All language subtitles for Addio zio Tom.ENG

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

just in from Memphis, Tennessee.

Today, April 4 [1968], 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't just 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 Leroy Jones 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,

Leroy Jones, 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 227, 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, Leroy Jones, 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.

Leroy Jones, 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 Leroy Jones,

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 President Jackson
and President Jefferson.

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 the Jesuits
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,

the Jesuits 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 of Joshua.

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 me 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 like Judas.
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 day Jackson 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 use Jefferson'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 27th 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 take Jason, 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
for Jason.

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 like Jason'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 the Jackson 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 21st, 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, Leroy Jones, 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 21st,
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 of his 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 FILM IS A DOCUMENTARY.

THE EVENTS OCCURRED IN HISTORY
AND THE CHARACTERS REALLY EXISTED.