is true mischief, Timothy say.

So Timothy has
prejudices, as well.

What?

Oh, nothing.
I was just thinking aloud.

So you find company, Flora.

No, no. I was on
my way out, anyway.

Timothy?

Let me tell you one thing.

I know you don't like me
and don't trust me,

and I can see why.

Although our ideals differ,
you have a pride within you,

that I believe will one day be
the salvation of everybody at Manderlay.

Let me tell you one thing, too.

You got fine words, a posse
of gangsters, and your white skin...

somethin' folks here seem to fall for,
but I ain't fooled.

You're not interested in us,
not as human beings.

After all, it's tough telling people apart
when they're from another race.

We whites have committed
an irreparable crime

against an entire people.

Manderlay is a moral obligation,

because we made you.

Luckily, I'm just a nigger
who don't understand such words.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've come
here for the company of my girl,

and that ain't nothing
for you to see.

Black hides meeting.

And if I were you, I would leave now
before things get too nasty.

Grace regarded Timothy's hostility
as a challenge,

and the very next day,
she took a step to dispel his claim

that as a white, she was incapable
of caring for blacks as individuals.

She'd had a chat with Venus about
her somewhat maladjusted son Jim.

Venus had revealed
that Jim's behavior

was merer that of
a budding, but frustrated, artist.

Tell me, have you seen Venus?

Nobody here wants your charity.

I have something for Jim.

I've had a really good look
at his face since our little chat,

and you're right.

It does possess an artist's sensitivity.

This is far too much.

No, no, no!

Go on, call him.
These are for him.

Jim, come on out here
with me and Miss Grace, baby.

These are for you,
because we believe in you.

Now run along
and paint your fantastic pictures.

Never mind those close-minded folks
who think they know

what art is meant to look like.

Give them hell from me, Jim!

Excuse me, but I ain't Jim.
I'm Jack.

That's Jim.

It is tricky.

As a matter of fact, I've never
been able to tell them apart, either.

They're both colored,
and they both got curly hair.

Why look any deeper than that?

To be honest,
Grace had never been quite sure

which was Jim
and which was Jack...

a blunder that would, in her former
life among her fellow whites,

merely have occasioned
a little laughter.

Thank you, ma'am.

In her life at Manderlay,
it was disastrous.

But like her father, she did not take
long to transform a defeat into anger,

energy and a counterattack.

This... this is what has created
all this resistance.

Even you regard it
as almost sacred, don't you?

I must admit it's played
a right important part in my life.

That will be my next move.

They shall be allowed to see it...

and understand
that it can't do them any more harm.

I wouldn't advise it, Missy.

Presenting it to them would
be like showing the child the rod

with which it's been beaten.

I agree it must be made public,
but we ain't all ripe for it.

All right.

Then we shall have to see about
ripening you, and quickly.

I'm not talking about the couple
of cozy meetings I've organized

to which hardly anybody turned up.

I mean teaching with a timetable...

old-fashioned,
hands-on schooling.

All right, I've got
something for you to do at last.

It even involves
bossing people about.

At noon tomorrow,

I'm going to give my first lesson
to all of the former slaves of Manderlay.

It'll be your job
to make sure they're there.

No excuse for not showing up.

And the family?

No, they're pretty well
teaching themselves.

Are you listening to me?

It's 'cause Niels
just got a great hand.

What?

Who are you?

My name is Dr. Hector.

DO excuse me a moment.

I'll have to pay my way
out of this round.

God knows, I don't believe you possess
any cards of real significance.

You have a poker player's face.

You can see here
my entire enterprise.

I must say, I've never gained access
to Manderlay before.

So when I drove by today
and saw the gates were open,

I took it as a sign of new times.

What exactly do you do?

I entertain.

Party games, card games,
and the like.

Well, nowadays,
mainly the latter.

You play for money.

But I do more than play.

I cheat.

And you have no objections to revealing
this... business secret of yours?

Oh, to some people,
but not to you.

No, no, you see,

if you and I establish the business
relationship I'm anticipating,

you'll be happy to know
exactly what to expect.

And what can I expect?

Eighty percent.

You certainly know
all the problems that arose

when our beloved New Deal
was imposed in '65.

Plantation owners had plenty
of land, but nobody to work it.

So they contracted
with the former slaves.

But they just didn't have
the same hold on the rascals

that they had in the old days.

Of course they lent them money.

But quite a few
of the nigras actually saved up

and paid off their debts.

So the plantation owners get worried.

- I bet they did.
- Oh, yeah.

That's where my idea came in.

I went from plantation
to plantation

with the full backing
of the plantation owners

to entertain their employees, and
they were sorely in need of diversion,

let me tell ya.

We just had a little game of cards.

If anyone was close
to repaying his debt,

I would take the shirt off their back.

And I am prepared to offer you
that very same service today, ma'am.

You are not convinced.

Let me give you another token
of my profound loyalty.

I have here a letter from
a man by the name of Stanley.

He asked me to smuggle it out.

Thought perhaps you'd like to see it
before it's mailed.

Listen, Mr. Hector...

Let me just say
that I have never met a man

whom I have instantly despised

so wholeheartedly, both for
his personality and his occupation.

Does that mean you're
turning down my offer?

I never want
to see you here again.

All right.

Well, I am disappointed.

I shall nevertheless bestow
upon you my thought for the day.

I indulge in word games.

I like to give my clients something
to laugh or think about when I leave.

The best technique
for a card sharp...

is dealing from the bottom.

Look as if you're dealing
from the top of the deck...

but instead you just take
the bottom card... one that you know.

Taking from the bottom
means something else entirely

in social terms.

But it is what I do.
I take from the bottom.

It won't be hard to find me
if you change your mind.

The letter was aimed
at a Mr. Miller,

one of the truckers who
picked up cotton from Manderlay,

and the plantation's only
real contact with the outside world.

It was short and to the point:

"We are being held prisoner by
gangsters and coloreds at Manderlay.

Inform the police and please come
to our aid with all due dispatch."

indignation
is a rare emotion for a gangster,

but a state of just that was
what Grace's men experienced

while they herded the colored people
in for their lesson that day,

as Grace had reported on Dr. Hector's
cheap trick of taking from the bottom.

It was hardly the sophisticated
ambiguity of the term

that had affected them
so dramatically.

Welcome to our lesson.

Yes, I call it a lesson,
as the term "meeting"

seems to have scared
some people out of attending.

I was comin', but I was late.

Very late.

You hadn't made it
by the time we finished.

In the old days we could hear the bell
from the old clock in the hall.

It was easy to keep up with time,
but we never hear it no more.

Probably because
nobody winds it up.

But now for the topic
of this lesson: Working together.

Only four people from your wing
helped to prepare the fields,

and only five helped to plant.

I'm not a shareholder
in this enterprise,

but if I had been,

and if I'd also been one of the five,
I would have felt cheated.

Democracy means
government by the people.

But, as it's not practical
for everyone to sit in Congress,

a method by which people may
express their views is required.

This method is called a ballot.
All right?

So, let's try it out.

We should choose a problem.

Anything anyone can't decide on?

If I may suggest a small matter...

Please do.

I reckon the little broken rake is mine,
but Flora reckons it's hers.

- It's my rake!
- That's an excellent suggestion.

It's a great example.

I assume you all know of this dispute and
all feel able to have an opinion on it.

Who does the community think
owns the rake?

It could turn out to belong
to both parties equally.

That would correspond nicely
with the subject of this lesson:

Working together,
sharing together.

All right, so who thinks
it's Elizabeth's rake?

Sammy?

I think
I think it's Elizabeth's rake.

All right, all right!

Slowly the point of Grace's edifying
discourse dawned on the majority.

Most of them thought
the rake was definitely Elizabeth's.

A few, that it was Flora's,
and nobody, that it could be shared.

I still remain... undecided...

whether the rake
is Elizabeth's or Flora's.

Right. So, not surprisingly,
neither party receives Mark's vote.

From now on, the little broken rake
belongs to Elizabeth.

That's what ballots are like;
there are winners and there are losers.

But the community has spoken.

And now Grace embarked on
a protracted explanation

of Flora's difficulties
raking without a rake,

and that owning things together
could have its advantages.

To make sure that everyone
understood the democratic principle,

the meeting carried out
another ballot at Jim's suggestion.

I wanna talk about the fact
that Sammy be laughin' so loud

at his own jokes,
and they ain't funny.

And I'm tryin' to get some sleep,
and I can't get no sleep,

'cause he laughs so loud.

Mmmm.

Maybe perhaps there can be a time
when he can stop his jokes

and stop laughin',
so we can get some sleep.

You can't vote
on a man's laughter.

You can't vote on
a man's laughter, surely.

I'm hearing that it's at sundown.

At sundown.

That's what I'm hearing.
So let's do a vote.

All right, so that's settled.

- Yeah, it is.
- It is.

That's democracy.

Finally Wilhelm proposed
that it would be practical

if somebody was responsible
for winding up the clock

with its small but penetrating chimes.

And for mysterious reasons,

the probing though rainy passive artist
Jim was appointed,

despite the song and dance
his mother kicked up.

He can't do it!

Grace wound up the lesson

by announcing that the topic
for the next day would be:

Our anger
and how to communicate it.

Maybe somebody would
at least tell me what the time is.

Ask Timothy.
He always know what time it is.

He tell by the sun.
He always do that.

Or we can always ask Wilhelm.

He's so old, he's from
before the clock ever got here.

So Wilhelm and Timothy
each made his own suggestion

as to what the time was,

and they were
astonishingly close.

Wilhelm thought
it was eight minutes to.

Timothy thought
it was five minutes to.

Grace rejoiced quietly at this natural
ability they found so straightforward.

But rapidly two factions emerged,

one which insisted
it was eight minutes to,

and the other would not
hear of anything but five minutes to.

They were thus able to draw on
the day's teaming and put it to the vote.

The result was five minutes to,
by a small majority.

And so it was decided:

The official time at Manderlay
was five minutes to 2:00..

Five...

Grace's first lesson of the day
took place in relative good humor.

But the second one... the one that
had unfortunately proved unavoidable...

was severer in character.

Read.

"Daily ration of food
for slaves from Category

Oh. Oh, no. "1... is..."

"Six ounces of solid food."

And they've always
been given just that,

no matter how little
there was in the stores.

That's a lot less
than Category 7, for example.

Why should a "Proudy Nigger"
have less to eat

than an "Eye-Pleasin'" one?

How can the way
your head seems to be arranged

have anything to do whatsoever with
the amount people are given to eat?

I really don't know, either.

Not precisely.

Do you, Mr. Mays?

It could be just to punish them
for their pride.

No, I just did what it said.

It mattered a lot to my mother
that we follow these rules.

I know of many places where everybody
got quite a bit less than six ounces,

and where
they began to eat dirt.

It's a kind of custom coloreds have
when food's scarce 'round here.

But it was forbidden
under Mam's Law.

That's not
what we're discussing here.

Don't you see what an affront it is,
to divide people up like that?

Folks is different.

Oxen and rabbits don't need
equal shares of fodder neither.

Both parties
would come down with bellyaches.

Stop it! I'm not at all satisfied
with what I've heard here today.

You're all speaking up
for this foolishness.

I'm going
to have to penalize you,

because so little effort
has been made in these lessons.

That evening,
Grace thought that her idea

of making
the whites make up their faces,

which had seemed
so just and edifying

in her flash of anger that afternoon,

was perhaps a tad too much
in the wrong direction.

Even though Philomena herself
in her own childhood

would not have dreamt
of going to the toilet

without the entertainment
of her black nanny.

Look at your Uncle Jim.

He's in the bathtub,
learning how to swim.

Can we clean our faces new?

Yes. Yes, of course.

Well

Here comes the dust.

Then none of this
will matter anymore.

What do you mean?

There's gonna be a dust storm.

The plants
have only just begun to grow.

It couldn't be worse.

But Manderlay's fields have never
been harmed by a dust storm.

'Cause the windbreak
was still in place.

Grace was not inclined to go into
what the former overseer meant

by these mysterious words.

Soon she had convinced herself
they had no meaning at all

apart from spreading
disquiet and despondency.

The next day's lesson

on the importance
of unleashing one's anger

met little understanding
from the assembly.

It was when they wound up
with a series of ballots

and the community
had rapidly decided

to use Wilma's potatoes for seed

as she was so old
and did not have to eat that much,

that they heard the wind.

Jack, where you goin'?

He goin' to get Lucifer.

The dust had come at this time for
as long as anybody could remember.

But every year
from time immemorial,

it had spared
the newly planted cotton

as the plantation had been cleverly
shielded by a narrow band of trees

known in common parlance
as ”The Old Lady's Garden."

In the midst of the almost biblical
darkness that descended on Manderlay,

Grace knew all too well

that even hand in hand
with all the races of the world,

no army of gangsters
could counter this:

Nature's extravagant
demonstration of power.

All she could do was watch

as row upon row
of the seedlings she had so welcomed

disappeared
beneath the devastating dust.

Nobody could do a thing.

But apparently it did not mean
that no one would try,

for now Grace
discerned a rider out there.

He was riding like crazy.

As he progressed
across the fields,

wherever he spotted
a pile of dust beginning to grow,

he would break it up
with his horse's hooves.

Whether it would make the slightest
dent in the grand scale of things

was hard to tell,
but it was a battle,

no matter how senseless
it might be...

heroic and dangerous.

Timothy...

Come back!

Come back! Timothy!

- Timothy!
- Timothy's gonna be all right!

He knows these storms.

Miss Grace,
you's head over heels for him.

You's a fool, Miss Grace.

- Where'd you find him?
- He was behind the house.

Is he alive?

I do believe I know
what you mean by that question.

- But what does it mean, to be alive?
- It means, is he breathing?

Forget it.

Is he dead?

We colored folks can be awfully
hard to kill if we want it that way.

That very afternoon,
strong Timothy was back on his feet

surveying the buildings
for damage caused by the storm.

The dust had struck
a devastating blow.

Unfortunately, hardest hit
were the food stores

in the dilapidated Peach House
which had lost its roof.

Almost all of their provisions
were now inedible.

On top of that, the pneumonia
brought by the dust was inevitable.

The dust had got in everywhere,

particulany where no new boards
could have provided weatherproofing,

namely through the cracked glass
in the window on the stars

above Claire's bed.

Valuables, not to mention cash,
were non-existent at Manderlay,

since the elegant clock

miraculously still ticking merrily away
on the mantelpiece

turned out to be not Swiss,
as Mam believed,

but a copy made quite locally
and worth practically nothing.

"The Freed Enterprise
of Manderlay" was bust.

Wilhelm and Grace
were therefore under no illusions

that anybody
would attend class this day.

But then, one by one,
the Manderlay flock began to appear.

I'm happy you're all here.

But I don't really
have a lecture for you today.

I'd just like to say...

how badly I feel
about this hopeless situation.

But, of course,
words aren't much use to you.

No. Missy has learned
that much, at least.

But as regards hopelessness, it is
something we do know a bit about.

There are a million plants
out there beneath the dust.

If we can save but 50 of them,

perhaps we can grow
a small quantity of great quality

and get a better price for it.

I reckon we should make a move.

And that is how the greatest disaster
turned into a stroke of luck for Grace,

and how the people, with a common
foe, the dust, as their excuse,

suddenly found themselves working
shoulder to shoulder

with their deadliest enemy

to achieve the common goal
as free, grown-up Americans.

Stanley and Bertie
had sown the fields with little sticks

so people could tell where
to uncover the tender seedlings.

While Flora, ever so childishly,
kept teasing Grace

with her digs at Grace's supposed
romantic feelings towards Timothy.

Good night, old Wilma.

Good night, child.

We can lie down and talk for a while
before we go to sleep.

No, thank you, Wilma.

I'm not weary enough
to go to bed yet.

A little walk helps.

A walk when a body ain't sleepy
is a very good thing.

I do the same myself.

Good night.

Good night.

That everything seemed
as moving along on its own

could be nothing
but welcomed by Grace.

But her lack
of an active part to play

had suddenly left her
in a kind of vacuum,

and allowed other things
inside her to claim attention.

Human things like instincts
and emotions.

An ominous sense
of homelessness and loneliness

struck Grace this evening.

As she wandered about,
Grace suddenly found herself

outside the wooden rear
of the bath house.

Without warning, the homelessness
transferred into a strange desire

to move up that rusty pipe
against the flow of dirty water

into where naked bodies
were being washed in cheap soap.

Black skin.

Male and black manhood.

What Grace had felt at the bath
house was undignified, shameful.

Her mind was meant to be
devoted to policy at Manderlay,

a matter in which these thoughts
had no business whatsoever.

Grace had forced herself to sleep,
to rid her thoughts of those black bodies,

an achievement
that was actually possible

thanks to the stubbornness
that flourished in Grace's family.

But the cotton seedling in her
love-starved body did not give up.

It manifested itself as a dream.

Grace was in southern climes.

There were women in exotic
costumes and men in turbans.

Even in her sleep,
she hated with a passion

any idea of allowing
that her father might be right.

But it was a harem.

A group of black slaves appeared,
bearing a huge charger piled with dates,

and in a twinkling, Grace lay among
the dates trembling with pleasure

as a flock of Bedouin satisfied her
one by one with their noses.

And it was even more confusing
when Timothy appeared

and was both the slave
bearing wine, hands shaking,

and the sheik himself,
whose authoritative hands

tested the size
of Grace's most intimate orifices.

- I must have overslept.
- I'm sorry.

Claire's had another turn.

Yeah.

Yeah, she's running
a bad fever again.

Has she had anything to eat?

Oh sure.
Pork chops and baked chicken.

She's taken a little oatmeal,
but it's hard to get it into her.

She had this trouble with her lungs
last year when the dust come, too.

But there's
far more dust this year.

Honestly, Missy,
you oughta go back home

to the clean air
and larders full of food.

We're all in this together,
no matter how hard it gets.

And hard it will get.

I've seen what's left around here,

though some folks
are still filling their bellies.

Right.
We've got to talk about that.

Come on, it'll be all right, Rose.

I propose that we ration
what we have left,

and spread
our provisions over a month

until we can harvest more
from the vegetable gardens.

And, as I hear that there are
so very few beans and potatoes left,

I think we should give them
to Rose, who needs them for Claire.

What's left will be shared out
equally among the rest of us.

- Excuse me.
- Mm-hm.

The rest of us?
That goes for us, too?

Yes, of course it does.

We've already eaten things
your father would never have put up with.

Joseph swears they couldn't be
described as food at all...

legally speakin'.

Your father used to let us obtain stuff
when the coffers were empty.

Surely we could steal
something from somewhere.

But I suppose
that's no good, either, Miss Grace.

I'm afraid
you're one tough cookie.

Maybe I am.

Sadly, the most nourishing {are
the estate could still provide

had not improved
Claire's condition much.

But she needed meat,
and Timothy knew it.

So henceforth,
they would have to do without

the loyal old donkey
on the treadmill.

It was not a good portent
of the level of morale

that the gangsters
were now trying hard to fix the car

from the ravages of the dust.

But luckily, Joseph, 3 legal expert
with the ability to interpret

the most incomprehensible of texts,

had met his match
in the 1923 Ford owners manual.

Timothy, thank you.

For Claire.

As time went by, the scattered
cotton plants at Manderlay

grew side by side
with its denizens' hunger

now that the little that was left
of the donkey meat

was reserved for Claire.

And Grace found herself

in the peculiar situation
of joining Wilma and the other women

in what had been completely
forbidden under Mam's Law,

namely, the Southern tradition
of eating dirt.

Having given up
on the automobile manuals,

Joseph had found
a quaint turn of phrase

in the agreement into which
he had originally entered

with Grace's father
regarding his employment.

The wording could,
with a little good will,

be interpreted to mean

that certain circumstances
obliged an employee

to obey
a higher authority than his boss,

the authority in this case
being his stomach.

The good news was that,

although the drought
had been hard on the fields,

Stanley and Timothy had invented
a weapon to deploy against it.

Wait, wait.

Watch out! It's coming.

Why didn't we
think of it before?

But the best news of all
was Claire,

who had miraculously
gained so much strength

that she could
empty her plate of good food.

Always in the middle of the night
and when everyone was asleep

when nobody was looking,
but even so...

Grace had thought hunger would put
paid to her forbidden sensual fantasies,

actually the opposite
was more the case.

Flora, what's going on
with the chickens?

Are they fighting?

You mean
the four whites after the black?

You want I should
open the door and have a peek?

N-No.

Mind you,
that little black hen real proud.

Wouldn't surprise me if them others
took the chance

to give her the odd peck.

Now, don't you tease me, Flora.

Good night, then.

Good night.

Flora had teased Grace before
with the little black hen.

But they were hurting it in there.
No doubt about it.

And to make
everything far worse,

that heat in her loins
seemed to come back

in spite of that poor chicken's
cry for help...

or even intensified by it.

Devastated, humiliated
and overcome by fear for her sanity,

she fled.

In a fit of madness, or what
others would simply call hominess,

she threw herself
onto her bed on her tummy,

and for a moment, forgot all about
shame and political correctness,

and did what she had not done
since her childhood

when she had not yet known
it was so infinitely wrong.

She pressed herself onto the knot
she had rapidly and instinctively formed

by bunching her quilt.

Whether it was pleasurable
or painful is hard to tell,

but she kept at it.

It was beyond her control.

With no regard for
the sleep of the women around her,

or common decency in general,

the pulsating explosions in her
nether regions look over her world.

And who knows how
it would have concluded

had there not appeared at that
very moment, fortunately for Grace,

a person shaking her back
to a reasonable state of self-defense.

Miss Grace!
You gotta come quick, Miss Grace!

She dead.

I took such care of her.

I fed her the good meat.

She'd been eatin'.

She dead.

Now she's dead!

Wilma, I wanna show you.
Come outside now.

- You're hurtin' me.
- I said come on!

She'd been eatin'.

You're hurtin' my arm.

No! She hadn't been eatin'.

This 'un had!

Ya gonna tell 'em, Wilma?

I was so hungry.

I get so dizzy.

And my legs hurt
when I'm hungry.

Our good friend

and Claire's beloved old Wilma been
visiting the windowsill while we slept.

She emptied Claire's plate
every single night!

T'was easy as pie,
considerin' that there window

could be opened from the outside.

I've eaten
so much dirt in my time.

My teeth can't take it no more.

She killed our little girl.

Jack. Jack, she was sick.

- Miss Grace...
- She was sick, Jack.

Rose didn't worry too much
about feeding her during the day

'cause she ate so much at night.

I want Wilma punished
for killin' my little girl!

I want this matter put to the vote.

I want Wilma punished
for killin' my little girl.

I want justice,
or I'll kill her myself right now!

Let me go home.

Stop, stop, stop!
We will talk about this tomorrow!

- She killed my little girl!
- Stop it!

And so, the very next evening,
a gathering took place

under the magnificent, clear,
twinkling, starry sky of Manderlay.

Now we've heard 'em all, Wilhelm.

Wilma showed no mercy
to our Claire,

so no mercy oughta
be shown to her. She must die!

Jack...

Killing old Wilma
won't bring Claire back.

All we want is justice.

You've said so many times
that we're entitled to it.

I propose... that

that she be banished from Manderlay
for stealing food in an emergency.

She probably won't survive
that anyway, as old as she is.

After all, we don't know if
the matter of the food

made any difference at all
in Claire's fate.

Wilma can't have known
whether it would kill her.

But she didn't care a bit when it
came to riskin' somebody else's life,

that of our little girl!

All Wilma saw was a plate
nobody was touching.

She was hungry.

What do you think
the rest of us was?

All of us here
ate what we'd agreed.

What do you think
little Claire was?

We all hungry,

and that just makes it
far, far worse.

I'd like to ask y'all to vote
on Jack and Rose's motion.

All those who believe
that Wilma deserves to die,

raise your hands.

Thank you.

Thank y'all.

Stop!

Grace?

I thought we were the ones
who made the decisions here.

That's what you always told us.
Or maybe it's only sometimes.

Of course not. It's always.

Then they's the decisions
you're here to defend, ain't they?

So let me go across and do it.

No.

If anybody is going to do it,
it's going to be me.

It must not be
an act of vengeance.

That's all right by me.

As long as
she suffers as much as Claire.

That will be up to me.

I'll let you know when it's over.

Grace...

Be so kind as to tell me...

What they decide?

Am I gonna die?

No, Wilma,
you're not going to die.

What you mean?

I mean the ballot did not go
Jack's way.

You're not gonna die.

See, they didn't think Claire would have
eaten the food on her plate anyway.

And anyhow, she'd certainly
have died from pneumonia

from the dust.

Did they really say that?

Yes. They really said that.

If you knew
how terrible the waitin' was...

I'm just so weary.

I know.

I know you are.

But now you can sleep easy.

Yes. I can.

Lie down and get some sleep.

You are the daughter
I might have had.

- Lie down.
- Will you stay till I sleep?

I'll do that, Wilma.

Here.

Lie down.

Wilma?

Sheep, sheep

Yes, my Lord

Sheep. sheep:

Yes, my Lord

Harvest time finally did arrive and
the cotton went safe into the sacks.

Yes, I know

Despite the fewer bushes,
the harvest was splendid.

Yes, I know

It was as it
all the trials and tribulations

had made the cotton extra white
and the fibers extra strong.

And even at current prices,
it would bring in a record sum.

Yes, my Lord

And although nothing
was the way it had ever been,

the harvest was as precise
as always at Manderlay.

The moment the last tun of cotton
was in the sack, the swallows arrived,

dropping from the skies
towards the marshes.

Everyone observed the sight in awe
and for a moment it was greater

than an the words
and politics in the world.

The old gin was as ready as ever.

It had been for a week.

Greased and stripped down
and reassembled by Sammy

who had teamed up with Niels.

They worked well in harness.

Niels had never found
a joke funny in his life,

so Sammy, the Clownin' Nigger,
had given up, not unrelieved,

trying to entertain him
with his somewhat weak material.

That's fine.

That's fine?
All right.

Miss Grace?
Miss Grace?

Edward!

I hardly recognized you. You've
certainly changed the way you dress.

Yes. Your father thought
it was time for a change.

He's on his way
into a new area of business.

Is Daddy here?

No, he sent me on ahead
to give you a message.

Your father says he'll be by a week,
Monday, at 8:00 in the evening.

He told me to tell you he will
wait in the car outside the gates

for a quarter of an hour,
not a second longer,

the way he did in Dogville, he says,
and the way he did with your mother,

I think it was.

- When he asked her to marry him.
- Yeah, something like that.

If you want to go with him,
you better be there

'cause he says he'll just push on.

I know, I get the message.

All right, I'm on my way.

- Take care, Miss Grace.
- You, too, Edward.

- Oh, Edward.
- Hmm?

Just tell Dad that new times
have come to Manderlay.

But no, Grace had no intention
of going with her father when he arrived.

She had her own life to lead now,
and it suited her just fine.

But she'd be at the gates, anyhow.

She just had to show him
what she had achieved:

a new and better Mandeday.

It was examination day
for Stanley and the family.

Because even though things
had been going well recently,

when Stanley partook
of his traditional beer with Mr. Miller,

nobody would be able to prevent him
from revealing what had happened

on the plantation,
and thereby min it all.

Wilhelm had been highly skeptical

about letting the whites
talk to the drivers at all.

But Grace had insisted.

She trusted them.

Oh, Sammy!
Oh, Lord, Sam.

Eejit nigger!

Are you totally useless?

Sorry, Mr. Mays.

Ha ha! I'm jokin'.

Stanley Mays
and the family passed.

That very evening,

Grace pronounced them
graduate Americans.

Bertie!

And although they were free to go,
they had elected to stay,

as there was talk of hiring
the family and Stanley Mays

on a permanent basis.

And before anybody knew it,
the days had passed,

and the money was in the bank
from where it had been picked up

by proud Timothy on horseback.

Niels and Sammy
had fixed the car...

wisely without reference
to the manual.

- Thank you for everything.
- Thank you.

What are you gonna do now?

I don't know.

You could always
go back to gangstering.

Where's Mr. Robinson?

He's been down in the cabin,
shakin' hands.

Grace was touched by Mr. Robinson's
sudden social interest

in the former slaves.

But it felt fight when the car left.

It was time for Grace
to say good-bye to power.

Brave and strong,
thy men and women

Better this, than corn and wine I

I Make us worthy, God in Heaven

Of this goodly land of Thine

Hearts as open as our doorways

Liberal hands and spirits free I

Alabama, Alabama

I We will aye be true to thee

He's watching you.

- No, he's not.
- He's watching you.

No, he's not.

I reckon it have somethin' to do
with them gangsters leavin'.

See, honey, when you was boss,
he was visitin' your kingdom.

Now you're visitin' his.

I reckon he wants you now.

He should have some dinner.
I'm gonna go get him.

- You gonna go get him?
- Uh-huh.

You've gotta come
get some dinner.

Be quiet, woman.

In Mam's bedroom, Grace recalled
Flora's worrying, intimate little details.

Sexual intercourse amongst the Munsi
was determined by ancient traditions.

It would not appeal to Grace,
Flora had said.

Not with Grace's modem ideas of
equality of people and the sexes.

But Grace seemed to have left her
progressive attitudes at the table.

Now actually in the situation
she had dreamed of,

it was all
more bizarre than erotic.

Anyway, Grace decided
to hang on to this opinion.

Timothy, wake up!

Timothy's horse had got out of
the stable when fires had been lit

around the Manderlay slave quarters
while Grace was asleep.

What happened?

I can't tell you.

If you want a clear answer,
you're gonna have to ask somebody else.

- The gangsters took the money.
- What?

The gangsters took the money.

That's the answer.

And I reckon
it's a pretty clear answer, too.

It certainly is very clear.

What makes you think so?

When the party ended...

we all left the table...

to go and take a look
at the money.

Timothy had hid it
behind the red slope.

Timothy was meant to be keepin'
an eye on the place,

but he wasn't there.

And the box had been pulled up.

It was empty.

One of the gangsters
dug up the money

when he was pretendin'
to say good-bye.

But he couldn't have
done it alone.

Someone must have told him
where the box was.

And Sammy
refused to admit it was him,

although he'd spent
a whole lot of time with Niels.

And then everybody
started yellin' and screamin' and...

and folks is angry,
and no one's listenin'.

Stanley Mays and the family
get away, I believe.

Although Philomena and Bertie
got cut up real bad.

Elizabeth is dead, too,
although that was mostly by accident.

It was too soon
to send the guns away.

We weren't quite ready yet.

For once,
Grace had nothing to say.

She could but reproach herself
in silence

for her tasteless joke
to the gangsters

about resorting to their former
occupations if things got tight.

- Wilhelm, I can't rouse Timothy.
- No, I bet you can't.

He drank three bottles
of hooch before we ate.

The Munsi don't drink.

Well, maybe... they do
on special occasions.

Well, it certainly
is lively around here.

Didn't I tell you
I didn't want to see you here again?

Yes, but I've not come
to do a deal,

I've come to conclude one.

And in the hope, of course,
you'll see that I am an honest man.

I needn't have come back here
to settle up at all.

This is your 80%.

Quite a tidy little sum it is, too,
as you can see.

It's the money from our harvest.

I expect so.

It's that time of year.

See, I had a little game with
a young man who came to see me.

I knew he'd come from here, so...
I've made my humble return.

Don't you think you just might
have been wrong about me?

Who did you play
for all this money?

Well, it was a day ago now.
I'd have come sooner,

but I passed this black car

with some gentlemen
in dark coats.

They began to follow me,

shouting the whole time
that I was going to die,

that I was a con man
who dealt from the bottom.

What an accusation, eh?

It just took me a while to get away...

Who was it?

The nigra fellow arrived
on horseback.

What was his name?

Timothy.

That was it!

Timothy, yeah, that was his name.

He's a Munsi.

They don't gamble.

Well, I know Munsi don't gamble.

I'm a bit of an expert in this field.

You have a devil time gettin' them
to the gamin' table. No.

He's no Munsi.

In fact, he's what I'd call
a splendid fella at the card table.

He just stayed bein' splendid,
no matter how much he lost.

But he told everyone
he was a Munsi.

Of course.

See, all the girls
were wild about the tales he told.

All the Munsi tales.
The proud African, the royal line.

You know, all that
old-fashioned morality.

And the accent, of course.

So, on account of that,
the girls was easy to bed.

I'm not even going
to avail myself of your gratitude.

That's just the kind of fella I am.
Hey, ho!

Now bless me if I can
come up with a motto for today.

They say the Mansi
are better hung than the Munsi.

Or, the Munsi are so up-stuck,
but the Mansi, how they fuck!

Well, I'll be seein' you.

We can talk business another day.

Grace went straight to the last pages
with the tables of personal details

on the slaves of Manderlay.

Where was Timothy now?

Yes, his name had a "1" beside it.

A Proudy Slave,
as she'd read earlier.

Or did it?

She looked more closely
at the handwritten number.

She compared it to the ”7”
next to Elizabeth's name.

The Pleasin' Nigger
of the chameleon type.

An expert in changing character
according to whatever was opportune

and what would titillate
and enthrall the other person.

And then Grace could see it.

Timothy's number
was not a "1", but a '7."

She had only wanted
to read it as a "1."

There was even a note
beside Timothy's name:

”Caution. Diabolically clever.”

Grace had called a final meeting
for everybody at Manderlay,

for that evening, she had decided
to leave the place forever

with her father when he arrived.

Oh, you're all here.

I persuaded the community to assemble
extraordinarily...

for two ballots.

Whatever they involve, they can scarcely
have anything to do with me anymore.

Don't be too certain of that,
Miss Grace.

Well, I am certain.

I've come to say good-bye.

If you've had two ballots today,

oddly enough, that coincides with
the two presents I've brought.

Farewell presents, if you like.

The first... is this.

It's the money from our harvest.

Actually it's 80% of it.

A card shark
kept the other 20% as commission.

He scammed the money off somebody
from Manderlay in a game of cards.

So the gangsters didn't take it?

No. No, they didn't.

And I won't prolong the tension.

It was the treasurer who did it.

The man charged with
looking after the money.

He was overcome
by his eagerness to play.

Probably because
he isn't a Munsi at all...

but a Mansi.

However unimportant
that may sound.

Which brings me
to my second present.

This one. Painful to you or not,
it has to come out.

In this book,

which I still regard as the most
abominable, contemptible document

ever written,

Timothy is listed
as a Pleasin' Nigger.

A person who can change
his appearance to please the beholder,

as he has done.

Let me find the page.

It's on page 104.

How do you know?

I thought no slave
had ever seen this book.

How do you know
what's on page 104 of Mam's Law?

'Cause I wrote it.

It's all in my meticulous hand.

Mam and I were very young
when the war suddenly ended

and this new statute terrified us.

Terrified you?

We tried to imagine what kind of
world would these slaves be let out into.

Were they ready for it?

Or more correctly

Was it ready for them?

Legislators promised all kind of things,
but we didn't believe them.

It was then that Mam
urged me to commit to paper

the way I thought
things should be done here

if everyone stayed on
at Manderlay.

But it's the prolongation of slavery.

You might call it that.

You also might call it
the lesser of two evils.

But did the others know
that you wrote this book?

Groups 2,3 and 5...
always knew.

A few members of the other groups
were better off not knowing.

But everyone knows now.

I wrote Mam's Law
for the good of everyone.

"For the good of everyone."

For the good of everyone?

How dare you?

It's a recipe for oppression...

and humiliation
from start to finish.

I think you've been reading it
through the wrong spectacles,

Miss Grace, if I may
take the liberty of saying so.

And then, Wilhelm initiated Grace

into the humane qualities
of the lesser of two evils...

Mam's Law.

How it guaranteed
food and shelter

and allowed anybody the privilege
of complaining about their masters

instead of having to blame themselves
for the life of no hope

that they would surely
have to lead in the outside world.

How the noonday parade
was a blessing

since the parade ground
was the only place with shade

at the warmest time of day.

How the numbered groups
were determined

according to the patterns
of behavior

that human beings resort to in order
to survive in an oppressive community

so that life could be
made easier for each of them.

Since a Proudy Nigger,

not that Mandenay had seen
many, if any of these,

survives by perceiving himself
as proud and could be helped

by this system to believe

that he was a bit more persecuted
and punished than the others.

Since a Clowning Nigger
would benefit greatly from the laughter

that Mam's Law
strictly demanded of his master

just as any other groups
benefited from similar obligations.

How cash was forbidden,

so that gambling had to be done
with cotton money

to prevent ruination and misery
for the families.

Et cetera, et cetera.

Until Grace's head
felt fair ready to explode.

Damn it, Wilhelm,
they're not free!

That's what matters!

I'd call that
a philosophical argument,

which neatly brings me
to the two ballots I just mentioned.

Was Mam's Law still relevant?

We agreed that unfortunately it was
as relevant now as it ever was.

America was not ready
to welcome us Negroes as equals

seventy years ago,
and it still ain't.

And the way things are goin', it
won't be in 100 years from now.

So we agreed we'd like to take
one step backward at Manderlay...

and re-impose the old law.

Excuse me, but I'm going.

As for your going, I'd better tell you
about the second of our ballots.

As you know, sadly, we lost Mam,

and unfortunately we've good and
well frightened off her descendants.

In short, we lack a Mam.

- No!
- I needn't tell you

that you received every single vote.

Never.

With all your idealism,

I think you could enjoy

being the guardian for
a kind of menagerie of creatures

who have no chance in the wild.

Just as you thought the notion of
community would be good for us.

You were so sure, you permitted
yourself to use force to convince us.

I'd be sorry
if we had to do likewise.

What do you mean?
Do you intend to keep me prisoner?

Only until you understand
the way you wanted us to understand.

The gate has been repaired
and is closed.

The fences are in good shape, but of
course, they ain't particularly high.

Those fences... come on.

Two men with a rusty shotgun
and a toy pistol.

How dumb
do you really think we are?

Too dumb to build a ladder
if we really wants to get away?

Grace had spent a great deal
of time on this meeting

which, from her point of View,
didn't seem to be getting anywhere.

Her father and his car
would be at the gate at 8:00.

That was in half an hour.
She had no ladder,

and she was on her own
and guarded by many.

Just how was she
to get out of Manderlay?

When was a section
of the fence always down?

Grace would have to
change her tactics rapidly

if she was
to make the rendezvous.

All right.
I'll do as you want.

Not from my heart, though surely,
none of you could expect that,

but as my only option.

And you needn't be scared.

I'll obey your beloved law.

So we'd better start by dealing
with the present matter: Timothy.

A slave from Group 7

has committed a theft
that almost ruined us all.

As I've determined that
Mam's Law does not prescribe

any punishment for stealing money,
I shall have to be creative.

What was it you once said, Flora?

Something about planting
a bottle of Rhenish wine?

I do believe
there's a bottle of Rhenish wine

under Timothy's saddle.

Don't you?

So that's what I seen
when I went there yesterday.

If it wasn't
a bottle of Rhenish wine!

There was still ten minutes until
her slavishly punctual father

would arrive outside

to wait for his 15 minutes
and not a second longer.

Just enough time
for a verbal farewell salute.

Timothy, you can stop
being proud and silent.

Cry... and shout...

and beg for mercy...

like the Mansi you are.

The Mansi
who you despise so much.

And it's that hatred, Timothy,
and the rest of you

bear towards yourselves
that you'll never make me accept!

You are a cheat
of the lowest kind.

And Wilhelm and all of you
who follow him

are nothing but
a bunch of traitors to your race.

I hope that your fellow Negroes
will, one day,

uncover your betrayal
and punish you for it!

You make me sick!

I'm sure you're quite right,
Miss Grace.

Most likely it's impossible
to revile us niggers enough.

But what I don't get is,
why it makes you so angry?

What do you mean?

Aren't you forgetting something?

You made us!

Probably the only thing that could
have stopped the lady with the whip

from carrying on forever

was the cheerful tinkle that
announced her father's presence.

She needed his support now.

Manderlay, too, really was a place
the world would be better off without.

Grace recognized
her father's handwriting.

"Dear Girl," it said.

Dear Gin.

So you tricked your father
yet again.

I waited the 15 minutes first,
but I am too kind-hearted.

So I popped over to the fence
behind the bushes and peeked inside

to check that you were okay.

To my great surprise

it really did look as if you had
a good grip on things, for once.

I'm proud of you, my gift.

I hope we meet up some day

so you can tell me what you
actually meant

by ”new times at Manderlay.”

Love, Your dumb old Dad.

Ballots could be unrivaled,

but determining the time by
public debate was rarely feasible.

That was quite apparent.

Grace had but a few seconds to
choose the direction in which to flee

away from
her swarthy pursuers who,

as her father had so teasingly
predicted, were carrying torches.

Grace was in a hurry and did not
notice Bert, the former fugitive

with a liberal attitude to other races
who never did make it far.

Grace was angry.

Manderlay had fossilized
in a picture of this country

that was far, far too negative.

America was a many-faceted
place, no doubt about it.

But ”not ready”
to accept black people?

You really could not say that.

America had proffered its hand,
discreetly perhaps,

but if anybody refused
to see a helping hand...

he really
only had himself to blame.

They pulled in
just behind the bridge

He lays her down, he frowns

"Gee, my life's a funny thing,
am I still too young?"

He kissed her then and there

She took his ring,
took his babies

It took him minutes,
took her nowhere

Heaven knows,
she'd have taken anything but

All night

She wants a young American

Young American, young American

She wants the young American

All night

She wants the young American

Scanning life
through the picture windows

She finds the slinky vagabond

He coughs as he passes
her Ford Mustang

But Heaven forbid
she'll take anything

But the freak and his type,
all for nothing

He misses a step
and cuts his hand but

Showing nothing,
he swoops like a song, she cries

"Where have all Papa's
heroes gone?"

All night

She wants the young American

Young American, young American

She wants the young American

All night

Well, she wants
the young American

All the way from Washington

Her breadwinner begs off
the bathroom floor

"We live for just these 20 years

Do we have to die
for the 50 more?"

All night

He wants the young American

Young American, young American

He wants the young American

All right

He wants the young American

Do you remember
your President Nixon?

Do you remember
the bills you have to pay

Or even yesterday?

Have you been an un-American

Just you and your idol
singing falsetto about

Leather, leather everywhere

And not a myth left
from the ghetto

Well, well, well,
would you carry a razor

In case,
just in case of depression?

Sit on your hands
on the bus of survivors

Blushing at
all the Afro-Sheerners

Ain't that close to love?

Well, ain't that poster love?

Well, it ain't that Barbie doll

Her heart's been broken
just like you have

All night

All night you want
the young American

Young American, young American

You want the young American

All night

You want the young American

You ain't a pimp
and you ain't a hustler

A pimp's got a Caddy
and a lady's got a Chrysler

Blacks got respect
and whites got a soul train

Mama's got cramps
and look at your hands shake

I heard the news today, oh boy

I got a suite and you got defeat

Ain't there a man
who can say no more?

Ain't there a woman
I can sock on the jaw?

Ain't there a child I can held
without judging?

Ain't there a pen
that will write before they die?

Ain't you proud
that you've still got faces?

Ain't there one damn song
that can make me

Break down and cry?

All right

I want the young American

Young American, young American

I want the young American

All right

I want the young American,
young American

Young American, young American

I want the young American

All night

You want it, I want you

You want I, I want you want

Young American, young American

I want the young American

All night

And all I want
is a young American

Young American, young American

I want the young American