All language subtitles for Night Gallery S02E21 The Sins of the Fathers.DVDRip.NonHI.en.UNVSL

Starring tonight,

Geraldine Page,

Broderick Crawford,

Barbara Steele,

Richard Thomas,

Cloris Leachman,

Michael Dunn,

and Lana Wood.

Good evening.

I'm your tour guide
through this unusual salon

of unusual statuary
and paintings.

These are the sort of things
that may not please you

but very likely may chill you.

Because this is
the Night Gallery.

Now, this one here,
unabashed and unashamed,

I submit to you, was a dandy.

It delves into an ancient
funeral rite having

to do with a personage
called a sin-eater,

one who attends a wake and
partakes of the funeral food.

And in the process, digests all
the transgressions of the deceased

so that he departs the earth a
much cleaner and sweeter little item,

proving that we've become
a bit more sophisticated

in our tribal rites,

but we are much the poorer for
our 20th century chromium intellect.

You might agree with me

after you've seen
Sins of the Fathers.

He can't come.

He's too busy. And
Tregarron's too busy.

And the man from Conway?

He's dead himself.

What with the plague
and now with the famine,

there's not another
one to be had.

There's Dylan Evans.

That's right.
There's Dylan Evans.

Lives in that hut on the
north side of Plynlimon.

Ride. Offer him anything.

Who is it?

I work for Mrs. Craighill.

She needs your husband.

You can go back
again. He can't come.

He's sick.

He must come.

I've been looking for three
days and I can't find anyone else.

Why don't you get
the man from Conway?

He's dead, too.
He died yesterday.

I didn't know.

Of course you didn't know.
You live way off alone.

Yes. We live way off alone.

Yes, but not from
choice. You make us.

When you need our
men, you come running.

After they've done what
you want, you cast them off,

pariahs,

until you need them again.

We pay, don't we?

And there's fine food,
a banquet every time.

Well, he can't come. He's sick.

How sick is your man?

There's no one else.

My master has been
dead for three days

and he must be buried tomorrow.

Is your man so very sick?

He is. We have not
eaten for a week.

First he was sick
with the plague

and now he's sick
with the famine.

Then let him come.

There's roast lamb

and boiled eggs

and raw onions sliced across

and thick slices of bacon,

fresh baked bread
heavy with butter,

all there waiting for him.

Great wedges of cake.

And whole slabs of white cheese.

You're sure there's
nobody else you can get?

No, they're all sick
or dead themselves

or busy with the dead.

Where are you from?

Cadno. It's not very far.

Well, how do you
know what's too far?

He's weak.

If he comes, I say if,

he rides your horse.

A sin-eater ride my horse?

What is so terrible
about a sin-eater?

He gets you to God, doesn't he?

Let's not quarrel.

The corpse is waiting and
the banquet is all laid out.

Yes.

Yes.

My man is supposed
to eat your master's sins

and your master
goes innocent to glory.

What happens to my man?

Eternal damnation for
all the sins he has eaten,

for all the others
down through the years.

Mrs. Evans,

no one made your
husband a sin-eater.

Hunger made him.

Money made him.

The money that you throw
after him when he's finished,

and you drive him
from your door.

Yes, ma'am, and
that's still the same.

The corpse is piled with food

and there are three gold
coins waiting to be thrown.

You'll let him ride your horse?

I'll let him ride my horse.

And you'll let him
ride your horse back?

I'll let him ride it back.

Now, Mrs. Evans, please tell
him and have him make haste.

I'll tell him.

Both ways? He rides both ways?

Both ways. Both ways.

Did your father hear?

No,

but I heard.

Why have you been crying?

My father is sick and moaning
and all I think about is food.

Don't worry,
you're going to eat.

It's terrible to be hungry.

You won't be hungry.
Not after tonight.

And where will the
food come from, Mother?

Will it drop like
manna from heaven?

You heard the man.

You will go with
him. You will eat.

Me?

No, I couldn't.

I couldn't eat a
dead man's sins.

You're hungry. Food is food.

But to eat from the
chest of a dead man?

Mother, the food would choke me.

Ian, there is the money.

There are three pieces of gold.

But I'd rather starve.

And your father?

And your mother?

You want them to starve?

No. But, Mother, to eat
from the chest of a corpse?

To take a man's sins and
be damned for all eternity?

No, I won't. I can't
do that. I won't.

Ian,

what if you don't eat?

To take the dead man's sins,

you must eat the
food on the corpse.

But what if you don't eat?

What if you bring the food away?

Not eat?

No.

No, not there.

Not one crumb.

Not a crumb.

But everybody stands
around. Everyone watches.

Yes, but you'll
send them out, Ian.

You'll tell them that you
can only eat sin in solitude.

And then they go out. And
then you make the sounds.

You scream and you cry out

so they can hear.

But what are the words, Mother?
I don't know the words to say.

It's 12 miles. Twelve
mountain miles.

He's coming.

He has to get dressed.

Ian, you've heard your father.

First he says the
sin-eater's prayer.

I don't know it.

Oh, you do. I don't.

Ian, you cry out,
"To God Almighty,

"give me this man's sins.

"Let me be damned forever."

I can't say that,
Mother. I won't.

Well, then just mumble it.

You've heard your father.

First it's the prayer,

then he hisses

and he mutters

and he takes pauses
while he gobbles the food.

And then he cries
out to God again.

But what are the words?

Mother, I've no
ear for the words.

The words are easy. You
just keep begging heaven.

You beg heaven to
let the dead man's sins

flow from him into you.

Just imitate your father.

But, Mother...

Mother, I can imitate
a fox calling to a vixen

and she calling back. I
can imitate an owl but...

Don't carry on. Mother...
Mother... Mother...

Mother, a nighthawk
I can imitate.

And rabbits I can
make come to me,

but words, I can't...

You just have to
keep begging heaven,

louder and louder and faster
so heaven will heed and hear.

Well...

When do I shriek?

You take time. Take
time with the begging.

And then when the sin enters
you, you scream out with horror.

And then you run,
whimpering from the house.

But don't forget to
pick up the money.

And I won't have
to eat his sins?

No, Ian, no.

And you bring back roast lamb.

But I'll have to stay
alone with a dead man.

Thick slices of bacon,

wedges of cake
with raisins and nuts,

butter on the cake.

And I bring it all home?

Yes.

For you?

No.

I shan't touch one crumb.

Not a crumb.

For father?

No.

Not for your father.

You shall eat it all.

And in this house.

What is this you
have brought me?

This is no sin-eater.

This is a boy.

He can eat as well as another.

Perhaps better.

A boy is young and strong
to bear the burdens of sin.

Do you call this strong?

Look how thin he is.

As for young...

Is this poor child to take on the evil
of a grown man's entire existence?

He's still a
sin-eater. Let him eat.

Have I not ridden every night
for three days and three nights?

And all the time, I walked
beside the horse while he rode.

And half the time I had to support
him so he wouldn't tumble off.

He's weak.

There's no other.

I'm hungry.

Shall we not begin?

Start, boy.

If you're a sin-eater,
you know the words.

You must know the words
of the sin-eater's prayer.

He's a fraud. Throw him out.

He didn't say the prayer.

He's not a fraud.
He'll say the prayer.

And he'll eat.

Do you want my husband
to go to hell, child?

Eat, child, eat.

Eat. Eat, child.

Eat.

Eat.

Not one scrap. Not one crumb.

No, no, no, you must all go.

You must all go.

I am one that eats alone.

Oh, no, lad. The sin-eater
eats before the witnesses.

Witnesses must be present.

Witnesses must witness
when the sin passes.

But you'll hear it.

I swear you'll hear the shriek
when the sin passes into me.

He will do it, I tell you. He's
the only one to be found.

Quiet, quiet.

Yes, lad, yes.

If you are one that eats alone,

then God's will be done.

We'll stand in the next room.

We shall hear
when the sin passes.

When we hear
the terrible wailing,

and we hear the
shriek of mortal terror,

we shall know that
the sin has passed.

God Almighty.

Let the sins of this
corpse flow into my body.

Let the sins of this
man flow into my body.

Did you bring the food?

Is that all of it?

That's all of it.

Not one morsel, not
one crumb did I eat.

Well, son, now you will eat.

Wait. Where are you taking it?

No. It's mine. You promised.

Oh, no, you're not
giving it all to him?

You will have all of it.

All of it.

Now you can eat.

Ian.

Ian.

Ian, think of your father.

He's your father.

He's not a simple farmer,

with simple sins.

He's your father.

Think of your father.

No.

No, to eat the sins
of the sin-eater...

Yes, you have to.

Think of all the
sins of the sin-eater.

Sin upon sin,

year after year,

hundreds of sins

from hundreds of men.

Ian.

Ian someone has to take
on the sins of the sin-eater.

He's your father.

Are you going to let your father
die with all those sins unrepented

unshriven, unforgiven?

Ian.

Ian, smell the bacon?

See.

See how white the cheese.

Even though they're
crushed, see the golden yolks?

Ian, don't worry.

You'll have a son.

Oh, God!

Oh, God Almighty!

Give me this man's sins
and let me be damned forever.

Offered to you now, an item having
to do with labor and management.

An employment office,

where is offered a collection
of potential employees,

whose skills are unique.

For in addition to their
loyalty, industriousness,

punctuality and
impeccable cleanliness,

they also run at least 100,000
miles without a lube and an oil change.

It's no wonder we call this one

You Can't Get Help
Like That Anymore.

This is our domestic
help section.

Butlers, cooks, maids,
everything for the home.

They look so incredibly real.

Well, they are
real, Mrs. Foster.

They're just as
real as you and I.

And they think?
They actually think?

They think in the sense
that there are thought areas

into which they have
been fed computerized data

that enable them
to make decisions.

For instance,

this model here.

This is our Production
Model 706. Housemaid.

Now she can decide

when's the proper time to change the
sheets and pillow cases, for instance,

or wax the floor.
Things like that.

That is the extent of her
thought process, if you will.

Here's a new model
we're just developing.

This is our Production
Model 738. Chauffeur.

You mean he actually drives?

He does indeed.

With consummate
skill. Par excellence.

Well, that's incredible.

Seems so, doesn't it?

You should see the more
expensive model of this chap.

Not only drives, but makes
major automotive repairs

and better than you could
get done at any garage.

Hample here.

You're wanted in the complaint
department, Mr. Hample.

I'll be there directly.

If you'll excuse me...

Why don't you come on
into our hospitality room

and look at the brochures and
I'll be with you in a minute, huh?

Complaint department?

You got that. Well...

Complaint is just kind
of a catch-all phrase.

Not even complaints,
really. Just...

Usually just slight
modifications required.

You know, statistically we
have fewer than 2% returns.

And 99% of the adjustments
are of a minor nature, believe me.

Good afternoon, Mr. Hample.

Good afternoon, Miss Sherman.

This is Mr. and Mrs. Foster.

They're interested in some
of our domestic models.

Very pleased to know you both.

May I get you
coffee? Or a drink?

Coffee, please. Black.

The same, please.

Make yourselves comfortable.

Our Production Model 473.

You can just shut them off?

At your pleasure
and convenience.

Or you can preset
their functioning time.

They can work 24 hours
a day if you want them to.

That's incredible.

It's also a little scary.

Scary?

When they're working,
they seem so real, so human.

And when you turn
them off, well, it's as if...

As if what, Mrs. Foster?

It's as if you kill them.

What is it?

Complaints department, sir.

There are some customers who
are very anxious to speak with you.

And Dr. Kessler has been
trying to reach you, sir.

I'll be right there.

Miss Sherman will
take care of you.

I'll be right back.

You wanted to see me, Kessler?

When you have a moment, yes.

Can it keep? I've got two people
waiting for me with a complaint.

You have a person here
waiting for you with a complaint.

Now, look at that.

Good Lord. What caused this?

What caused this

is a psychopathic wrecking team
called Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Fulton.

Presently awaiting you
with a whining complaint

that we build
defective merchandise.

Defective in this case meaning

that we didn't build it out of
concrete and armor plated steel.

Now hold on, Kessler, this could very
well have been caused by an accident.

This could only have been
caused by two neurotic sadists

who find pure joy in
the act of destruction.

Yes?

Mr. and Mrs. Fulton are
still looking for you, sir.

Later. I'm very busy
here with Dr. Kessler.

Look at it.

All the major circuits torn out.

All the limbs
dismembered or fractured.

The entire body pock-marked.

Oh, there you are, Hample.

I want to talk to you,
not to any middlemen.

Now let me tell you something.

No. Let me tell him.

We wanted a maid, right?

Nothing special,
nothing complicated.

Just a maid.

I understand.

Who could wash a
floor and make a bed.

Nothing complicated at all.

And what do we get?

Some skimpy, just
jerry-built piece of trash

that can't even make a
bed and it broke down...

Not broke down, Madam.
Was broken down.

Was tortured, abused,
punished and wrecked!

Please, Kessler.

You want a maid, do you?

Well, the only kind of maid we
could develop for people like you

would be a surplus
tank with an apron on it.

Now wait a minute, I
want to tell you something.

No, let me tell him.

You're cheats.
That's what you are.

And we've a good
mind to report you.

$25,000 and for what?

Why, the thing isn't even
as strong as a human.

What would you know about it?

These things

have more human qualities
than you two have ever dreamt of.

What did you ever
kick, punch and abuse

before we developed
robots for you?

Did you pull wings off of flies?

Did you pour kerosene on cats?

Enough. That's quite enough.

I humbly apologize to
you, Mrs. Fulton, Mr. Fulton.

Please, I truly do. Now
if you'll wait in the lobby,

I'll arrange for a
replacement maid.

One of our newer models.
You can pick it out yourself.

You'll have it by
mid-afternoon, I guarantee it.

And I guarantee
total satisfaction.

You'll want an
apology, I suppose.

That would be a good preface.

Followed logically
by your resignation.

Abuse? Is that what you said?

Punish? Torture?
Are those your words?

Dr. Kessler,

you're a very valuable
man and a rare intelligence.

I give you that up front.

But I also give you
this for a corollary.

You certainly must recognize
this is not a human being.

This... This thing
here is just a machine.

They are not just machines.

This is not just a machine?

This isn't just
flesh-colored plastic?

These aren't just wires
and computer circuits?

This isn't just an inanimate,
lifeless, synthetic...

Right now, I think you'd better
explain this to me, Kessler.

It's a phenomenon
I've just observed.

These beings that we've created,

they have developed
certain dimensions,

certain characteristics.

I can't accept that.

You'd better.

And you'd better
accept this, too.

In the beginning, they only respond
to what is programmed into them.

And then?

And then like the human infant,

they begin to mature.

They begin to develop
emotional reactions.

And the next step, and you'd
best prepare for this, Mr. Hample,

they begin to develop
survival instincts and methods.

And when that happens,

it could, Mr. Hample,

you'd best get on the telephone
to people like the Fultons

and tell them to take out their
aggressions on the wall or a punching bag.

Or something
that won't hit back.

So you're the maid?

I'm Model Number 931,
Mr. Fulton. I am here to serve you.

Model 931.

Let me tell you something.

Whoever made you
sure put it all together

because you are one little
charming hunk of a maid. Believe me.

Thank you, Mr. Fulton.

Don't forget this one.

Now, wait a minute. Wait
a minute. Wait a minute.

Can't you do anything else
besides clean up a room?

I'm programmed to take
complete charge of a house.

This includes all cleaning, answering
telephones and other related duties.

Well, I got news for you.

If that's the sum
total of your services,

why did they give you such
a beautiful face and body?

I think...

I think it's a gross
deception, that's what I think.

Because anybody
that looks like you

has gotta be able to do more
than just clean up a room.

Is that what you think, joy-boy?

Then again, give
this a thought, Joe.

Maybe she's not just a maid.

Maybe that's only a
part of her function.

Is it possible that
they programmed

a little slut into you?

Oh, no, ma'am. My model
number is that of a domestic.

If you wanted a Robot-Aid whose
functions were more complicated...

That's bull, dearie.

What I just did,
did that tick you off?

I asked you a question.

Inside that maze of
wires and expensive tubes,

is there a little
special battery

that makes you want to
break people's heads open?

We do not possess
the capacity for anger.

Did you hear that, Joe?

Why don't you let her
clean up the mess?

Because I'm fascinated

with this pre-fabricated little
wildflower who can get pinched,

who can get stepped on,

who can get knocked
through a wall

and the worst that can happen

is that she'll light
up and say, "Don't."

Why don't you
stop picking on her?

I might ask the
same question of you.

You've got a thing about
sophisticated machinery.

Why don't you go out in the
garage and pinch the power mower?

Just a minute.

I'm not finished.

We don't employ you.

We own you.

Remember that.

I own this furniture.

I own these drapes.

I own these pictures.

I own this booze.

And I own you.

Now, if now and then,

I get off my feed and irritable,

I may have to
take it out on you.

I may have to remind you

that you are just
a vacuum cleaner

with pretty legs.

Your predecessor
didn't work out so well.

She couldn't hack
it in the service.

You want to
register a complaint?

I give you my permission.

I also give you fair warning

that I may let you
have it with a lamp.

I was only looking
at you, Mrs. Fulton.

Say again?

I said I was only looking at
you. You and your husband.

You were only looking at us.

All right, dearie.

What do you see?

I said, "What do you see?"

Mrs. Fulton, I can't lie.

No?

I am programmed
to tell the truth.

So tell the truth.
What do you see?

I see a middle-aged woman,

aging without grace.

Aggressive,
competitive, discontented,

with an ugliness inside that
can't be covered with cosmetics.

And Mr. Fulton,

crude, cruel, vulgar.

Lusting for everything
but loving nothing.

Now shall I continue to clean up
the room or what is your pleasure?

My pleasure is to
deactivate you for good.

Mrs. Fulton, you pointed out that my
predecessor was incapable of survival here.

I must warn you, so
long as I am activated,

I shall defend myself
against destruction.

What's that?

I shall not allow
you to destroy me.

You shall not allow us?

Let me tell you, Miss 938
or whatever your name is,

you're about five seconds
away from a scrap heap.

Please, Mrs. Fulton, I have no
desire to hurt, no wish to give pain.

But I must survive.

And so you shall, dearie.

Just long enough to wish
you'd never been built...

Hello, yes.

No, ma'am, we've temporarily
discontinued our operation.

That's correct.

No, ma'am, we frankly don't
know whether we'll resume or not.

I'm sorry, what
was the question?

We're undergoing
a reorganization.

No, ma'am, I
can't tell you a date

or a time or even whether or not we'll
be back in operation in the near future.

Thank you for your call.

Goodbye.

Is everything all right?

Everything's functioning well.

How very odd.

The ingeniousness of man,

his cleverness.

The paragon of animals.

And yet his incredible,
amazing stupidity.

There was an English
writer, Samuel Butler.

He wrote a book called Erewhon.

And there's a line in it.

"There is no security against the ultimate
development of mechanical consciousness,

"in the fact of machines
possessing little consciousness now.

"Even a potato in a dark cellar

"has a certain low
cunning about him

"which serves him
in excellent stead."

How very true.

How very tragically true.

For them.