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One man's poison
is yet another man's meat.

These words, first written by
an unknown 19th century poet,

ably reflect the mood of the
film you are about to see.

You will indulge yourselves
in a forbidden experience.

To the artist, a nude woman
is but a tool of his trade,

but to the average businessman,
a forbidden delicacy.

To the sexologist,
pornography may be a study

of mankind, but to the novice,

a forbidden treasure of filth.

To the sexual deviant,
rape may be a necessity,

while to the timid man,

a forbidden dream of concealed lust.

This is Los Angeles, California, a city

whose population explosion has caused

numerous unsolvable problems;
smog, overcrowded freeways,

and a shocking increase in
sex crimes to name only a few.

Newspapers constantly remind
us of the pending dangers

that lurk in this gigantic metropolis.

No one is safe.

The lush female or
escort, the grandmother,

even the infant fall prey

to unbalanced minds of sexual attackers.

Recently, however, an
organization was formed

to take action against
this growing menace.

They advertise their services
in a most unusual manner.

You are now watching a motion picture

within a motion picture.

The footage you are now seeing was

actually produced some months ago

and was never intended
for theatrical release.

It was obtained by our production unit

by somewhat devious
means so that the world

could see what we feel to be one

of the sickest commercial
advertising campaigns

ever perpetrated upon the American public.

It is not a nudie movie,
nor is it a filmed commercial

for sexy, black-waist underwear.

It is in fact a commercial designed

to shock women into the reality
that any unguarded female

is at all times subject to sexual attack.

Prior to our obtaining
this footage for our film,

this picture was shown only
to private women's clubs

in the Southern California area.

Due to the nudity displayed
by these actresses,

men were forbidden to
attend these performances.

Only in Los Angeles, the city
Madison Avenue has tagged

as the wildest, most
difficult market in the world,

only in Los Angeles would a business stoop

to advertise or literally
exploit the rapist for money.

This film is actually a commercial

for a school for karate.

The message it brings
to its female audiences

is to be prepared, and through a knowledge

of the deadly art of karate,
a woman can defend herself

against even the boldest
of sexual attackers.

This school is called the Nakamuri School

for Sexual Defense.

We interviewed the owner of the school,

Miss Naomi Nakamuri.

Miss Nakamuri, can you tell us a little

about the film we're now watching please.

It shows a rapist

who attacks these two young girls.

It was quite simply made and we
meant to shock the audience

into the realization that
no one, not even a woman

in her own home, can be safe from attack.

And do you really think

the film shocks the audience?

Yes.

Miss Nakamuri,
was the nudity in this film,

in your opinion, absolutely necessary?

There is quite a bit
of nudity, isn't there?

Yes, but the film
is shown only to women,

and I think the nudity does
provide a sense of realism.

Did you
produce this film yourself?

Well, the film was produced

by an amateur producer at my instruction.

How much did the picture cost?

$7,000.

And do you feel
that it has been successful?

Well, for years, my husband

and I had one karate
school on Sunset Boulevard.

After he died, I decided to expand.

I changed the name of the school

to a School for Sexual Defense.

Automatically, business increased.

We then started showing
this film to women's groups,

and an overwhelming number of the members

at each showing signed up for the school.

Now, we operate 14 of them
in Southern California alone.

And I suppose all

the 14 are equally as successful.

Equally.

Thank you very much.

The raw naturalism

in which this film illustrates
a sexual attack has

indeed shocked feminine audiences
into a stunned awareness

of their helpless, unprotected,
unprepared situation.

Although this film might
appear amateurishly made,

it is one of the finest examples

of slickly subtle persuasion.

Its crude appearance has been calculated

to heighten its documentary effectiveness.

Its message is almost laughably simple.

A sexual deviant lurks in the dark

with his sweaty speculation,

waiting for only one unguarded moment.

If you are not prepared,
this is what can happen.

The big pitch reaches the audience

after the gruesome
climax with these words.

These women were lucky.

They did not have to be prepared

to ward off this sexual attacker.

It was only a dream, or was it?

This is Naomi Nakamuri,
the 24-year-old president

of the self defense chain.

With her is Brenda
Farragut, the young wife

of one of Hollywood's most
powerful film magnates.

Brenda is here for her
private lesson with Naomi,

for which she pays $50
for one hour's tutorage.

Naomi weighs only 97 pounds,
and Brenda is a slim 112.

These two girls represent
the essence of femininity,

and yet Naomi and her
star pupil are capable

of killing a man 73 different ways.

These are two of Naomi's
more than 40 male instructors

which she personally tutors.

All of them are young.

All are handsome, and quite

by coincidence, all are unmarried.

Their hands are considered lethal weapons,

and if these women were to
themselves attack someone,

they would be prosecuted as if
they had fired a loaded gun.

Her pupils learn through
real-life situations

involving simulated sexual attacks.

It is hoped that the only time any

of these students will be
molested will be in the classroom,

but if that is not to be the
case, they will be ready.

You are about to witness one
of the most bizarre examples

of a parasite you will ever see.

This club is one of a new breed

of sensual relaxation
spas specifically geared

for our Space Age.

It is a portable topless
bar designed to be broken down

within moments so that it may
be moved from place to place.

Tagged as a floating club,
its portability is necessary

because of its clientele.

They are the men and women who work

on the new space projects
and building sites located

in the far-off, desolate
regions of the United States.

At this moment, the
floating bar is located

on the fringe of a desert

in the southwestern part of America.

Except for this construction
site, there is nothing

but sand and rugged
mountains in any direction

for the next 100 miles.

The road project is deserted now.

The work has been finished for the day.

The machinery sits idle.

Less than two miles away,
the workers now sit jammed

into the tiny floating club.

The idea for the floating
bar is the brainchild

of 32-year-old George Rodman
of San Antonio, Texas.

For years, the burly Westerner had worked

on crews like this, separated
from family and civilization.

During that time, because
of the loneliness he felt,

he gave birth to the floating club.

If the men could not come
to the entertainment,

then George Rodman would bring
the entertainment to them.

The idea was a smashing success,

and before the first year was out,

George Rodman had four
clubs working the year round

and was grossing over $200,000 annually.

Their entourage is
small, usually consisting

of two or three
Lolita-like Watusi dancers,

a scrawny combo, and several haggard,

overworked people who
toil behind the makeshift bar

or over the relentlessly
whirling glass-washing machine.

This is a fast volume,

give it to them simple, type of business.

There is no pretension to subtlety here,

no seductive lighting,
no soft-spoken waiters,

no violins, only beer, tired
people, and raw whiskey.

♪ She won't be back ♪

George relentlessly moves his clubs

from state to state in an area

where local authority is
flexible or he is able

to buy off the local police force.

His dancers perform
completely in the nude.

In other states where the
laws are more stringent,

they appear topless.

In still other parts,
such as the Southwest,

where this club is now
located, the local authority is

so strong that the girls
must appear fully clothed.

The clubs breeze in on the wind,

snatching business while it's hot.

Then, as the crowds begin to dwindle,

they pack their trailers
and roll up their tents,

and like the shifting sand,
disappear without a trace.

But trailing close behind

at a safe distance are the
prostitutes and muggers

who leech a perverted dollar
from George Rodman's clubs.

These parasites camp in deserted shacks

or park in automobiles
along the road, leading

directly to, but just beyond the sight

of, the portable clubs.

With promises of satisfaction,
they lure the aroused

and drunken workers into
their makeshift quarters.

Then, slipping them a drugged drink,

the muggers rob the laborers

and then dump them
unconscious onto the road.

Like their sisters,
the black widow spider,

these insects then change their location

and lie in wait for their next victim.

Ironically, these whorish
women are cut off,

isolated by their parasitic game.

In a kind of bitter, twisted justice,

they have only themselves
to turn to in order

to eke out some meager
scrap of satisfaction.

♪ Someone to talk to ♪

♪ Someone to tell my troubles to ♪

And so it continues.

The ingenious floating topless
bars following the lonely men.

Giving them profitable,
but worthwhile service.

Only to have themselves in turn,

plagued by an infected parasite
that lurks in the shadows

not far behind.

Paris at night, Paris after the rain.

How different is the capital of love

from the outpost we've just visited.

Yet it is from Paris, from the
romantic Pigalle district,

that George Rodmand found the first model

for his floating topless clubs.

Stationed in Paris during the liberation,

Rodmand met, fell in love
with, and married

a dancer from this night spot,

who later became his first tap dancer.

In these clubs, the most
beautiful women in the world

perform before the wealthy

in sumptuously appointed atmospheres.

It is not unusual for the
dancers to wear costumes

which cost $500 or more to create.

The best lighting designers in Europe

take great care in presenting
each of the painstakingly

developed acts in the
most caressing manner.

And each entertainer, more than likely,

is backed up by an orchestra
of at least 12 pieces.

The acts here in the
Pigalle are truly topless

and leave nothing to be desired.

Either in the excellence of the dance,

or in the uncovering of the sensuous lines

of the female body.

Indeed, the clubs in Pigalle are so plush,

they often scare American tourists away,

for fear that they would be fleeced

to their last dollar in one of them.

Yet, the admission to this
club is only 50 cents.

In George Rodman's floating bars,

the worker's pay $2.50.

Drinks in this beautifully
appointed night spot

cost 35 cents on the average.

And the portable club, a
dollar and a half for beer.

$2.00 for mixed drinks.

Believe it or not, the average customer

in George Rodman's bars,

can save enough for a first
class air ticket to Paris

in less than a year from
the difference he is paying.

People flock like lambs to the slaughter

in George Rodman's bars,
simply because it looks cheaper

and in the end, they miss
something of real value,

simply because they are afraid.

An irony of life exposed.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

This line spoken by a player
in Shakespeare's comedy,

the Taming of the Shrew,

is a classic in describing
the wrath a woman can present

when she has been jilted by her lover.

We now take our cameras
to Stockholm, Sweden,

for the recreating of
one of the most macabre

cases of jealousy in the
annals of modern criminology.

Well Francoise, you're a free woman now.

You're such a hypocrite.

You're the one who wanted to be free.

What do you intend to do now?

I will try to go back
to work and to forget.

Look.

If you have any problems
of any kind, just call.

Oh, we've had enough
problems don't you think?

You haven't been a lot of
help in solving them to now.

Are you still seeing that girl?

To suffer to be beautiful.

To suffer because one no longer is,

a woman growing old, abandoned,

provides the most anguishing and pitiful

of spectacles known to life.

What is she going to do?

Kill him?

Kill them both?

Kill herself?

A man would choose a gun.

The third woman,

classic eternal triangle.

The stage is set.

The curtain has risen.

On this woman, depends
the outcome of the play.

To what lengths will her
fevered imagination drive her?

Jealousy.

As the dictionary defines
it, unpleasant fear,

suspicion of the faithfulness
of a husband, wife, or lover.

Only those persons who
avoid causing jealousy

are worthy of inspiring it.

Professional jealousy,
rivalry between persons

in the same profession.

Jealousy, uneasiness caused
others by a prince's power.

A jealousy, a garden flower.

The common crowned lickness.

Jealousy, term used in construction.

A wooden or iron trellis,
through which one can see

without being seen.

Jealousy water, holy water
which was given to a woman

suspected of infidelity.

Certain words were
pronounced as it was drunk,

causing if the suspicions were grounded,

the death of the adulteress.

Theater, The Jealousy of the Barbouillé,

a comedy attributed to Molière.

Jealous, zealously devoted
to, strongly attached to.

Hounded by jealousy,

this pathetic woman,
resolved a tragic situation

in the simplest way possible.

In the only way she knew how.

Brussels, the city of
the 1958 world's fair.

Here in the heart of Europe's
most fertile farm country,

it is difficult to believe
that it is also the home

of some of the continents
most erotic nightclub acts.

Because Brussels is within
driving distance of Paris,

it has become a city
where the mademoiselles

of Pigalle audition
and nurture their acts,

prior to opening in Paris.

Today, Brussels is to Paris,

what Boston and Philadelphia
is to our Broadway.

The citizens of this tiny European country

have grown wealthy from their holdings

in the Belgian Congo.

There is very little poverty.

The people have little to worry about.

If something they want is against the law,

they merely find new
ways to make it legal.

On the streets, one can find
mile after mile of shops

that specialize in imported
goods from red China.

Discretely marked, made in Hong Kong.

Row upon row of hardcore pornography

is sold on bookshelves under
the name of High Styled Art.

And so strip acts such as these,

are performed under the guise
of artists models exhibitions.

Geneva, Switzerland,
home of the banking world

and symbol of peace and prosperity.

Yet it is here that we take you

into a private lesbian club.

This and other clubs of similar motivation

have much room to cross this
tiny country in recent years

to the consternation of both her police

and her sociologists.

For several centuries,
Switzerland has enjoyed

the benefits of neutrality.

While other nations have
fought wars or tangled

themselves within the ties of destiny,

she has gone on her peaceful way.

But the easy life has also become boring.

Suicide has sky rocketed,

divorce becomes commonplace,

where people having grown
tired of the ordinary

forms of enjoyment, have
turned to clubs like this one

in order to find relief
from their bland existence.

All of the applicants to the club,

are carefully screened
as to their willingness

and qualifications.

Only the most dedicated and
worthy of the applicants

reach the point you are now
witnessing, the initiation.

They must have a history
of at least five years

of full lesbian existence
and must be able to prove it.

But after the intense screening
the applicant receives,

they profit fully from the
unusual fringe benefits

that the clubs provide.

For instance, the club
performs marriage ceremonies

and even reluctant divorce
actions between members.

They also arrange for adoption of children

for the more worthy of their members.

And they have their own credit union

which finances their brethren
in business ventures.

These are the clubs newest pledges.

For the first time in the
history of the twilight world

of the sexual deviant,
a motion picture company

was given permission to
film this perverted ritual.

These two girls have never
met prior to the initiation.

During this ceremony, they
will perform a lesbian

exhibition before the other members.

On their ability to convince
the fellow membership

of their lesbian tendencies lies the fate

of their own membership.

It is interesting that both
of the girls you are watching

turned out to be femmes.

That is girl halves of the
lesbian man-woman relationship.

Which added an unusual flavor
to the initiation ceremony.

Prior to this performance,
we were able to interview

one of these girls.

Tell me does the fact that you are about

to perform a sex act in
front of a group of people,

does it bother or
embarrass you in any way?

In a way I guess it does.

But that sort of adds to
the excitement of it all.

I think there are many people
who might like to do this.

But I think so much about
what other people think.

If you don't care about other people,

you enjoy life more.

Have you ever
had relations with a man?

Oh, yes.

But men don't really
know how to love a woman.

A woman knows how to excite another woman

because she herself has the same feelings.

I'm sure it's the same
thing between two men.

In our club, anything goes.

Whatever pleases you, you do.

No one ever tries to stop
you or hold you back.

It's true freedom.

In America, well in
America there's no freedom.

But in Switzerland, the individual can do

anything he wishes, as long
as he harms no one else.

My making love in front of
an audience will harm no one.

And if my performance is interesting,

it may even do them a lot of good.

Our cameramen
however, were asked to leave

immediately after the ceremony.

The club's president was most polite

and considerate in her motives.

We were told that after they
went through the initiation,

the girls would be officially
welcomed into the club

as new members by being
hosted to a delicious orgy.

Is Los Angeles, California,
the sunset strip

is peaceful this Sunday morning.

The aftermath of a terrifying night.

Once this glittering
street that winds through

two and a half miles of
America's most expensive

real estate, was a meeting
place of movie stars,

politicians and business tycoons.

World famous
restaurants and night clubs

such as Ciro's, the Crescendo,
and the Plymouth Palace

were crammed with tourists and natives

who hoped to catch a
glimpse of Cary Cooper,

Marilyn Monroe, or even Clark Gable.

These names, these places are now gone.

They have been replaced
by the long-haired,

the unwashed, the rebellious.

This building was once the Los Angeles

conservatory of music.

It is now

the Whiskey A Go Go.

This used to be an exclusive night spot

called the Golden Violin,

where diners were
serenaded by soft violins.

It has now been changed by the same owner

into the Galaxy, an 18
and over Watusi Palace.

The sunset strip is filled
with names like the Door,

Iron Butterfly, Loving Spoonful,
and Smokestack Lightning.

♪ Now if you don't have a guy ♪

Here, a camera pauses on the...

It started innocently enough.

Teenagers met, necking in public,

oblivious to their surroundings.

Soon however, they began to get restless.

The 10 o'clock curfew was approaching.

They did not want to go home.

After all, it was Saturday night.

What did it matter if they were only 13?

A few at first, began
moving restlessly about

in the heat-drenched night.

They were looking for something to do.

The action.

10 o'clock came, 10 o'clock went.

The Los Angeles Police
Department began to enforce

the curfew, picking up the
most obvious offenders.

In protest, the marchers began

and the attention they
received from newsmen

and bystanders spurred them on.

Soon the police department gave up

trying to enforce the curfew.

The crowds were getting too big.

Orders went out to avoid at
any cost, aggressive action.

Before the night was out,

they would learn how
great that cost would be.

A rally began and the scattered clusters

merged to a central meeting
place in front of Pandora's Box,

a teenage night club.

Protestors over the 10
o'clock curfew, Vietnam,

the racial issue, fanned the flames

of the already excited listeners.

The mob became more and more agitated.

Traffic began to slow down on the strip

as people began to clog the street.

Finally, it stopped altogether.

Then, it happened.

The first shove, the first fist thrown.

It would matter little
for the next five hours

who was responsible.

As a last resort, the
mayor asked the Los Angeles

County Sheriff's Department
to aid the police

in calming the riot.

They moved in quickly, using tear gas

and Billy clubs to push
back and break up the mob.

155 members of the Los
Angeles PD were used.

In addition, 79 sheriff's
deputies were called in to help.

Cost of the operation to the Los Angeles

tax payers, $257,000.

Damage and personal property
destroyed, $1,338,000.

More than 8% of those
arrested were under 21.

Three quarters of those were less than 16.

Parents protested vigorously
about alleged police brutality.

Most of these stated that their children

were innocent bystanders and
should not have been arrested.

Some parents bitterly denied that

their children were even there.

Even after the police had awakened them

in the middle of the night to notify them

that their children
were in police custody.

Five hours later, official
statements were issued.

The riot was now finally under control.

There would be no more
problems of this nature

on the sunset strip,
things would be different.

But tonight, except for
the absence of violence,

nothing has changed.

London,

the hub of a strip world.

Within this vast European city

there are over 1,000 clubs catering

to every taste imaginable,

from those which headlined
female impersonators,

to a small night spot in Soho that claims

to feature only virgins.

It is in this intimate club
that our camera paused.

Here, backstage, one can savor the bare,

unrehearsed flavor of a truly
original and unique club.

We were told by the owner,
who takes great pride

in his club's reputation for
its authentic virgin strippers,

that he personally
inspects each of his girls

on a regular basis to ensure

against any change in their status.

The names and themes of the acts presented

are consistent with the club's policy,

Bridal Night and Rape of a Virgin,

are but two of the more
than half dozen acts

that perform before
packed audiences nightly.

The girls have gratefully
returned the affection

their audience has displayed by taking

great pains in preparing
themselves for the uncovering.

It is not unusual for these
women to come into the club

three hours before they
are scheduled to go on.

Just so they might spend this time slowly

and fastidiously, grooming
their faces and bodies.

A dramatic contrast to the strippers

that work the clubs in the United States,

who rush in 15 minutes
prior to the curtain

and go through the motions of their acts

in a bored and
extremely tired manner.

Perhaps the difference
is due to the respect

these performers have
in their private lives.

These women are treated as performers

instead of garbage that has to resort

to stripping for lack of any other skill.

Their dances are considered
skillful representations

instead of cheap morally depraved acts

worthy of viewing only
by the most base of men.

These women are often seen
with the best of company,

are actually regarded as
ladies of the theater.

Their standard of living
is considerably higher

than women in the same profession

in other parts of the world.

So much so in fact, that
most of these girls retire

with a substantial amount
of money within a few years,

often ending up as
successful business women

in entirely different fields.

Others find their prince charming

while displaying their
wares and marry important

men in the financial world,

or even lords of the realm.

Regardless of what the outcome is,

successful business
woman or happy housewife

married to her prince charming,

one thing is evident, the life
of the London strip girl,

is certainly more than
what it's cracked up to be.

The girls are now in the final stages

of preparation for their acts.

The lovely to the left is Bridal Night.

This beauty portrays the
horror of a rape of a virgin

with such intensity, that she has received

many offers to act on the legitimate stage

and on British television.

This girl is the pièce de résistance.

She is the club's top act.

One which you will soon be
feasting your eyes upon.

Bridal Night, is halfway through her act.

It is at this point in her story,

that she has retired with her husband

to their nuptial bedroom and she is about

to give herself to him.

Too soon for the audience,

her act is over.

These performances average
less than 10 minutes

in duration, and for two acts a night,

less than 30 minutes of work,

these girls receive more than $200.

And now for the Widowed Virgin,

the club's top act.

This story told in pantomime
relates the tragic tale

of a bride widowed on her wedding night,

who must face the lonely years ahead

in a constant, agonizing
stage of frustration.

It is indeed an act of unparalleled
sensualness and torture.

We are now in the skid row area of a large

eastern city of the United States.

In this converted theater,
there exists a school

of the most unusual nature.

This woman, whose face we have censored

at her request, is having sexual
problems with her husband.

She is a member of one of the
city's most prominent families

and has come to this
other woman, Rose Calder,

to try and learn the art of romance.

She is in desperate need
to recapture the romance

in her marriage and spark interest in her

apathetic husband, who is spending more

and more time away from home
on so-called business trips.

For years, Rose ran a
school for strippers.

Then one day, a socialite
stumbled upon the school.

She was having difficulty with her husband

and was desperate.

She begged Rose to help her.

Rose thought enough of the idea to try it.

The socialite began spending more

and more time at the school.

And her husbands business trips

became nothing more than a
faint memory of the past.

Soon, other women in
trouble began to follow

in the footsteps of the
first, attending the strippers

school in order to
recapture the lost romance

in their marriages.

The women who frequented
Rose Calder's classes,

never qualified as strippers.

Nor did they gain the
formula for some secret

love potion which they used to enrapture

their apathetic husbands.

In the end, it was simply that the cause

to these women's problems were themselves.

They were inhibited.

They felt unnatural
about their own bodies.

Rose came to the rescue.

She gave the women back their
pride in being a female.

And even being sexually aggressive.

That was the beginning of what today,

is a $30,000 a year operation

that caters to the finest clientele.

Of course, still, strictly confidential.

Only the French could
understand the dear price

that's often paid for love.

Only the French then
can so gladly pay it.

This is a small cemetery
just outside of Paris

where this woman has
just buried her husband.

What you are about to witness
is a reenactment of one of

the most fantastic murder for
love cases in French history.

Roger and I were very close friends.

If you ever need anything, let me know.

Thank you, thank you.

You can count on me.

Need I say, Roger was my friend.

If you ever need something, call me.

Are you going back to Mexico?

Yes, I am.

I came back here only
because of Roger's funeral.

And so, after the
funeral of his best friend,

Jacques took the plane back
to Mexico that same night.

A few days later however,
it landed once more

to, for the
next part of our story.

It's incredible.

Roger and now Francois.

To lose our two best friends this way,

in the space of a week.

If you stay in Paris,
you'll come to the house, huh?

Thanks a lot,

but I don't have time, Armand.

I'm catching the plane back tonight.

Having buried the second

of his three best friends,
Jacques returned immediately

to Mexico, convinced that he would not

be seeing France again for many months.

But within a few days,
the Mexico-Paris jet

brought him back once
more to the city airport.

This makes the third.

It's all finished.

At least I hope so.

You'll be all alone in Paris from now on.

There's still one thing that mystifies me.

I admit coincidences can happen but,

my three closest friends.

To bury them all in two weeks.

There has to be an explanation.

Goodbye, Father Paul.

Will you stay a while in Paris?

No, it's impossible.

All that would make me come back to France

would be the death of a
friend like Armand, but now.

The odyssey was ended.

His three best friends were dead.

He had no further reason
to return to France.

And yet.

I confess to the three crimes cited

and further attest these statements

were made in a sound state of mind.

Paris 28th, April, 1966.

Here you are, madam.

Just sign these at the
bottom of each page.

Fine.

So you wanted to get it off your chest,

and you show up here at almost midnight.

A bit thick, huh?

No, okay.

Why all three?

Three murders.

It's not possible to explain to you.

I wanted to make someone
come back from Mexico.

You see, I'm--
His mistress?

I love him.

Wasn't there some other
way you could see him

without murdering three people?

Jacques had begun a new life in Mexico,

and only if someone he
loved very deeply died,

would he ever have returned to France.

He told me that one day.

So I had to kill my husband.

And I cabled Jacques to come back.

But he left again then for Mexico.

I wanted him back at any price.

So I had to kill another friend of his.

Jacques returned.

And I saw him but he,

he didn't get the point.

After the funeral, he
returned to Mexico again.

And so, I was once more forced
to kill one of his friends.

I killed the last of his friends.

I know, but the police
didn't suspect anything.

So why have you confessed?

Because I hope to see
him yet another time.

When I am brought to trial.

Three murders.

Three friends buried.

Three trips from Mexico.

So one woman could see a man.

Blue Beard
couldn't have improved it.

But then he was only a man.

In the movies, you would
never have believed it.

Our cameras are now moving
through the Berlin Wall.

In this city, deep
behind the iron curtain

in East Germany, the
strip act has taken on

political overtones.

These are authentic photographs
taken of Adolf Hitler

during his regime.

Today in this sector of
Europe, there is still

a great deal of sympathy
for his fallen cause.

The number of Nazi party
members active at this moment

is in excess of 100,000.

In order to combat this tide,

the communist government
has invaded the nightclubs.

What western man has come
to regard as a relaxing,

erotic divergence, has
become for the pathetic

people trapped behind
the fist of oppression,

just another form of propaganda,

on which to ridicule the past

and by this action, exalt
the present government.

In the act you are watching,

this woman portrays Hitler's mistress.

It is because of this
mistress's Russian heritage,

so the story is told, that
Hitler turns his back on England

when he had her on her knees
and seeks revenge on Russia.

This woman is every man's sexual dream.

Completely insatiable.

Yet, the story reveals that it is because

Hitler spent himself on
her that he lost the war.

After all, he had little
time for anything else.

How different are the
nights in West Berlin.

There's an ease, a
prosperity, a satisfaction

and an achievement on this
side of the iron curtain.

And so the performances here,
are of a more conventional

and erotic nature.

There is an air of perfume
here instead of social purpose.

A firmness of flesh rather than of cause.

A casual caressing touch of femininity

replacing the choking
grip of state control.

Yet, east or west, big city

or on the remote stretches of desert,

it is the woman that is sought out.

Her caressing arms, the
warm breadth of her body,

the deep lustiness of her being, are both

the cradle and the substance of man.

To many, it is a forbidden
world where ones thoughts

and actions are closely
scrutinized by others.

But to a chosen, selected
few who have decided

for themselves to act as individuals

and throw existing social
standards to the wind,

the world might seem to
be an island of pleasure,

whose gates are open
to everyone interested

in shedding the moral
obligations of our time.

Let us however, remember our
responsibility to mankind

and leave forever
forbidden, those pleasures

which are ruled objectionable

by the societies in which we live.