Original subtitles

The globe has spun around many times

before the probing eye of the motion picture camera.

So many times, in fact, that you may wonder

if there's anything left to discover.

But to the persistently curious,

the world continually reveals new secrets and sights.

As Shakespeare put it, there are more things

in heaven and earth, and between sunset and dawn,

than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

Therefore, Ecco, which means look, witness, observe,

and behold.

We show you a world beyond your most outrageous fantasies.

This is the wall in Berlin,

a city which is still expiating guilt

as frightful as its ruins.

In the wasteland of these blank, desolate walls,

a heroic and useless song loses itself.

A song that seems to guide us towards the secrets

and contradictions of the German circle.

These young men are members of a secret dueling society.

They are college students of the new Germany,

a Germany of pride and accomplishment,

of shame and penance.

A people that gave the world Goethe,

Beethoven, Einstein, and Mozart.

A nation that made lampshades of human skin.

A law has been passed in this new Germany

forbidding the practice of dueling,

but these students band together

in a secret society and defy that law

and practice Mensur.

Mensur, the strange, harsh word the German students

use to designate a duel fought not to kill

but to slash the opponent's face.

The combat has ancient rules.

The face, for example, must remain absolutely immobile

during the duel.

This lucky lad is the happy winner of the contest,

while his opponent, unmarked, must fight again.

Next month, perhaps he will be the lucky holder

of this stupid and unnecessary badge in courage.

There is a time for violence and a time for peace.

To sleep, perchance to dream.

Ah, there's the rub.

These Japanese babies are not allowed

to sleep the sleep of the innocent.

Japanese have, for some time,

pioneered with hypno-pedagogy,

the process of educating one's self

by listening to records while sleeping.

In particular, this process has been very successful

in teaching languages, but now

the Japanese have gone a step further

and carried it into the nursery.

They do not shrink from disturbing the tender dreams

of babyhood with the pounding radio repetition

of exultations to be good, sleep tight,

don't cry, don't wet the bed.

Eat all your baby food, love mummy and daddy,

and do not sink other people's battleships

without first declaring war.

Perhaps those dreams of infancy weren't so tender after all.

One of those little angels may one day

grow up to be a champion of karate.

Karate, the art of the empty hand,

is a deadly style of fighting.

As with many things, the Japanese

learned it from another nation and perfected it.

When their troops landed on the small Pacific island

of Luchow early in the 17th century,

they immediately confiscated all the inhabitants' weapons.

However, they soon learned that the weapons

were of no importance to the islanders

as those peaceful natives were able

to split a skull with a blow from

each of their hands or crush a chest with their fingertips.

The troops quickly made peace

with these all too dangerous foes

and returned to Japan with the secret of karate.

There are 72 blows with the hands

and feet in karate which kill instantly.

The other hundreds of blows are merely

designed to paralyze, maim, or disable one's opponent.

Unlike Judo, this is an offensive, not defensive, weapon.

The secret of these blows which seem

to upset the natural scale of hardness

depends on the driving rapidity

with which they are delivered,

and the rigidity of the joints of the arm

or leg delivering the blows.

These are two inch thick concrete roofing tiles.

In addition, and since we're in the far east,

a great spiritual concentration is essential.

Only a truly extraordinary advance

could cause such excitement at Great Alexandre,

the most famous hairdresser in the world.

These girls are debutantes preparing for the fabulous night

that comes to them but once in a lifetime,

and to most women never.

This splendid occasion is reserved for the privileged few.

Jewels valued at more than two billion francs

are paraded with the grace and nonchalance

seen only in the young, the rich and the proud.

A fairy tale come true.

These girls have gathered in Paris

on New Year's Eve to make their formal entrance

into an adult society of the elegant debutantes ball

in the Paris Opera.

Bearing the proudest names in the Almanach de Gotha,

they have been selected from the major countries

of Europe to make their curtsies in the classic manner,

as if there were still a queen to receive them.

Bowing low before the signs of the ancient noble houses

for whose sons they reserve the jealously guarded gift

of their name, their wealth,

and their fresh purity.

The same night, the same Paris,

the clochard, beggars

and thieves of Paris, rebels against the world,

celebrate in the name of absolute freedom

from their fellow men, from money,

families, and from washing.

Every New Year's Eve they too throw a ball

and have a big night.

It is a very exclusive affair to which gaining admittance

is most difficult.

Tourists, sightseers and our camera

must be satisfied to spy on them

with the crude violence of search lights.

This ball has no dreams and no illusions,

but it is full of hilarity, a cruel,

almost provocative hilarity.

This is another fairy tale come true,

but peopled with witches and demons

rather than princes and princesses.

The circus has come to St. Gotthard,

a small village in the French Alps.

There are no rings, no lights, no tents.

Today, as 100 years ago, the circus

is represented to these remote little villages

by individual families of performers

traveling from town to town,

performing their acts to the wonderment of the villagers.

We give you then in the center ring,

the , presently an incredible prospect,

suspended dangerously on their slender wire

in the snowy dusk of this little French village.

750 pounds suspended on the 1800 foot length

of one inch cable with only the sky above

and the cold hard ground below.

Millions of years ago, the waters withdrew

from this land that later became Greece,

leaving mysterious giant stone fingers upon the plane

pointed toward heaven.

When barbarian tribes overwhelmed this land,

looting its treasures, burning the beautiful cities

of Rome and Constantinople, destroying the very roots

of civilization, holy priests climbed these forbidding rocks

to hide the great libraries there,

to save for prosperity the accumulated wisdom

of centuries.

Later others climbed up, men to whom the presence

of God could only be made manifest

in places most severely isolated

from the rest of the world.

Thus began the first monasteries.

These inaccessible rocks are called

meteors,

and at sunset they present a truly unearthly lunar aspect.

In caves halfway between the plane

and the monasteries, a few hermits live

abjuring the world with the same resolute passion

that drove the anchorites of early Christian times

into the desert.

This young priest is on his way

to enter one of the monasteries.

He will spend his life there in reverent contemplation,

caring for the precious libraries of the past.

The founders gave exalted names to these monasteries.

The monastery of transfiguration.

The monastery of quietude.

But how does one reach transfiguration?

How arrive at quietude?

There are no roads and the divine fisherman

receives into his net only those few

who are elect of God.

No priest comes down in this net.

When he takes his vows, he contracts with God

to remain in this place forever.

Not even his bones rejoin the world below,

but rest eternally in quiet communion

with those who went before him.

Dunsmore, a park and castle only a few miles from London.

Voltaire wrote there are no more witches

since we stopped burning them.

He was wrong.

In England today there are more

than 500 registered organizations

that practice black magic to subdue the forces

of life and reveal their mysteries.

The people gathering here are from the shops,

the offices, and even the mansions of London.

Clerks, carpenters and countesses with a mutual bond.

They sincerely believe in the existence

and the power of the supreme spirit of evil, Satan.

They believe so completely and unquestioningly

that they were afraid to allow our cameras

inside their church.

Since we were non-believers, they were convinced

that we would instantly be struck down

by the forces of evil which they were

about to call into attendance.

We can only peer through the gratings

of the windows and the skylight on the roof

to spy on this demoniac initiation.

All this in a castle only a few miles from London.

Even 30, parts of the ritual were omitted

because of our presence.

Since the practice of witchcraft in England

is subject to government control,

the modern black mass is a pale symbolic version

of the original atrocious rights.

The mistress of ceremonies, in black,

is a licensed practitioner of witchcraft.

- I summon, stir, and call thee up,

ye mighty ones of the north.

100 years ago in this same house,

the elect would have bought the devil's favor

by sacrificing a young virgin.

First hallowing her with sacred oil

before an inverted crucifix,

they would have slashed open her throat

and her breasts.

As her life drained slowly away,

they would have danced around her body

and each male disciple in turn

would perform a final abomination on her purity.

Today, all of this has been stopped.

The only blood comes from a beheaded chicken

held dripping over the girl's body

and the only form of assault permitted

is to lay hands symbolically on the sacrifice.

Mephistopheles is served by gesture only

in the 20th centuries so highly enlightened society.

The benediction of the towering Christ

high up on the Corcovado

seems to bless the entire fantastic bay

of Rio De Janeiro.

This extraordinary city lives and vibrates

with a rhythm which is in the air,

in the rippling colors of the pavement,

in the supple movement of its inhabitants.

A rhythm which accompanies the Brazilian

like a steady theme from his first to his last step.

A rhythm of samba which can be found

even in the formidable, yet graceful dribbling of Pele,

the pride of Brazil.

Pele, the greatest individual soccer player

in the history of the game.

A player whose speed, rhythm and magic feet

have been protected by law

as if they were the most priceless of masterpieces.

Brazil has passed a statute forbidding him

to play soccer for any other nation.

From the slums and the hills, singing natives

descend toward Rio Grande for Copacabana.

They are intoxicated with joy, free and happy,

an intoxication which lasts for the four delirious days

of the mardi gras in Rio.

In Europe, the mardi gras began to decline

after the 18th century, but the natives

of Rio seem to have stopped it in its moment

of glory and taken it for themselves.

They dress up in wigs, faces, silks, crinolines,

enraptured by the elaborate elegance

of the most sophisticated century in European history.

Invoking all the gods of pleasure

for their four frantic days,

until the somber curtain of Ash Wednesday

falls across their head.

All too soon, the revelry comes to an end

and it is a time for holy devotion.

A nightclub in Nairobi offers

to American and European tourists

the tribal dance of the Samburu

in its native and authentic form.

These are not native girls of the bush,

but show girls giving their three a night performances

just like those in Paris, London, and Las Vegas.

Well-educated, sophisticated, big city women,

they will finish their show on their high heels

and braziers and sheathed dresses and girdles,

and in a few moments they will be enjoying themselves

in their own nightclub around the corner.

Performing the tribal dances of the new Nairobi

in their native and authentic form.

700 miles from Nairobi, we enter the very heart of Africa.

The Africa of the great white hunter.

The elephant, the lion.

An Africa so fierce that only the most intrepid hunters

dare to safari through this area.

That is, until some enterprising business man

built the Treetops Hotel.

This is the home of the 20th century safari.

The safari of air conditioning

and very dry martinis.

The idea here is to spend an evening

surprising the animals at liberty,

to experience without too many risks the thrill

of hearing them roar a few feet beyond the veranda.

The sound of gunshots has never been heard

by the animals in the reserve,

which surrounds this luxury hotel

of overstuffed hunters sitting in chairs

of the same style.

It was here in the remote jungle

that the young princess Elizabeth

became queen of England.

When the news came that the king, her father, had died,

a Kakuyu Chieftain was the first official

to invest the young woman with her regal titles.

Another exhibition of nature in the raw.

In Reno, Nevada, a town not altogether unknown

for gambling and divorces, we find the ex-housewife's answer

to burlesque.

They're extremely fragile, these muscle boys.

It is a well known fact that their calling

is one of austerity and discipline.

For example, always bending in the same way,

the same arm, the same finger, hour upon hour,

day after day.

These castles of enormous biceps,

built up through years of constant exercise,

will go to pieces unless certain strict conditions

are observed, a balanced diet, plenty of rest,

early hours, no alcohol, no tobacco,

or for that matter, anything else.

''It's hard to see''

''I live my life without love''

''The romance ends when the balcony bends''

''I'm an iron girl in a velvet glove''

''I need a man''

In a men's bar in San Francisco,

we learn that brute strength and bulging biceps

are not the exclusive monopoly of the male.

''I've done it again''

''Look, no fingers''

''Though I like to kiss and cuddle''

''I think twice before I struggle''

''What a dreadful situation to be in''

''Must admit to the varying races''

'''Cause if I should slap their faces''

''Richard or Joe, I must go slow''

''Be cool, sophisticated''

''Mr. Six foot three, no good to me''

''With his shoulder dislocated''

''When the tire goes flat on a moonlight hill''

''He should have a spare but has he?''

''I'm used as a jack instead of a Jill''

''I had to lift the chassis''

''If I am hunted for my fur''

''Maybe I'll howl and maybe I'll purr''

''Just an iron girl in a velvet glove''

Where Europe ends and the ocean begins,

we find Portugal, a tranquil almost forgotten land.

The song of Portugal is called the Fado

which means fate.

It is the music of Saudade,

the indefinable Portuguese melancholy

borne mainly from their abandon to a destiny

which must be fulfilled but which may long grow void.

Their destiny is generally met on the sea,

dark, prodigious force, loved and feared,

from which these people live and often die.

It was still night when the first fishermen

set out in search of whales.

The only weapons, courage and handheld harpoons.

This small village off the coast of Portugal

is the last place in the world

where whales are hunted by hand in small rowboats.

No harpoon guns, or harpoons with explosive heads are used.

These Portuguese hunt the whales

in the rank and sometimes foolhardy manner of times past.

60 feet of length and 15 tons of blind fury,

a blow from the beast's tail

sufficient to destroy both boat and fishermen.

The struggle with these monsters of the deep

is bloody, uncertain and fierce.

Almost a savage greeter of the sea,

whose arena is the infinite

and whose only spectator is God.

Throughout the world, whale hunting

is a lucrative profit making business.

Each whale represents many dollars,

but to these simple people, the whale

is not an asset in a ledger book. but a communal way of life.

The entire village will share in the catch.

The blubber will make oil for the lamps,

fat for the cooking, soap for bathing.

The tongue, the liver and the steaks

will feed the villagers for many days.

The skin and bones will make furniture,

boots, tools, and jewelry.

In the final accounting, the only profit will be survival.

Sweden, a land without the warmth of Portugal.

Cold, somber, but prosperous.

I You know that the rose would die I

I If the summer sky were through the sun I

Swedish teddy boys are called raggare.

Toward evening, the main street in Stockholm

is filled with automobiles blinking their lights,

the accepted signal for girls looking for a pick up.

''You know that for me to live''

''All the love you give must be mine alone''

''For you are the sun to me''

''And I have to be close to you''

''You know that if we should part''

''How my aching heart like the rose would die''

''Don't go''

''There can never be someone else for me''

''If you go...''

''I'm gonna sing my song''

''It won't take long''

''We're gonna do the twist and it goes like this''

''Come on, let's twist again''

''Like we did last summer, yeah''

''Let's twist again''

''Like we did last year''

''Let's twist again''

''Twisting time is here''

''Around and round and up and down we go again''

''Oh baby, make me numb, you love me so again''

''Twist again like we did last summer''

''Who's that flying up there''

''Is it a bird?''

''Twist again, like we did last summer''

''Come on, let's twist again like we did last year''

''Do you remember when things were really humming''

''Come on, let's twist again''

''Twisting time is here''

''Around and round and up and down we go again''

Sweden, a land virtually without problems

by western standards, without political conflict

or organized crime, enjoying the highest living standard

known to man.

Why, then, does it have the highest teenage alcoholism

and suicide rates in the western world?

Violent without reason, reckless without enthusiasm,

sensual without want.

The life of the raggare has no promise.

Why, in a country immersed in a prosperity

that might be considered opulent,

does there exist a ferment of rebellion

so blind and senseless?

Perhaps it sits everything in this world

must be paid for.

The tranquility of the greater number

must be fatally compensated by the anguish of a few.

There is a somber shadow of despair

in the faces of these youngsters,

the most frightening kind of despair,

that which derides everything, even human pity.

This is Osaka, Japan.

A modern city in the center of one

of the most powerful industrial areas in the world.

We have been attracted here by an unusual night

that has survived, mysterious and ancient,

among the neon and smokestacks.

It is February the 13th by the lunar calendar

and as it has on this date every year

for over five centuries, the festival of Saidachi

is about to begin.

Observe these views with a purpose.

On this night, a dozen or more of these boys will die,

crushed and trampled to death by their friends.

The boys are dividing into teams

with one man as the captain.

For centuries these boys have had here a yearly appointment

with luck.

This is Saidachi.

The ritual stick is thrown into the fray

of naked bodies and the boy who retrieves it

and returns it to the priest

will be blessed with a year of good luck,

and happiness which he will share

with his teammates.

The water is thrown to wet the bodies

in order to reduce friction

and enable the human snarl to move more easily.

This struggle is blind and ruthless.

The entanglement of bodies so unrestrained

that the mass seems transformed

into one huge monster with a thousand tentacles.

The steam rising from the bodies

actually fogs our camera lens.

Oriental religions often speak their own cruel,

obscure language of symbols.

We must not ask to understand.

Let us be content to imagine that this struggle

is a mirror of life.

This is a historical document, the final performance

of the Grand Guignol theater, a famous Parisian shrine

for fans of blood and horror.

The farewell performance in this tiny macabre theater,

built inside an old abandoned church,

is dedicated to Monsieur.

Certainly there is no performer

better qualified to ring down the curtain for

Has been the featured actor in this theater

of mutilation for the past 25 years.

He has given literally thousands of performances

dedicated to the realistic display of sadism and violence.

Here, for more than half a century

while blood spurted in cascades

from decapitated heads and hacked corpses,

the more sensitive members of the audience

fainted right and left.

The galleries were packed and the money flowed in.

Then World War II rolled over Europe

and showed people a bloodier truth

than the Grand Guignol could produce.

True fans grew rarer and rarer.

We've been beaten by reality, the master told us.

We just could not compete with today's violent society.

Fortunately, Parisians lovingly

cultivate far different interests.

An association has been formed in France

for the cult of rotundities,

which have always exercised a particular fascination

for French artists.

It is the illustrious confraternity

of the touch fest, touch buttocks.

The grand chancellor is the songwriter Léo Campion

and the membership contains many

celebrated names, artists, writers, actors

such as Michel Simon, Jack ,

Pierre.

The confraternity holds its meetings

at the , a restaurant in Montmartre.

It has ambassadors all over the world,

posts in the United States and Canada

are presently vacant.

Anyone may be admitted.

The new member being initiated here

must prove that he can distinguish by touch

which of these two rotundities is male.

Both rotundities are female,

but losing will not be held against him

and he will still be allowed

to take the oath of membership.

After all, these are friendly gatherings

devoted to satire and good fun,

and it would be unkind and un—French

to deny anyone the pleasures of touch fest

which boasts typically gallic and youthful boisterous

good nature and retains a healthy fundamental innocence.

They eat, drink, and laugh heartily,

and once a year elect their queen.

Here on the other hand is the Paris

that works all night.

Not the laborers of love in the

But the workers in ,

the enormous old city market in the belly of Paris

dear to.

This huge market has existed virtually without change

for centuries.

The screaming harangue of the merchants never ceases.

All night, every night, and into the morning

they shout the praises of their wares.

Buy here.

Too high, not fresh, too green, too hard, too soft.

Buy here.

All the gastric rumblings of the gallic national stomach.

Virtually every edible item consumed

in the whole of France, regardless of its origin

or destination passes through this one huge market.

The work of feeding the French

never ceases, or almost never ceases.

Like his American counterpart,

the French worker must have his coffee break.

In the fine French tradition, this coffee break

becomes the cognac break with just a little something extra.

Unlike the Americans, the little something is not a donut.

In Europe, women are still considered the fairer sex,

to be pampered and protected, but in Los Angeles,

California, at the roller derby,

we view femininity in quite another light.

The rules to this ladylike sport

are really quite simple.

Everything and anything goes.

Back in Paris, a far more serious group

gathers to watch a demonstration

prepared specifically for the cynical press

and medical society of the great city.

This is Ivan Ivar, a Frenchmen who does not

want to be considered a fakir or faker.

My name is Ivan Ivar.

I declare that the psyche can completely

dominate the physical body.

Since I decided to transmit this message

to the world, I have become the apostle of the will.

The will is all powerful and I am the living proof of this.

The rapier, after passing through the grand oblique muscle

of the abdomen

penetrates close to the liver.

It is now grazing the colon

and will come out after passing through the base

of the dorsal muscle.

The mysterious power is extended

to his capillary blood vessels which he

can cause to contract so that lacerations

of his flesh will not bleed.

Now the complete perforation

of the frontal area of the throat.

First, I avoid the external right jugular vein.

Next, I must bypass the right carotid.

Then I come to the larynx, which I must also clear

because of the rigidity of its material.

I have reached the second carotid,

which I must absolutely avoid on pain of death.

After the second carotid, which I have bypassed,

thus avoiding all danger,

I find the second external jugular vein.

The point is about to issue beneath the maxillary muscle.

Beyond the arctic circle in Lapland,

the summer sun shines for weeks, night and day.

It is during this long day that the reindeer

are driven from the trackless wastes

and crags of this frozen volcanic land

and herded into the yearly round up.

There as in the great cattle drives

of the old American west, the reindeer

will be divided among their oldest.

Some will be killed and skinned.

Others will be branded and castrated.

As with cattle, this castration

creates steers which produce the fatter,

more tender cut of meat.

Following an old tradition, this operation

will be performed by the women.

The round up is a rendezvous for nomadic tribes,

a market for the rollicking festival

during which young Laplanders choose their brides.

All year, these young men have watched,

weighed and considered, before picking their brides.

And now, with the casting of a lasso,

the marriage ceremony is completed.

There's no more to be done.

In the eyes of the elders, the knot has been tied.

With the sinless serenity of the forces of nature,

the vital energies of these people explode

after being too long numbed by the ice

of their endless winter.

Paris, you city which cannot sleep at night.

Paris, all your lights bore me.

It is in your streets that my heart was opened to joy.

Though you scorn me, revile me, torment me,

I cannot leave.

Paris, you have broken my heart.

Regrets and melancholy, bitterness and rancor

for the Seductions and cruel disillusionments

of the great metropolis.

This is the reproach

Sings to her city.

These gauchos of Argentina are viewing

with rapture a far more natural performance.

Maria Soriano.

The most popular singing star in Argentina.

A dainty, almost ethereal essence of femininity.

As he races through the morning without realizing it,

the boy's carrying a life which will

spring anonymous and unnatural from a test tube.

The last act of an artificial insemination

is about to be carried out.

Today, there are many thousands

of test tube children in the world.

Exeter, England is perhaps the most famous center

for this type of operation.

For reasons more closely bound to the mystery

which has surrounded the act of reproduction

through the ages than to authentic scientific necessity,

the operation is preferably performed

at the first light of dawn.

Although the identity of the donor

is kept entirely secret, a fantastic amount

of research goes into determining the proper genetic match.

The woman's husband has been duplicated

in the donor as completely as possible.

His national background, his height, weight,

coloring of eyes and hair, educational background.

All known characteristics have been considered

so that genetically, the scientific union

will be as close to the natural union

of husband and wife as medicine is able to bring it.

Some women are unable to reconcile themselves

to the renunciation of motherhood,

but there is a sense of sadness, almost of horror

connected with this operation,

so that one understands the prudent decision

which virtually prohibits artificial insemination

in many countries.

Women in Rome from whom the blessing

of motherhood has been withheld

turn to a very different source for help.

An old Roman tradition holds

that the miraculous bambino

in the church of the ,

a jewel encrusted statue of the child Jesus,

will grant the precious gift of maternity

to women who climb the steep stairway

to the church on their knees.

Someday, the child this woman prays to bear

may ask her how am I to understand the world?

Hopefully she will say to him ecco,

look about you.

Ecco, observe the passions of men

and examine their dreams.

Watch for ugliness.

It exists in greater variety than you want to imagine.

Witness the power of will over flesh.

See all you can see of nature, grace,

hope and beauty.

Ecco, behold the faith that lifts some men to mountaintops,

and the pride that drives others to destruction.

For there are more things in heaven and earth,

and between sunset and dawn,

than are dreamt of in our philosophy.