All language subtitles for Goodbye.Uncle.Tom.1971

We interrupt this broadcast to
bring you a shocking piece of news

just in from Memphis, Tennessee.

Today, April 4, the spiritual leader of
America's Negroes, Martin Luther King,

winner of the Nobel Prize for Peace, was
shot and wounded by an unknown gunman.

He is in very grave condition.

We are awaiting further information,
which we will pass on to the public

as soon as we receive it.

The assassin's bullet didn'tjust
kill Martin Luther King.

It killed a historical
era. The war has begun.

We Negroes have embarked on the
violent phase of our fight for freedom.

Today we have guns,
bombs, dynamite, knives.

America will be stained red.
Corpses will fill the streets.

Martin Luther King, a
slave of the bourgeoisie,

a useless social
element, a public servant,

an adulator, Washington's
bootlicker, a traitor.

Down with the doubters
and the Evangelists.

Down with the Uncle Toms.

It's our turn to get to
work now, cutting throats.

No white throats were cut.

The shouts of the revolt were
nothing, compared to the police sirens.

After all, who was that minister
who was killed in Memphis,

that 30 million Negroes
were supposed to avenge?

A hero, as Cleaver said, or a swine,
an Uncle Tom, as LeroyJones said?

Tom.

Thomas.

I named him Tom. Don't
you think it's cute?

Nowadays it's different,
but in the old days

all house Negroes were called Tom,
then Uncle Tom when they grew old.

That was how we could
tell the good Negroes,

the ones who lived in
homes, with their masters,

from the bad ones, who lived
separately, in the cotton fields.

Even that nice Negro priest that
they killed, what was his name?

They called him Uncle Tom,
too, because he was good.

He didn't go around spurring
those people to revolt against us.

They're not actually bad, but
none of them are called Tom.

They can't keep their houses clean,
and they spend all their money on cars,

which they break immediately
and throw away, like old toys.

They're just like children.
But that may be a good thing.

This way they're closer to God.

You should hear them singing in
the family chapel I gave them.

They're extraordinary.

His land extended
further than the horizon--

He had enormous herds of cattle,
and a house full of slaves.

When Jesus had finished
speaking, the man asked him:

''Is there anything that my
slaves can hold against me?

I feed them. I clothe them. I aid them.
I even gave them a temple to pray in.

So you see, my generosity is
great.'' And Jesus said to him:

''I will tell you that it is not
your generosity that is great,

but your pride.

You love your slaves
because they are slaves,

and as long as
they remain slaves.

But your power will
melt, like fog in the sun.

Your riches will be gone.

And then your slaves will
leave your land and your home,

and they will ignore you.

The worst punishment for your
pride will be your loneliness.''

Our house was so big. 500 slaves
were hardly enough to keep it up.

Then a little Tom left a candlestick
sitting next to a curtain,

and the fire burned for
three days. Can you imagine?

So many things fed that fire.
But this land is still mine.

This good land of the south,
once white with cotton balls.

Thank you, Tom. Do you
remember that movie?

What was it
called? Gone--

Anyway, she took a handful of dirt
and held it to her chest. Like this.

And all around her, everything
was burned and ravaged by war.

And the Negroes had become bad.
And she said-- I can't remember.

Anyway, she said she would farm
the land even without slaves.

Not cotton, of course.
You'd need Negroes for that.

It's so hard, under the sun.

But there are many other
good things here in the south:

fruits, vegetables. Our
vegetables are so good.

The salad, the peas.

Have you ever
tasted southern peas?

...as we can see by reading the pages
of the greatest American Negro poet,

LeroyJones,
whose poem --

''Land, Land, Land. The Negro will
not be a man until he has his own land.

Negro, look at the ground. ''

- Yoo-hoo, I'm ready. -
''Grab a handful of dirt,

and shove your nails into the
concrete. It's real and it's yours.

- You just have to want it. ''
- On page 217, Malcolm X adds.:

''There's only one people on earth
that can slit the white man's throat.

His population of
slaves, the Negroes. ''

We will now hand the microphone over
to the leader of the Black Panthers.

But that's not all. They reject
integration, they practice violence,

ideological crime,
reverse racism.

They indoctrinate their
children in exchange for a meal.

They want to own five states, immediate
freedom for all Negro criminals,

exemption from military service, and
the freedom to carry machine guns.

But sometimes we're
too quick to judge.

Let's take a look at
these strange humans.

Their intentions are good,
though at times misunderstood.

These humans practice
non-violence, ideological love,

free love, the
integration of the sexes,

and a perfect racial
confusion with the Negroes,

together with whom they propose
to build the America of the future.

And yet, LeroyJones, today's foremost
representative of Negro-ness says,

''Embracing the non-violence that young
whites preach about is nothing short of

diving into the current of this
failed American civilization.

America is a Sodom.
America is a Gomorrah.

America is a Babylon. This
is the society in which

Martin Luther King wanted the
Negroes to get ready to join.

I'd rather go to hell. But the chance
of becoming citizens of Gomorrah

is the best thing that whites have
right now to offer the Negroes.

If you hope for the survival of this
rotten society, of this corrupt order,

of this falling Rome, ready to cut your
balls off with the edge of a dollar,

you'll lose. Christ and the effigy
of the dollar are one and the same.

We Negroes must remember
all that we are seeing now,

and in the end we must
erupt like a volcano,

so we can crush, under flowing,
molten lava this herd of pigs

who have transformed the world
into a giant garbage can.''

June 19, 1970.

LeroyJones, again: ''The white
man's attitude toward sex is sick.

The white man makes sex dirty.
The white man is primitive,

and he has the sexual
intelligence of a cave man.

The white man is afraid of the Negro
because he knows he's sexually inferior.

His sexual device
is out of order.

That's why liberal
whites have allowed us

a certain amount of
progress toward virility,

and today he's telling us, 'One
day we'll let you have balls.

Until then, keep yourself cool.'

American whites are taught
to be pederasts in school.

That's why their faces are
weak and expressionless.

Their voices, gestures and
mannerisms are those of eunuchs.

white women are stocky
whores, covered in makeup.

They don't know what to do to
fire up their impotent males.

white American women are the
ugliest and most obscene on earth.

The famous question, 'Would you
allow your daughter to marry a Negro?'

is outdated.

Today the question is,

'Would you allow your son
to marry a white woman?'

Today the roles are reversed.''

The Black Panthers say,
''When the people rise up

to free themselves from slavery,
they must arm themselves with guns.

If we want to free ourselves of guns,
we must arm ourselves with guns.''

And now Cleaver:

''America is defended by
sadistic and bloodthirsty masters.

The blood, the tears and
suffering of the Negro

are the foundation on
which America rests.

We were forced to build it. But if
they force us to, we will destroy it,

and the result will be
a horrific bloodbath.

We, too, are bloodthirsty.''

But the Negroes are also hungry.

At least that's what
it says on the banner

that leads the
demonstration at Cape Kennedy

on the occasion of the
first white men on the moon.

The demonstration was organized
by Martin Luther King's successor,

Reverend Abernathy, who says,

''You, white man, are
the cause of all our woes.

You tore us away from
Africa, made us slaves,

kept us in ignorance, exploited us, got
rich, and now you're going to the moon.

We can't accept that. Stop playing
with your millionaire's toys,

and pay us the
damages you owe us.

Where are you going, white man,
with your billionaire's toy?

What are you running
away from, your past?

What did you do, that was so bad?

Why do your black
brothers hate you so?

It's useless to run away,

because the past is not behind
us, as Abernathy believes,

but ahead, traveling toward the
stars, just like Einstein said.

And the faster you run, the
faster you'll get there.''

GOODBYE UNCLE TOM

- Is this a bad time?
- No, please, come in.

- Who are these people?
- They are Europeans.

To be exact, they're
Italians, Italian journalists.

They've come here to the south
to conduct an inquiry, right?

In inquiry on slavery. They
seem to be quite shocked.

- What is their religion?
- Catholic, I think.

- You're Catholic, aren't you?
- Roman Catholic Apostolic.

They shouldn't be
so shocked, then.

After all, the Pope, who is usually
so generous with his excommunications,

has never excommunicated
a merchant of black meat.

Unless he eats it on Fridays.

- Why are they here, then?
- I think they're slaves, too.

You know Catholics. They're
slaves of the fascination of sin.

Or they simply want to protest.
What are we going to do about it?

These Europeans, after the French
Revolution, do nothing but protest.

Please, times have changed:
Rousseau, Diderot, Voltaire...

This is rich, Catholics who
read books written by the devil.

What would His Holiness say?

Please! These
gentlemen are my guests.

And following the example
of other friends of mine,

have given them free
access to the entire house.

This way they'll see who the
real slaves and masters are.

No, Senator, please.
No chicken bones.

They're very
dangerous to puppies.

I had to take two of them
to the vet. It's so annoying.

Well, since each one of
you is a famous person,

your frank and authoritative
statements on the subject of slavery

should be very useful
to these gentlemen.

I agree, and I'll be the first.

It's absolutely true that
slavery cannot be hidden,

just like a volcano's eruption
or a cancerous affliction

that erodes a man's face. I,
for one, have freed my slaves,

but I did so only because they
were stupid, smelly, sad and boring.

I am an aristocrat, and I believe
in freedom, but not in equality.

This is my statement.
Signed,John Randolph of Roanoke.

I'm John Pithiou,

and I think that slavery is the
natural condition of the poor,

whether white or black.

In fact, I consider it ideal,

because it's synonymous with a
full belly, a guaranteed dwelling,

medical help and security in old age,
whereas for us it's a status symbol.

Furthermore, we mustn't
forget, gentlemen,

that we whites make up only
20%% of the world's population,

so if one day we gave up our
power, it would be the end of us.

It will depend solely on
us, and I mean solely on us,

if a meek slave or a snake in the
grass gets off the slave trader's ship.

What a stench! What did you
bring, a load of rotten meat?

What are you talking
about? It's top choice.

They stink because they eat like pigs,
then they throw up and mess themselves.

- How long was the trip?
- 94 days.

Didn't they get
air on the bridge?

Are you crazy, with the
sea full of English ships?

The times have changed.

This is contraband merchandise.

If I get caught with one
Negro on board, I'll be hung.

And I wouldn't be the first.

If they spent the entire trip down
there, they must be all rotten.

No way! On this ship rule
number one is hygiene.

Hygiene and cleanliness. If
one of them gets really sick,

I don't wait for him to
spread it to the whole load.

I throw him overboard and that's that.
I deliver my merchandise in good shape.

- Are you interested or not?
- How many are there?

327 between males and females.
These are all males. No syphilis.

Black meat was sold either
by the head or by weight.

The load was arranged in layers,
and each Negro had a berth

35 by 12 inches, in which he
was chained from 45 to 90 days,

depending on the wind.

This way, over the
course of two centuries,

about 50 million slaves
were shipped to the Americas,

30 million of which did
not survive the journey.

To keep epidemics at bay, the
Negroes were watered three times a day

with carbolic acid and sea water.

The load was always insured.

But since the insurance paid
only if the Negro died on board,

if an epidemic broke out, the
captain would rather not take chances,

and preferred to unload a whole
shipment in the sea, still alive,

rather than risk unloading a
ship of dying men and women.

Dysentery depreciated the merchandise,
so in order to keep it from buyers,

the captain would order the sealing
of''leaky holes'' with a cork

sealed with tow and tar.

In November of 1812,

in a shipment of 415 slaves,
the buyer contested 216,

because he realized that
they had been plugged up.

The captain was Jean Lafitte,
the famous pirate patriot hero

who sold slaves in Louisiana to
raise money for Karl Marx in Europe.

- What's that mushy stuff?
- Corn, molasses and fat.

They love it. We have to tie them
up and give them a little at a time,

otherwise they'd choke.

That one doesn't seem to like it.

That one has decided to let
himself starve to death. Pitiful!

Hey, we need a chisel and
hammer and a funnel over here.

The remedy was quite frightening,
and served as an example.

And even if it cost the
master a little damage,

a Negro minus three or four teeth
was always better than a dead one.

- Let's say $150 a head.
- I said I'll buy them by the pound.

- The whole shipment for $2 a pound.
- Seven dollars.

- Three.
- Six.

- Four.
- All right, but I'm losing money.

120 years later, three or
four generations at the most,

and some of them have already
forgotten. They are not many.

Perhaps the equivalent of a
few hundred shipments of slaves.

Ambassadors, ministers,
industrialists, intellectuals, artists:

all individual fortunes
worth millions of dollars.

Deaf to the insults of the priests
of Negro-ness, these Uncle Tom pigs

have quietly joined the system,

and followed the great
American dream of success,

seen as the sporting victory
over life's adversities.

For the first time, the self-made
man is black, and that's saying a lot,

if we consider that among his many
misfortunes this is perhaps the worst:

well-dressed, worldly,

so well integrated as to appear
lighter skinned than his fellow Negroes,

a little chubby, due to a residual hunger
that subconsciously still haunts him,

he is still the same Negro who arrived
on board a ship with LeroyJones,

Malcolm X, Cleaver
and the Black Panthers.

Those men are either in Harlem
or in prison, plotting revenge.

This man is here. He
dances a waltz in a tuxedo,

and tomorrow will go to work
wearing a double-breasted suit.

The self-made Negro is proud
of his past misfortunes,

and the horrors of
slavery are his epic.

This was the most famous slave sorting
and clearing center in Louisiana.

Even Thomas Ewell wrote about it.

Let's read some excerpts from
the camp's rules and regulations:

''It is ordered that at Fort Bastille
all African slaves be quarantined.''

Page 116: ''In large iron cages,
slaves with mange and scabies

will be fumigated
with ailanthus vapors.

The epileptics will
be hung by the feet

so their blood, flowing to the head,
will arrest their convulsions.''

Reading from page 122: ''It
is mandatory for all slaves

to receive an initial bath in a mixture
of water, salt, ash, and soapwort root.''

Now, reading from page 130:

''The bath will be followed by a greasing
with lard, palm oil and turpentine.

We remind our employees that 82%%

of imported slaves is afflicted
with contagious skin diseases,

and that therefore the
law forbids their trade.

Using the specially designed
slides, the slaves will be gathered

for the next phase
of their cleansing.

Eggs and lice that may have
survived the previous treatments

will be exterminated with the total
destruction of their natural habitat.

The razors must be
sharpened every 200 shavings,

to avoid damage to the scalps.''

Cleansed both inside and out,

the Negro was fortified
before the long journey inland

with a daily ration of a
half gallon of corn meal,

a pint of beans, a
pound of sweet potatoes,

- a pound of fat --
- Don't go overboard.

They only get a half-pound of fat.
This is not an Italian restaurant.

Besides, we don't
need a defense lawyer.

Look at them. All they want
is to eat, to eat anything.

To eat and to fuck, that's all
they want. And they want to survive.

To survive anything, beatings,
syphilis, cholera, the heat, the cold.

Their strength lies
in their adaptability.

Both in heaven and in hell,
they fill their bellies

and spit out dozens of children.

I for one agree with those who
support mandatory castration.

I don't mean to be cruel,

but if we don't cut off a
few million black balls now,

you can be sure that in
one or two hundred years--

Dick Gregory, the first Negro
President of the United States!

What makes this candidate for
the White House exceptional

is that his political program does
not include cutting the throats

of all white Americans.

Perhaps this is why he
wasn't very successful.

The more popular David
Hillyard screamed,

''We'll kill Nixon and all the sons
of bitches that are against us.''

Gregory is more modest. He's content
with his image on the dollar bill,

and obtaining what the signers
of the Black Manifesto requested:

300 billion dollars as damages for
the suffering of 3 million slaves.

In the meantime he's
handing out small advances,

and promises that the rest
will be delivered promptly.

The livestock cars that
transported the slaves up north

covered 400 miles in three days along
the left bank of the Mississippi,

all the way up to Natchez or Pittsburgh.
The slave trade was very busy.

It slowed down
only in the autumn,

when the trains had
to stop in Baton Rouge,

and the slaves had to proceed on
foot through rain-flooded swamps.

The red flag, which back then was the
symbol of slavery, preceded the convoys.

A tuba, a violin and a trombone
kept up the slaves' morale

when the going was rough.

Neither the slave traders
nor the public, at the time,

considered this trade immoral.

They were comforted in part by
the fact that among their clients

were men such as PresidentJackson
and PresidentJefferson.

Among their colleagues were men such
as David Mitchell, governor of Georgia,

and James Bowie,
hero of the Alamo.

Come on. Move it!

Let's have some music!
Make merry! Play!

Come on. Let's have some
music! Be merry. Play for me!

Go free with God. Go
forth, free with God.

Go on, go free with God.

Well then, $300 for the
males, $200 for the females,

and $100 for the puppies.
It's all there, right?

In addition to having
illustrious clients,

the traders also had
illustrious suppliers,

like theJesuits of
Saint Inigoe in Maryland.

The Catholic Church had
always ignored slavery,

but when in 1838 the Pope ordered
that slaves in convents be freed,

theJesuits immediately got
rid of them: they sold them.

When the convoys reached the
sugarcane and cotton mills,

the traders would allow their Negroes a
few days' rest, so they could present them

to their customers in good shape.
The customers were few, but good.

In 1850, 4 million slaves
were owned by 4,000 planters.

There were only 400 families
who owned more than 10 slaves.

Eighty percent of the white
population had never owned slaves.

The dream of possessing a young Negro
woman tormented the lonely dreams

of poor white men, forced to long
periods of abstinence in such a hot land,

where the white women
were few and intractable.

Not bad, eh?

Many of these poor
and restless men were--

Cut it out.

This is my buddy, Buzz.

This is my buddy, Sonny.

This is my buddy,Jake.

- So, are you coming with us?
- Isn't it illegal?

What do you mean? Nothing is
illegal in this fucking country.

You hear that? He wants money.

Many of these poor white men,
the Crackers, as they were called,

were serving what was
called time-limited slavery,

a period of hard labor,
usually of five years,

to pay off the price of the
trip to America from Europe.

Another group was formed by
thieves, rapists, murderers,

who had been deported to the colonies
from French and English prisons.

Their hatred toward the Negroes
was not just a racial issue.

Negroes were always slaves, and
therefore obliged to work for free,

but also to be the scabs
of the white laborers,

who had to choose between
unemployment and a miserable pay.

Come on, let's go.

Thus, the hatred of the white
slave toward the Negro slave

was appeased through
gratuitous acts of violence,

perpetrated especially on the
women, who slept alone at night

in the barn with the animals,
and were therefore defenseless.

Oh, go away.

The black puppies not yet
ready for work were like toys,

and as such they were
given to children.

But the black puppies grew up
quickly, and pretty soon they preferred

a new kind of game, that the
white kids often enjoyed watching.

Let's read an excerpt from the diary
of Fanny Kemble, English actress:

''From the early morning the boughs
of the large tree before my window

were full of couples chirping
like blackbirds in love.

I, who was English, and had just
joined my American husband in Georgia,

was amazed that such a puritanical
white society could allow its slaves

to indulge in such depravity
in every corner of the jungle.

Another time, in the rice fields,

I came upon such a carefree,
shameless band of urchins,

who were so busy with their pleasure
that they didn't even notice me.''

But after her marriage to
the planter George Butler,

Fanny Kemble became a
typical southern lady.

I, a typical southern lady?

Have you ever seen a southern
lady ride a horse western style?

Now I'll show you another thing that
a southern lady would never show you.

Look at all the lovebirds!

Look at them running
from the sugarcane field.

The masters themselves
encourage them.

Do you know what my husband
says? ''Go on, get busy!

The more children you have,
the happier you'll make me.

Do as you please.

I get rich, and you
have a good time.''

In this shop, you don't pay for what
you break, and I pick up the pieces.

Excuse me, ma'am, where is
the church at Turner Bridge?

I don't understand. I'm German.

- Where is church?
- Three miles down road.

- What's happening here, ma'am?
- Very interesting.

They're cutting the Negro who broke
20 virgins at the Peterson plantation.

- Cutting what?
- Cutting his balls, what else?

He's through fucking.

The pliers! The pliers!

If on the one hand the
masters allowed their slaves

an almost unlimited
sexual freedom,

it was also true that he would be
furious if that freedom cost him money.

On every plantation there
were always a number of virgins

destined for the marketplace.

Their virginity had a very
definite value, and if you took it,

you were a thief.

Such thieves were
publicly castrated,

and the castration took place
at the very scene of the crime.

Hewlett, a Louisiana
man, wrote in 1831:

''Such an exciting spectacle
was a pleasant interruption

to the boredom of
a Sunday afternoon.

Males, females and puppies
enjoyed it from start to finish.

The more the victim screamed,
the more fun they had.''

The master calls for the pliers.

No, not my balls!

Shut up! Take the balls
with your hands and pull.

- Quick, put the balls in the pliers.
- He's pissing! He got me all wet!

Not my balls! No!

- Do you want to go in?
- No, thank you.

- Listen.
- Squeeze!

Did you hear that? It's done.

- What did they use for the operation?
- Horse pliers.

- It's horrible to make him suffer so.
- No, Negroes never suffer.

That Negroes felt physical and
moral pain less that white men

was a widely held belief.

The scientific
writings of that time,

first among them those by the
authoritative Samuel Cartwright,

a professor at the
University of Louisiana,

mention ''poor motor skills, typical of
monkeys and subhuman species in general.''

No one suspected yet that all
the folklore, the excesses,

the collective hysteria don't
Negate the presence of pain.

On the contrary, they
underline its intensity.

At this point I have only to remind
you that God condemned to slavery

the damned line of Canaan
from the time ofJoshua.

God ordered Abraham's
descendants to keep slaves,

and he decreed that those slaves were
to be inherited by their children.

God recognized Abraham as
the master of the slaves.

And Jesus ordered

that any who dare object to or
disrupt the institution of slavery

be repudiated as subversive
individuals, whose behavior is --

The Protestant Church,

then even more powerful than
the Catholic Church in America,

approved of and preached
slavery as a divine decree.

The sermons of the most influential
ministers, like this one,

by Reverend Stringfellow of Virginia,
were bound and published in volumes.

The curse in the Old Testament
on the black man, Canaan,

the evil son of Noah, who
had castrated his father,

was falling heavily on his descendants,
who were now reduced to slavery.

The Baptists said, ''Flog them.''

The Presbyterians,
''Deny them rights.''

The Methodists,
''Chain them up.''

While Bishop Polk, the same one who
later became a Confederate general,

beat all records
as a slaveholder.

Slavery is thus a divine institution,
ordered and sanctioned by God.

Therefore, with all the authority
granted my by the church,

I, Reverend Stringfellow
of the State of Virginia,

order you to honor slavery

and not to question it on the
basis of false moral grounds.

Instead of false moral grounds, Reverend
Stringfellow would have done better

talking about false
economic grounds.

For example, it was false to
think that a slave's labor was free

simply because he wasn't paid.

Let's consider the eternal
problem of domestic servants.

When a master thought
he could solve it

by filling his huge house with droves
of Negroes dressed to the nines,

he was solving a very
different problem--

the problem of his prestige in the
eyes of his family and his guests.

Please, come in. But I'm warning
you, I can't give you much of my time.

As you can see, this isn't
a house, it's a madhouse.

- The luggage.
- What luggage? Oh, yes!

Mr. Thackeray's luggage.

Haven't I told you a million times
to get it and bring it downstairs?

Go on, don't waste anymore time.

My God, they're
useless! Hurry up!

I'll have to leave you to your
own devices. Take a look around.

- I'll see you later.
- Where do the sheets go, ma'am?

Come on. Let's hurry it up!

This looks nice.

Always cleaning, cleaning.
My fingers are hurting, ma'am.

Even at night I dream
that I'm still cleaning.

Black slave's always cleaning.

And you keep telling me I
have to clean even better.

Where do we put
the sheets, ma'am?

''Where do we put the sheets, ma'am?''
Put them on the bed, you idiots!

The real mistress of the
house, though, was the Mammy.

The house was her kingdom.
The children were her subjects.

She reigned upstairs, over the children
of both masters and slaves alike,

in absolute promiscuity,
because black or white,

all babies have
the same color pee.

She was almost always fat, thanks
to her privileges in the kitchen.

She was always mean and arrogant, and
mistreated everyone, black or white.

All this thanks to the immunity
she enjoyed in the domestic setting.

When, for instance,
a white man --

- Whom does this one belong to?
- Throw him over there.

When I'm done with your pup,
I'll latch him onto my tit.

Be careful, he's got the
runs, he's messing everywhere.

- I'm freezing, do I have to bathe?
- Get in there and wash up good.

Hey you, pump the water, faster!

- Don't let them play with my dress.
- Get back in there!

Take that dress off. Give me
that, face powder is $5 an ounce!

It's not meant for dirty Negroes
like you. Now get out of here!

- Enough Mammy, I'm clean.
- Let me take a look.

You don't like the water,
eh? You're worse than a Negro.

Not so hard, you're hurting me.

You know those Italian
photographers that are here?

Mammy, I want them to take
my portrait in the pink dress.

Is it cut too low?

Get out of here! You
whites are such bastards.

Scoundrels! You're all scoundrels!
And you, get the fuck away!

The Negro little boy
Flew right up into the sky

And you, will you stop
plucking those feathers!

Drinking water! Drinking water!

Thief!. Let me see!
Where is the chicken?

Give me your hat.

Look here! Thief!.

- Cake with cherries.
- Wait!

I keep putting the cherries on,
and I never run out of cherries.

These are onions, not
carrots! Can't you smell them?

The Negro little boy
Flew right up into the sky

The almonds, I can't crush
them. I'm going to use a plate.

This is not a kitchen!
It's a huge latrine!

Dirty Negro woman, she's putting
her hands in the mayonnaise.

I'm a clean Negro, and I
crack eggs with my glove on.

The Negro little boy
Flew right up into the sky

Get down from there!

The Negro little boy
Flew right up into the sky

Pigs! You're worse than pigs!

Pigs are much better.

And all this just to seat two
people at the dinner table!

This is the first image of a historical
carousel called ''Pilgrimage'',

which is celebrated
every year in the spring.

At this time, the old south
takes a trip down memory lane.

For the sake of the carousel,
everything comes out of storage:

from the old granny in a wheelchair
to the few neighborhood Negroes,

who for $12 an hour
agree to pose as slaves.

The slaveholders bravely revisit
their sins of yore, like this one,

the first of the day.

They had a slave bring them
their coffee in bed. Incredible.

The 19th century feels very far
away, halfway up the ladder of time.

How was it? It depends if you're
looking from the bottom or the top.

From the bottom, we
discover under old drapes

a modern and
hypocritical reality.

From above, on the other hand,

we enjoy a stale view of
ancient, innocent customs,

such as chaste girls bathing
with their nightgowns on.

Right next door, we find a
walnut stool used to flog slaves.

It looks more like an antique
than an instrument of torture.

Next to the music box
we see the blond Eveline,

sitting on Uncle Tom's
lap on a rainy evening.

In the dusky sitting room, the
old grandfather clock keeps time.

It makes us feel almost sorry that
General Sherman is at the gates.

Sherman arrived with
30,000 Union troops.

Today, there are
100,000 northerners.

A mere hundred years have passed

since the General swept like
a fury down from the north

and tore down these candid temples
to slavery, and already the south

seems to have bounced back to the
original splendor of its dark age.

The pretentious Neoclassical
style of its large houses

shines again over the green parks
as it did in those opulent times,

which were rife with
slaves, cotton, tobacco,

and the coffers of the south
were full of Confederate dollars.

Today the old houses of the
south are national museums,

and their owners are
responsible for their upkeep.

The woman of the house is usually
in charge of protecting the furniture

and the antique rugs.

Stop! You can't come in
with high-heeled shoes.

After a long, grim winter
without northerners in the house,

the old south relives in
the spring its economic boom.

The north today buys cotton
at $10 per hundred kilograms.

The south sells its high-quality,
slave-grade cotton at $1 per ball.

Nixon devalues the dollar by 7%%.

The south revalues its old Confederate
dollar by 107%%, exchanging it equally.

The boom goes on.

Someone found an old column
in the cellar and sliced it up.

Today, the old white south
can be bought by the slice.

$10 a slice, and the Negro, posing as
a slave, keeps half of the proceeds.

New York, Fifth
Avenue. It's Easter.

A religious extremist
waves a flag and a Bible.

He yells something to do with
Negroes, but no one can understand him.

On the most bourgeois
street in the world,

they celebrate Easter
with the spring parade,

and spring is the most
bourgeois of the seasons.

Up here, far from the
rotting crowd below,

a chosen few have found an
altar close enough to the sky,

even though it's been sullied
by the arrival of the police.

''We're here,'' they say, ''to declare our
contrition over the sins of the world.''

''Naked?'' The police ask.

''We're not naked,
we're undressed.''

Satisfied, they kiss. Today the
police no longer trust the penal code.

A crime looks like a crime.

Then, it turns out that
it's an ideological crime,

and they look like idiots.

Might as well drop
the whole thing.

Today, being white, as well as
being shameful, is also a grave sin.

One of the many ways to atone is
to cover smear paint on one's body.

Each smear is a sin, and
each sin has its color.

Red for wars,
massacres and the like,

yellow for gold and riches and all
the evils associated with wealth.

Black for racism, Nazism,
fascism and lots of other -isms.

The evil one, meaning
the devil, is white.

The devil's first victim,

according to these penitents who
are ashamed of their white bottoms,

is the Negro, who seems here
to feel slightly out of place.

''Abracadabra, I'm
going to exorcise you.''

For centuries the white
devil kept the Negro in hell.

He forced him to squirm
on the ground like a worm.

He imprisoned him,
flogged him, tortured him.

Then he dragged him in chains
through his American ordeal.

He chose him over Barabbas.

He betrayed him likeJudas.
He crucified him in Vietnam.

But today it's Easter,
and the Negro is reborn

and ascends to the sky, to take
his place at his father's side,

because the Negro is the son
of God, because God is black.

In fact in Detroit, in the
Catholic Church of the Sacred Heart,

Jesus has been painted black. Is
it antiracism or reverse racism?

Once upon a time they
said, ''When God was white,

the Negro was not a man,

because God, who had made man
in his image, was not black.''

That must mean that today, since
God is black, we'll say this,

''God made man in his image,

and since God is no longer white,
the white man is no longer a man.''

The Negro community has flocked to
this church where all the saints,

and even the Virgin
Mary are all black.

We can't help but think back

to the famous black Manifesto written
in August, 1969, and still extant,

in which the Negroes claimed
that the Church owed them

300 billion dollars in damages
for what they'd been put through.

The Lord's Prayer says:
''Forgive us our debts,

as we forgive our debtors.''

So now who will pay, if the father who
forgives trespasses is no longer white,

nor is anyone in his family?

They had only just
begun to hear about it,

but already that white God, who
promised a heaven with no slaves

and no masters, fascinated them.

He seemed to be one of them.

He was humiliated,
flogged, crucified.

And for his whole life he had eaten
out of the same plate as the poor.

Get another plate, son.

Hewlett writes:

''It is tolerated that the slaves
gather when they are free from work

in order to imitate in their
fashion the Christian rituals.

Experience has taught us that
the more a slave is religious,

the calmer, more humble
and resigned he will be.

However, the law prescribes also

that these gatherings will be moderated
and presided over by a white man.''

Of all the tales in the Bible, the flight
from Egypt fascinated them the most.

They were so convinced that the
story related to them personally,

that they would draw it on the
walls. Africa was Palestine,

the ocean was the Red Sea,
the sharks were the Pharaohs,

and the Egyptians
were the white masters.

All those fantastical analogies
between their dark history

and the flight of the chosen
people toward the Promised Land

influenced them so, that they started
running away at a rate of 5,000 a year.

They always ran toward
the rivers and the swamps,

because they had crossed
the water to come here,

and they thought that
freedom lay across the water.

There was always a reward on
the head of a runaway slave.

The reward was not contingent, however,
on the slave being returned alive.

All that were needed were
their hands or their heads.

Thus many hunters, especially in
Florida, specialized in runaway slaves.

The fire of Atlanta
destroyed a daguerreotype

that portrayed a scene like this one.
On the back it bore this inscription:

''A good catch
today, 187 heads.''

Even Andrew Jackson, the great
president, approved of hunting slaves.

Kenneth Stamp writes:

''One dayJackson promised $50 to whoever
could bring back one of his slaves,

and $10 extra for every 100
lashes, up to a maximum of 300.''

None of the 14 American
presidents who were slave owners

were ever too kind
to the Negroes.

They usually found them
dumb, clumsy, and mostly loud.

Another great president,
Thomas Jefferson, wrote:

''My slaves are such idiots,
that instead of going to bed,

they waste the night away under my
windows, making up dances and songs

which, according to
them, mock their master.''

When a Negro mocked his master,
to useJefferson's phrase,

he tried to wound his pride with the
only weapon he had, the grotesque.

Today he wields that weapon
against his entire civilization,

against his hero, his
symbol, his system.

The white hero is armed, and the sword
is the symbol of his prevarication.

He's lurking, again,
under a friar's tunic,

with threats of damnation,
pale and ugly like the devil.

''We are beautiful,'' says Carmichael,
the leader of the black students.

''We are a splendid race.''

That's all well and good, but this
year there will be two Miss Americas.

A white one, and a black one,
who will be called Boganda,

not because it's a nice name,
but because it's an African name.

Today, everything that's black
has to have that Negro-ness.

Afro, African,
anything but American.

''Do you know,'' says Carmichael,
''why the Negroes spoke so badly?''

They were protesting
against English.

Protest is an ugly fad
word, like Negro-ness.

Boganda, too, is an
ugly name for a queen.

It sounds more like
chains than like freedom.

''We don't want this white
freedom.'' Another slogan from Harlem.

''We want a black freedom,
and five white states,

that the United
States must give us.''

They dance like Africans, dress
like Africans, and speak Swahili.

''We repudiate your
American language,

which you use to say that we
are savages, beasts, monkeys,

and that our sweat smells bad.''

This was said for the first time
by Professor Cartwright in 1831.

Smell this sweat. Do you
think it smells human?

Or does it have a beastly smell?

Well, why does it have a beastly
smell? Because our skin is different.

And it's not because of the
color, that's the last thing.

Our illustrious
colleagues up north know

that in one square
centimeter of this black skin

there are at least twice the
sweat glands than in ours.

You don't need a microscope to observe
that in this limited cranial capacity

there is very little brain: that this
is not hair, but beastly bristles:

this forehead is absurdly low,

these eyes totally lack luster,
and show no flicker of intelligence:

that these monstrous nostrils
resemble those of a monkey:

that these teeth and this jaw,

characteristic of
anthropophagus creatures,

are the indisputable proof that
this is a merely humanoid race,

a race inferior to ours.

A race that is merely

another attempt on nature's part

in its millennial journey

toward its ultimate
goal, perfection,

the white race, homo sapiens,

in other words, us.

Excuse me, Professor,
are you Jewish?

Yes, of course. Why?

Let's imagine we wanted
to exterminate them.

Fire, gas, deportation? Oh, no.

It would be enough to refrain
from curing their illnesses.

Remember, a healthy
Negro is a perfect slave.

And an imperfect
slave is a sick Negro.

Sick? With which
disease, Professor?

These individuals are afflicted by
a disease called ''draptomania'',

which is an impulse to flee.

It's a nervous disease, which
drives the Negro to flee.

Mind you, not out of a desire
for freedom or a sense of dignity.

Negroes have no such sentiments.

He runs because he is ill.
Oh, here's a perfect case:

in fact, an exemplary
case of that affliction

which we scientists
call African scatopathy.

- Are those muzzles?
- Oh, no! Looks are deceiving.

It's not a muzzle.

It's just an obstacle that stops
them from eating all sorts of garbage,

like dirt and
their own excrement.

This may be one of the more
repugnant illnesses found in nature.

I'm sure it's caused by the
lack of some unknown substance.

Look at what extremes they go
to. They have such a fear of work,

and such a desire to do nothing,
that they have tricked their masters.

Look, they're so clever.

They make their legs, arms,
feet or hands drop off,

so they can live
of their mutilation.

It seems impossible. How
did they end up like this?

I told you.

To get out of working, they inflicted
some small wound on themselves,

and then gangrene set in,

so the surgeon had to cut off
arms and legs to save their hides.

What are these people doing
here? Aren't they Indians?

Yes, but the Indians are useless.

Between a Negro and an Indian

there's the same difference
as between a dog and a coyote.

You can beat a dog to death, and
he'll go on licking your feet.

If you deprive a coyote of its freedom,
you might as well deprive it of air.

An Indian will never be a slave.

No one has ever succeeded in
having them reproduce in captivity.

They don't eat. They don't speak. They
don't sleep and they don't make love.

Look at these bizarre creatures,
neither men nor beasts.

These black and sick
projections of our humanity,

who suddenly ask us to
survive in this world of ours.

They are as ancient as we
are, and yet up until now

they had never seen a wheel.

But in a world like ours, rich
with centuries of civilization,

what could they ever do, but bask
in the reflection of our glory?

Every year in February, the
white people of Louisiana

hold a carnival
draped in black skin.

Today it feels like the parody

of the privilege enjoyed for
one day a year by all the slaves.

That day, the masters would
tolerate insults and threats.

''Further left than any left,
we'll drive against the current.''

But if Cleaver and Bobby Seale,
founder of the Black Panthers,

had lived 150 years ago, the
things they yell out every day now,

they could have said them only
on the day of the carnival.

''You whites, who still today wave
your discriminating and racist flags,

we'll put you all
up against a wall!''

But the next day, Cleaver and Seale
would have been sold right here,

in the huge slave market, where the
rum ran like a river in the streets.

Then, when the trumpet would
sound the closing of the market,

and the drunken crowd would
be thrown out of the enclosure,

they would have been locked up like
jailbirds in the shacks of the camp,

so they could spend their last
night with their wives and children.

All this is now in the
past, and is part of history.

Any reference to the people in
these images is purely coincidental.

They happened to be walking
by here while our cameras

were filming the site of the most
famous slave market in the south,

where every year, during the
carnival, 20,000 slaves were sold.

400, I said 400 and
not a penny less.

- No, 200 is as high as I will go.
- I didn't steal him, you know.

- 300, then.
- No.

You can keep your Negro, then.

New Orleans, February, 1831.

The son of the
sheriff, Tommy Adley,

draws the winning numbers of the state
lottery at the 27 th slave market.

First prize, a quarter
mulatto girl of 15 years.

Second prize, a cook, and third
prize, three fat pigs from Virginia.

Together with the Memphis
fair, the fair in New Orleans

is the most important
fair in the south,

with a volume of business of more
than 40 million dollars a year.

The merchandise is all homegrown,

and comes from farm consortia
in Florida and in Virginia.

The market is on the upswing.

A typical male, that only
six years ago went for $500,

is now worth $1,500 plus taxes.

Colonel Bowie, who only
deals in wholesale pups,

can sell them today
at up to $15/lb.

This year the most popular races
are Ausa, Mandingo, and Turkana.

The Ausa are more
graceful, but more fragile.

The Mandingo are more sturdy,
but not as intelligent.

The Turkana are of smaller
build, more docile and manageable.

They are the most popular with
the religious institutions.

In 1863, the French Ursuline
nuns alone had 200 of them.

Of all the ones we saw at the market,
this is the loveliest little angel.

He's really a
delightful creature.

What should we do, sister?

It's very tempting, but have
you seen the prices this year?

- He's too expensive.
- But he's such an angel.

And he's healthy and strong.
He could help in the kitchen.

Sister, can you imagine what
the Mother Superior would say?

- She's already bought four this year.
- Oh, sister.

He's not that expensive, at
$300. Let's offer them $200.

He got scared and lost
his mother in the crowd.

They can't even get him
to tell them his name.

He just stands there,
quiet, frowning,

but a little calmer, with
so many policemen around,

who seem to protect him from those
large white ghosts, who scared him.

After only one day of power,

the Negro king of the
carnival has lost his throne.

His short time of
privilege has expired.

Now it's the white man's turn.

Right here, in the Carr�, where the
queens of the neighborhood have gathered,

there once stood two
famous houses of ill repute.

The one called The Two Sisters,

and right across the street,
the other, Mr. Roberts'.

Since at the time there were
only two, distinct genders,

anyone could choose what they
liked in either of the two houses,

without the danger
of making mistakes.

At the Two Sisters one could find
anything in the ''normal'' variety,

as it was once thought of.

At Mr. Roberts', instead, there was
the best of the ''other'', as it were,

that which today is considered
the ''normal'' variety.

In fact, the two houses were
not competitors at the time.

Both houses got their wares from the
market, two blocks away from here.

All top quality merchandise,
the genuine article,

what we would think of today
as ''good old-fashioned wares.''

In the New Orleans market there was a
secret sector, where the merchandise,

before it was put on display,

was prepared and arranged
by gender, age and quality.

The girls chosen to
become ''fancy girls'',

were given over to a man named
Buzz, described by Hewlett

as a repulsive and obese individual,
always filthy with the grease

which he used to oil the fillies
to make their skin softer.

But the keys to the warehouse where
the pieces for real collectors were kept

were jealously guarded by a funny
little midget known as the General.

Only I have these keys.
I'm the master here.

Get inside, you bastards,
or I'll have you flogged.

I'll show you who's in charge
here. I am the General, you hear?

Come on, follow me. Open
up, it's me, the General.

Open up, you sons of bitches!

Hurry up!

Hey, white men, look at the
merchandise I'm in charge of.

The General is the guard of the
market. This is the market's safe.

Look, tens of thousands of dollars.
Top quality whores. All virgins.

You, get to work, dirty Negress.
None of them are all Negro.

They all have at least half human
blood in their veins, like me.

They've all been sold,
and are ready for delivery.

Delivered to your doorstep,
luxuriously packaged.

Hey, white men, you can
look, but don't touch.

You know the rules.

It's forbidden to touch
the merchandise on display.

Only I, the General, can touch.

Do you want to see? Here.

This is Cassandra, a half-caste.
She comes from the Harrison estate.

She's the daughter of
Zephira and the great Meatto.

Artemis, three-quarters human blood,
the firmest tits in the warehouse.

$5,000, payment in cash,
comes with a two-year warranty.

Vintage of 1848. Imperial
Reserve, white or Ros�,

guaranteed by the consortium.

This is Eva. You
like apples, huh?

Go ahead and eat them, but
stay away from any snakes.

You've never seen anything like this.
Who cares if you've never seen it?

That's enough, let's go. I don't
have time to waste. I'm the General.

Open up!

Come on, keep it up. You
clown, dance, move it!

Go on, dance.

No, no, no.

Not like that, not like
that, beasts, Like this!

I'll show you.

Like this, not with
your hips. Move your ass!

Open up, it's me.

Oh, the Europeans. What an honor!

I'm in a state, I'm
afraid. Look at my hands.

Excuse the mess, but you should
see in what state they deliver them.

Come on, take your places. I
go crazy getting them ready.

They're in such demand that
they rip them out of my hands

even before they're ready.

I'm sorry, I don't
have much time.

I'm so busy. Come on, show yourselves
off to the gentlemen. Take a look.

Not bad, eh? Try to guess the
prices. $500, $1,000, $1,500?

No, $3,000, my dear gentlemen.

Hewlett writes:

''Pairs of male twins at a certain point
enjoyed a moment of great popularity,

also because of an ugly
habit that became a fad.

But due to the extreme rarity
of this particular merchandise,

as there were many orders,
there were many tricksters.''

Tricksters? What are
you talking about?

This is a reputable establishment,
renowned throughout the south.

Look at this pair, a rarity.

- You faggot!
- Our clients can rest assured.

These are two authentic
Kelloggs. Look, they're signed.

Quiet. Open up,
it's me, the General.

Come in, but no questions.
These should be in a museum.

They're fit for a king.
Base price, $15,000.

- What's so special about him?
- He's got three of them!

One, two, three.
Three, three, three!

Three, he has three, three!

This one had six, including one
that broke and is now being repaired.

They were all sold to
six different masters,

and the mother killed
herself out of desperation.

This is the most important
exhibit in the museum.

In the wax museum of New Orleans,
among many statues of slaves in chains

and of evil masters, the group
that today fascinates the tourists

is the group of Madame La Laurie,
the most famous sadist of all time.

We know that she was
the wife of a doctor,

that she was a member of the
Creole high society in Louisiana,

and that she had
a good reputation

until the day when the firemen,
who responded to a fire alarm,

they went into the attic and found all
the evidence that enabled Judge Caldwell

a nearly exact reconstruction
of how the respectable lady

and her faithful helper, Caesar,
enjoyed their leisure time.

Come.

Caesar, Caesar,
you've done it again.

She died on me.

Caesar, you really go too far.

It's the third girl in a week.

Don't be so upset.
I'll buy you another.

But look at my partner,
my dear, sweet playmate.

The lovely countess.

She knows how to wait,

how to postpone the divine
moment of the first drop of blood.

Pleasure can wait,
there's no hurry.

We've given them opium.

And now they're sleeping. They've
been sleeping for centuries.

It's all ours, all we
have to do is reach out.

We can take our pleasure quickly,
consuming it quickly, like Caesar does,

or we can take it a little at
a time, allowing them to survive

over a long, drawn-out,
exhausting wait,

tormented by desire,
fed by her fear.

What about you?
Aren't you afraid?

No, you're not afraid,
my brave little cock.

But don't worry, fear will come
later, when the pliers will bite you

right there, where
you now want me.

In your country, when a Negro
dares to want a white woman,

isn't this what you do to him?

I don't know who you are,
nor where you come from,

but don't you think the
time I live in is marvelous?

All this lovely flesh is
mine. This body is mine.

I can buy 10, 100, 1,000
of them, if I want to.

Males, females, little
boys, little girls.

I can consume them, corrupt them,

enjoy them, destroy them.

What are you waiting for, idiots?

Come on, help yourselves.

When will you ever have
another chance like this?

In New Orleans such
chances were never lacking.

If a gentleman received an invitation
to visit a friend who lived in the city

while the wife and
children were on vacation,

in addition to good
food and clean linen,

he could expect a comely Negress
to share his bed at night.

A refusal would insult the host.

This was just part of
the rules of hospitality,

for which the Mammy
was responsible.

Get in line.

You, let me see your hands.

Your nails are like a pig's
nails. Go on, get washed up!

You, come here. Let me smell you.

You smell like the goats in the
barn. Go, and wash with ashes.

You, open your mouth and
let me smell your breath.

You smell of garlic. Chew this,
it'll take away the stench of a hog.

You're usually clean. You
hardly smell at all. Good filly.

You, turn around. You haven't
been fucking, have you?

Spread your legs!

Sleeping with a black
slave every night was,

for all the white
males of the house

fathers, sons and guests, a good hygienic
practice, like brushing your teeth.

As a pretext they
said it was healthy.

For the sons, it was supposed
to be a remedy for teenage acne.

And it was good for the husbands,
as the puritanical mores of the times

limited their access
to their wives.

But, aside from
health considerations,

let's find out how these
slave girls were in bed.

Just like the first cigar.

At first there's a horrible
stench, and you feel nauseous.

But by the third
time you're hooked.

Harder on my back,
you know I like it.

Her mother was my first cigar.
I smoked her when I was ten.

I was terrified my father
would catch me in the act.

But when I realized that
my father, too, smoked,

well, I stopped being afraid,
and started to enjoy it.

Perhaps it's that gamy smell they have,
but I like them more than white ones.

If I can catch one, I'll
try to get her into bed.

But where will I find a
white woman around here?

Besides, my father
says it's not worth it.

They smell too, but like corpses.
He says they're bad for your health.

He's been bedding Negresses for 70
years, and he hasn't missed a beat.

He likes them big, especially
in the tit department.

Look at this
merchandise. Not bad, eh?

If you ignore them, you're
playing right into their hand.

You destroy them,
one night at a time.

At my age, it's starting
to get rather trying.

But with the help of divine
providence, and oysters,

I can still hold my own.

Mammy! Mammy! Where are
you, you black whore?

Where are you, Mammy?

- I'm coming, I'm coming.
- Mammy!

What's the matter,
master? Why are you angry?

You idiot. You have the gall to
ask why I'm angry, you asshole!

Did you, or did you not rip me off
by sending this idiot to my room?

Don't talk like that, master.

I've never ripped anyone off.

- She looks like a beautiful lover.
- What do I care at my age for beauty?

This filly is a virgin.

What do you expect me to do with
a virgin at my age, you idiot?

Take her back.

Don't talk like that, master.
Please, don't get mad. Wait.

I'll send you another filly,
one who's been broken in.

You should be ashamed of
yourself, you ugly whore.

When you came here,
were you really a virgin?

Or is the old man too
old to fuck anymore?

Are you really a virgin?

You whore, you whore!

Come in, child. Come on in.

Do you want me, master? I
asked for you. I'm clean.

- I'm also a virgin.
- What are you saying, child?

- How old are you?
- I'm thirteen.

- You're just a child.
- I'm thirteen, Mammy says.

You mean that here, girls like you--
Where I come from we don't do this.

- I'm not from here.
- Do you want this first?

Mammy says that if whites
don't play with the whip first,

they can't get it
up to fuck a woman.

What are you saying?

The stranger is the
journalist Malcolm Fawcett,

and this conversation was excerpted
from his experiences in Louisiana.

It refers to his first night in
Mobile, in the home of Mr. Charleston,

a planter, whose guest
he was for a week.

Please, master,
don't send me away.

- Do me this favor.
- Don't raise your voice.

Mammy will be angry
if I stay a virgin.

- Please,join me.
- What do you mean, right here?

Your bed is so big,
and I am so small.

If I take my dress
off, I don't smell.

You know, I washed my whole body.

I don't smell, master. If
you're tired though, for real,

- I'll let you sleep.
- Sleep. It would be hard now, child.

It would be too bad,
though, master. I like you.

''I wanted to dissuade
her,'' writes Fawcett,

''even though, knowing the custom,
I realized I was being rude.

But when I recommended that she turn to
a young man of her same condition -- ''

You mean with a Negro?
No, I don't like Negroes.

No, Negroes disgust me.
I tried once with a Negro.

He hurt me so
much. He was so big.

You know,

White men are much
smaller, master.

It's much better for
a beginner like me.

White men don't
smell like Negroes.

Do me the favor,

master, please.

Yes, like that, master. Yes.

This awful book from Boston goes on
to spread even more filth. Listen.

''As for the southern
ladies, their famous virtue

is greatly devalued by the fact that
they have no choice in the matter.''

Listen to this. ''How
could they not be virtuous,

since their men would much
rather go with colored girls?''

- I can't believe it.
- ''The truth is that these women

can get no satisfaction from
either husbands or potential lovers,

as these are too often occupied with
the comely slaves on the plantation.''

The horror! How could someone
write such venomous nonsense?

It's all shameless political propaganda.
What do they know of the Negroes,

those pencil pushers from
Boston and Philadelphia?

Nothing. But envy, prejudice and malice
induce them to try to humiliate us

in every way possible.

My God, how could they insult
our husbands like this? Our men?

It's absolutely disgraceful.

Goodness, accusing our men
of fornicating with slaves

is like saying that they're
copulating with animals.

It's nothing less than an
accusation of sexual aberration.

The phenomenon of abnormal
mating between whites and Negroes

has a scientific
name: Bestiality.

- It's disgraceful!
- Lies!

As if we didn't know all too well where
our husbands take their incontinence!

Every Friday night --
but what am I saying?

I'm sorry, my friends, but we shouldn't
speak so clearly in front of them.

Don't worry, my dear. I've
noticed a tendency among our slaves

a general tendency to
develop a lighter skin tone.

As time goes by, they
become lighter and lighter.

But their mentality, intelligence
and sensitivity are those of animals.

It's true, each generation is
lighter than the previous one.

In my house there have been
a few pink Negro babies, even.

My husband says that this
phenomenon is called --

Symbiosis. The scientific term is
symbiosis. Your husband is right.

It's like those creatures that
take on the color of their habitat.

You're right, dear.
Take Scipio, for example.

He's left-handed,
like my brother.

Or takeJason, here.

My husband raised him personally
from when he was a child.

And now, incredibly, he's
almost as blond as my husband.

Nature is truly bizarre.

Here it is, my Negro factory. You
get the general idea down there.

Business was going downhill.
Cotton and tobacco were in crisis.

So I got up my courage and transformed
the plantation into a stud farm.

And I have to say
it's worked out well

because the new law that prohibits
importing Negroes from Africa

has practically doubled
the price of slaves.

- And so, after
everything-- - Hey, Pa!

Mr. Wilson's here!

Hello Mr. Bighorn. I've
brought the Negress.

Here she is. Did you
count the days well?

- Are you completely sure she's in heat?
- Of course she's in heat.

She's perfectly
ready for breeding.

If we give her to the male right
away, he'll certainly go right for her.

Okay.

How many days has it been
since the bleeding stopped?

My wife counted 12. With
the trip, that makes 13.

If you let me breed her right away, I'll
be out of your hair within two hours.

Can I have her, Pa?

We'll talk about that
after the examination.

For now, do your homework.

- Is she healthy?
- Of course.

- She doesn't have crabs?
- What are you saying?

We always kept her at home.

- Oh, so she's a virgin.
- Of course.

You know that we've
been saving her forJason.

What? A virgin for
such a stallion?

He'll rip her innards apart.

If he does, you can sew
her up again. Don't worry.

You know I could breed
this one for at least $50.

And right at home, too.

If I've made 60 Negroes
and paid 200 for it

it's because I likeJason's line.

- Okay.
- Let's go.

You know full well you won't
find another one like this.

Well done! But
that's your business.

Hey stallion! Hey
three-legged stallion!

Hi General.

How's your father's arthritis?

He's been doing much better since
getting Negro compresses on his legs.

You're right, Mr. Bighorn.

Strong wine and dark meat
cure arthritis, nice and neat.

That's right.

But then I'll find myself with
a whole litter with arthritis.

Hey Wilson, look there!

- Where?
- Over there, up ahead, that glass.

Why?

Those journalists always
want us to look in that glass.

Go wait for me in the
barn. I'll be right there.

Okay.

First I have to deal
with these gentlemen.

Bring me some more sugar cane!

They're almost all vintage
'43. A very good year.

I only lost 25%%.

It's usually 40-60%%,
especially from German measles,

which is nothing when it comes to
human blood, but it wipes them out.

Why are there so many blondes?

What you want me to say?

One or another might be mine.
Lots of them are my brother's.

Some are from the priest.

Some are from some guests
who were passing through.

Okay, enough, don't be greedy.

These are the breeding females.

With the new stallions Auze and
Mandico that I bought three years ago,

I've been successful
with 86%% of them.

With an interval between
productions of less than 60 days.

Hey, where are you? Come
over here, look at this one!

The black pearl of the ranch.
Seven sets of twins in six years.

And I'm sure that this time,
too, there are two inside.

This heifer alone
is worth a fortune.

Come in, come on in.
Damn, you're in luck.

Come inside and see how
a little bastard is born.

Fine, isn't he?

He must be six or
seven pounds at least.

You know something? I'm going
to dedicate this one to you guys.

I'm going to call
him ''Macaroni''.

Bravo, Cleopatra. Who's the male?

- Me no know.
- What do mean you don't know?

Me no know.

They breed me first with Pluto,
then with four other males.

Me no know.

It doesn't matter.
You've done a good job.

See what respect the master has?

It's the reward.
One dollar per pup.

Family tradition.

Another beloved
tradition among breeders

is presenting new prized breeds every
year at the big fair in the south

which, like fine horses,
carry the name of their family.

The Bighorn breed, celebrated for
the precociousness of its females

which can be bred
by their 10th year

earned its owner two gold
medals at theJackson fair.

Hey, bring me Poppea.

I said Poppea!

No, you imbeciles.

That one's pregnant. Drop her.

No, that one.

Here in Louisiana, the breeding ratio
is one male to every five females.

But in Virginia,

a great specialist of the
time declares the ideal ratio

to be one male for eight females.

In fact, on this basis Virginia
produced more than 6000 Negroes per year.

It was the Golden Age in which
the great breeding plantations

such as the famous North Carolina planter
were even quoted on the stock market.

Now tell me if it doesn't take
talent to invent a breed like this.

You see, to create a hybrid, the
breeder combines the various races

as an artist does with
the colors of his palette.

A little white here,
a little black there

a pinch of red and
the smidgen of yellow.

Until something comes forth
that's not black, not white,

not red, not yellow.

It's a masterpiece.

Get him!

A slave trying to escape.

No, he's afraid of the branding.

It always happens
with the new stallions.

At the 18th birthday, on
the eve of his first services

the new stallion is branded with
fire with a conventional mark

that prevents mistakes and
confusion in the breeding registry.

- Are you ready, Wilson? Can we go?
- I was waiting for you.

- And the heifer?
- Ready.

Okay then. Bring her along.

Get back!

Fine, Casanova, fine.

These stallions!Just let them
catch the scent of a female!

They have more semen
than four teams of oxen.

Did you know they
offered me $4500 each?

Here he is, our oldest stud.

Two hundred pounds of muscle
and not a single ounce the fat.

And this devil's good for
at least 20 shots a day.

With these tanks!

- Is the heifer ready, Wilson?
- Ready, Mr. Bighorn.

Okay, then, bring her in.

Hey, Wilson. I told you.

Be careful. But
it's your business.

Don't you worry.

I'll take care of it.

That's enough,Jason. Stop!

Get some water. Quick!

''Your honor, my
name is Nat Turner.

I intend to provide you with
a full confession of my crimes.

On August 21 st, 1831,
55 whites were massacred

as a result of my doing
and that of 70 other slaves.

My deep-seated hatred
of the whites was-- ''

''My deep-seated hatred
of the whites was-- ''

Damned idiots!

''Deep-seated hatred came from
God, who ordered me to kill them.''

Let's see, 1831.

If Cleaver, LeroyJones, Malcolm
X, had lived 140 years ago

they too, like Nat Turner, would
have fallen into hating whites

men, women, children who
were there by God's orders.

The slave Cleaver, like the slave Turner,
certainly never would have dared imagine

that the order would come
to them directly from within.

''The evening of August 21 st, we
lined up single file in the cornfield.

We came out right in
front of the Travis house.

The night before, God had
clearly given me the sign

that this would be
our first target.

We knew that inside
was the little Travis,

his wife Sarah,''

Who knows if the whites in those
days were like those of today?

Or rather, who knows
if the whites of today

would have been like those back
then if Nat Turner had never existed?

Would they have allowed
me to attend their schools,

to become a doctor,
to earn $2000 a week,

to have a beautiful house, a
wife, a healthy, well-fed baby?

''Nelson, Sam,Jack, Hark and I silently
climbed in the living room window.

Will, who was bringing up
the rear, took a false step

and tumbled onto the
table that was still set.

I was afraid old
Travis had woken up

since Will kept making
an infernal racket.

Instead, old Travis was
still asleep next to his wife

when Sam and Jack
moved forward on tiptoe.

His sleep was deep and peaceful

as evidenced by that
deep, rhythmic snoring

that I had known
since my childhood.

So Sam and Jack moved forward.

That old man who had
practically raised me

and had been a tolerant
and kindly master

was nevertheless a white
man and, as such, had to die.

Grandpa Travis, like all whites,
had never dreamed that a slave,

a meek creature without
courage or dignity

could ever one day
rebel against a master.

So it was perhaps only disbelief

that dominated his mind still
clouded with sleep, when-- ''

''We were
about-- ''

''We were about to leave the house
when Hark, on the run was called-- ''

''was called back by the cry of the
children whom we had forgotten.''

''After the murder
of the Travis family

our second goal was the
extermination of the Reeses.''

Oh, it's those idiots again.

''After the murder
of the Travis family

our second goal was the
extermination of the Reeses.

Reese was a
dull-witted, cruel master

who amused himself by
tormenting his Negroes...

with every sort of stupid prank.

His wife and sister-in-law, two
dull-witted, insignificant women

encouraged those vapid stunts
with little hysterical-- ''

Buffoon!

''With little hysterical, shrill cries
that pierced the ears like daggers.

It was in front of their house that I
swore to never again disobey God's orders

and to also spill
my share of blood.

I hated Reese

and one day he involved me, too, in
one of his humiliating, vulgar pranks.

I could have refused to rebel.
But how could I, a slave-- ''

''I could have refused to
rebel. But how could I, a slave?

Reese was a dull-witted,
cruel master.''

Nat Turner didn't
kill out of hate.

He killed out of love between
the columns of that big house.

Who knows why, for us Negroes,
this story never loses its value?

Well, Nat Turner, the pious
Nat Turner, biblical fanatic

almost a tutor to little
Margaret, but nevertheless a Negro

and thus not suspected of desiring that
white girl who hung around him all day,

who excited him in a thousand
ways without even realizing it.

Where are you,
Nat? Come here, Nat.

Here's something new.

It's beautiful!

Come on, Nat. Get me that rose.

No, no. Not the silk one!

The bright one, Nat.

There, see! Now here
we are, the two of us.

She and Nat. Almost
in skin contact.

The wind in that blond hair, that
white neck that he desired so badly.

''Hey Nat,'' she
said to me one day

as her closeness and her youthful
scent of lavender made me stiff.

''Nat, why are Negroes
born so wretched?''

''Why, in this warm spring,
are they only fallen flowers?''

Let's take a look.
140 years later.

If I were to fall in
love with that white girl.

In love to the point of not being able
to do any less than what she's doing now.

To want her.

But just because I'm a
Negro, like Nat Turner--

I can just imagine the scene!

Sir, I'm Dr. Nat Turner.

I love your daughter and
I intend to marry her.

Margaret had just returned from
Southampton College for summer vacation

when we decided that the Whitehead
house would be our next target.

We advanced, remaining
hidden in the oak forest

that surrounded the
house on three sides.

When we saw the father so overjoyed
at the arrival of his daughter...

and so absorbed in demonstrating
all his joy as to not notice us--

I was looking for Margaret.

She was hiding behind
a corner of the house.

When I finally saw
her, she ran away...

as light and fast as a
deer, through the cornfield.

I ran after the glint of
that flowing hair in the sun

after the gleam of
that face looking back.

She ran faster than I did.

But I caught up.

I must! I must!

I must kill you!

Because I love you!
Because you're white!

White!

''Your honor, before
condemning me to the gallows

you asked if I felt remorse.

Well, completely at peace and tranquil,
I answer you that if I could go back-- ''

Peace, peace, peace.

I'm a Negro like you,
an ex-slave like you.

But today I've dealt with the whites,
and I'm speaking with their permission.

And this is a police car.

If you think I'm a
traitor, then shoot me.

But first listen to
what I have to say.

Slavery was not our
disgrace. It is our glory.

We must not soil it with revenge.

In every plan that the racist
attempts to search for an alibi

for his evil conscience
towards the Negro

all that's necessary is one broken window
to make him feel absolved ofhis guilt.

When we allow ourselves to bend
before the white man's hatred

we're playing his game.

We're also playing the
game of the white communists

who want to make use of
us to destroy America.

We don't love America,

but neither do we want
to be used to destroy it.

We Negroes must not fall into the
same errors that the whites make.

We must not respond to
their old white racism

with a new black racism.

To the recent events that
have made us understand,

we must respond
peace, peace, peace.

On one side, the north that
wanted to abolish slavery.

On the other, the south
that wanted to keep it.

So the war to liberate slaves
cost America one million dead.

Today, the American public assisting in
the reenactment of the battle of Shiloh

doesn't root for anyone.

They enjoy the show.

Northern and southern
combatants are interchangeable.

It just depends upon
the color of the uniform.

The anonymous slavery society
closed the books a hundred years ago.

And the accounts are balanced.

For every imported
slave, one American death.

The wounded don't count.

Here's one that
ended up in bad shape.

A northern uniform. So he
wanted it this way, right?

Of course. Say cheese!

Today, everyone's smiling,

dead and wounded,
victor and vanquished.

It's wonderful to return home
on this splendid day in May

and to take a nice shower to wash
away all of the dust of the past.

THIS FI LM IS A DOCUMENTARY.

THE EVENTS OCCURRED I N HISTORY
AND THE CHARACTERS REALLY EXISTED.