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It was in the year of 1933,

and Grace and her father were heading southward

with their army of gangsters.

After leaving Dogville, they had returned to Denver

only to find that the mice had been well and truly playing

while the cat was away,

and new forces had taken over their former possessions.

The result was a particularly unappealing retreat that had brought them

through the state of Alabama this spring

in search of new hunting grounds.

Now, they will not admit it,

but it's a fact.

Deep down inside, there isn't a woman alive

who doesn't nurture these fantasies...

whether they involve harems, being hunted through the jungle

by torch-bearing natives.

However much they go on and on about civilization and democracy,

sexy it ain't.

Grace and her father had resumed their legendary discord

even as they pulled out of Dogville,

and although Grace had been employing the technique

of letting things go in one ear and out the other

for a pretty long time now,

she was, to be frank, somewhat weary of her unbearably overweening daddy

who still believed any nagging woman could be pacified

with a good old bouquet of carnations.

I bet you wouldn't have had the guts to talk like that

if Mother had been alive.

No. You're right, my girl. I would not.

We're goins', boss.

Miss? Lady?

Can I talk to you?

Can I talk to you?

Miss?

They gonna whip him. I knew they would.

It just ain't true; he ain't stole nothin'.

They put that Rhenish wine from Mam's bedside table in his cabin

just to give 'em something to whip him for.

That's the law... one bottle and it's a whippin'.

That's Mam's law.

What are you talking about? Who? Who are they gonna whip?

Timothy.

Why?

That's how they do us slaves.

- Slaves? - Yes, ma'am.

Surely you heard of slaves.

It's what we is at Manderlay.

This godforsaken place.

That's howl got out.

When a whippin's in the offin', they take out a section of the fence.

Listen, Grace, it's a local matter.

It's not for us to poke our noses in.

Why should we not poke our noses in

- just because it's a local matter? - It's certainly not our responsibility.

You think the Negroes wanted to leave their homes in Africa?

Wasn't it us who brought them to America?

We have done them a great wrong.

It's our abuse that has made them what they are.

Untie him.

Stop!

'Fraid not, lady.

Slavery was abolished 70 years ago.

If you won't obey that law of your own accord,

we will compel you to do so.

Help me get her inside.

Get water for Mam. Act quickly, Rose.

Spare me your hypocrisy.

You dumb old slave.

Get out!

Leave us alone.

If you're looking for sympathy, don't expect any from me.

Listen...

I'm very old...

unfortunately dying.

I should like to ask you for a favor.

If it involves allowing you to go on exploiting these people like slaves,

I'm sorry, I'll just have to say no,

no matter how dying you are.

Slavery's over now. I can see that.

It had to come one day.

All right.

I'll probably refuse you, but you might as well ask.

There's a book under my mattress.

I should like you to retrieve it...

and burn it for me.

- It would be best for everyone. - I'm sure you think so.

But it's my View that anything, no matter what,

is best served by being brought out into the open.

I beg you, one woman to another.

Woman to woman... makes no difference to me.

The sins of the past are sins I cannot and do not wish to help you erase.

Now I must leave you.

I believe my father's men have unlocked the gates.

Now everybody can come and go as they please.

Please let everyone else know on the plantation

that from now on, they can all enjoy the same freedoms

as any other citizen of this country.

The Constitution can be found at any courthouse.

And here's a tip for when you sue the family.

There's a weighty written evidence concealed in this very room.

She's dead.

The old devil.

Oh, I'm sorry.

I didn't mean it, Missy.

No, no, if any of us deserves an apology, it's not me.

I'm afraid.

There's nothing to be afraid of.

We've taken all the family's weapons.

No.

I'm afraid of what will happen now.

I fear we ain't ready...

for a completely new way of life.

At Manderlay,

we slaves took supper at 7:00.

When do people take supper when they're free?

We don't know these things.

Free men eat when they're hungry.

Free women as well.

Considering the times and the situation,

Grace's words in the dead woman's room

on mealtimes for tree citizens might have seemed a trifle over-spirited.

We should not believe that there lay any content in these words

for the wretched and starving people of America.

Grace rejoined the gangsters

who had indeed concluded their disarmament

of the plantation's powers that had been,

though their findings were meager...

the shotgun and an old toy pistol.

All right, we can go.

Let's just wait a moment.

What are you waiting for?

For them to come and thank you?

Or for them to burn the whole place down

and dance some tribal dance on the ruins by the glow of the torchlight?

You are a bigot, Daddy, and you always have been.

We owe these people.

We brought them here, we abused them,

- we made them what they are. - I admit I don't do deals with the Japs.

Can't trust 'em when there's big money at stake.

But a bigot?

Well... why don't they come out?

That's exactly what you said last time.

Last time?

Remember when you were six?

You thought it was so sad that your beloved Tweety

was all shut up in a cage,

and nobody could persuade you not to let him out.

Tweety was a proud little bird.

Well, his dignified exit didn't do Tweety a hell of a lot of good.

We found him the next morning underneath your window,

- frozen to death. - I know!

He'd been bred as an indoor bird. He really didn't have a chance.

And what do you think those Negroes in there are?

How many generations do you think those families made their homes

behind that fence?

I bet you most of them have taken up employment

in their former jobs with the family, contracts and all.

Of course, now they'll get a few dollars for their efforts,

but they'll soon drink that up, and maybe they'll borrow a bit more

from their employers, who have, no doubt,

opened a little store full of colorful wares just for them.

And of course, they'll never be able to pay back the money,

and they'll be trapped yet again.

What you did was all very noble, my girl, but...

when push comes to shove, you've just made everything far worse,

just as you did with Tweety.

So all we can do...

is hope there's no frost.

What you said about contracts and loans...

- that's fraud. - Fraud.

See, I've read...

that... Yes?

Freed slaves are given a mule and a plot of land

so that they can establish themselves.

Yep, that's true.

But when it came down to it, the fella who owned the mule and the land

had rather keep it all for himself,

so nothing really ever happened with it.

Anyhow, it may take them a while to gather the evidence

against the plantation for when the family goes on trial.

Trial?

Tater-pie, there are times when you seem even less with it

than your dear mother.

Oh, I seem to have underestimated 'em.

We've at least one man with a genuine thirst for freedom,

and he's gettin' out, and he's in a hurry.

Yeah, he's hightailin' it, all right.

Yeah. That' 5 Stamps.

- Pardon me. - Not a lot of dignity there.

He's scared out of his wits.

Would it be possible to have a word with the young lady?

Yes, yes.

Don't mean to inconvenience you.

That's exactly what you're doin'.

You're not inconveniencing anyone.

This is a grave day for everyone, I know that.

I just thought we must've seemed a mite bit ungrateful.

We should like to thank you properly for what you've done.

It'll only take a moment.

- Yes, of course. - Ten minutes.

Then I'm gone. Not a second longer.

Grace was conducted through the wretched living quarters

bestowed upon the slaves with their pitiful leaky cabins.

Her actions would comprise an unconditional enrichment

of these people's lives.

There was no doubt about that.

Or was there?

Actually, Grace did not see much of the glow she had hoped for...

the glow that could've convinced her

that no one would end up like her little pale yellow canary.

These were human beings,

but of the kind on whom pain had been inflicted, Grace thought,

as she was suddenly interrupted by a strangely exotic accent.

When we were slaves,

we were not required to offer thanks for our supper,

and for the water we drink and the air we breathed.

Nobody needs to say thank you, but...

But what?

I mean, there is something we ought to be thankful for?

I didn't mean "but." I meant "and."

And...

There's no reason to be grateful for anything

as natural as your freedom.

I'm the first to apologize for everything...

you and your people have been subjected to.

See, these gates should've been unlocked 70 years ago.

Only 70 years ago?

But before that, of course, they were completely justified.

No.

No, no, you misunderstand me.

What can I say?

You need say nothing at all.

We've heard of your kind.

You're a society lady who spends her time

rescuing wretched niggers.

I should like to say thank you.

Missy done give her time and effort to helpin' us.

Time I'll bet she could've spent on all kinds of different things.

'Cause was perfect justice when God made some of us slaves

and not others.

The nigra is vile by nature.

I know it ain't popular to say so,

and it ain't 'cause of Bert that I say so. Hmm.

No, Victoria did not base her perception

exclusively on her experience of her husband, though God knows,

it weighed heavily.

Bert was a useless eejit

whose character Victoria regrettably, so far in vain,

had done her best to improve by hitting him with any implement

at hand on any given occasion,

no matter how much he had threatened to take his own life

by throwing himself into Manderlay's deep well.

Grace looked at Wilhelm, the old house slave, and understood.

He had not brought her here for anybody to thank her.

He just wanted her to see them all...

the unfortunate flock that he very rightly feared

would have few chances beyond the perimeter fence.

Living proof of the devastating power of oppression.

- Listen up. - Yes, sir.

This has all been put on paper.

I just needed to check the wording first again

as these things are legal and binding.

Bingo.

- What are these? - Don't rightly know, ma'am.

They're the contracts, ma'am.

The family has been so considerate

to offer us all employment.

Grace was not a lawyer,

and unqualified to assess the validity of the contract

she held in her hand,

but she feared that, unfortunately,

any judge in the county would deem it fair and proper.

It appeared to Grace that instead of employee,

they might just as well have retained the old term of slave.

A body would only sign it

if he or she was utterly ignorant of life in liberal society,

or if he or she really had no choice.

Folks, I suppose that you're in urgent need of cash.

- Mark? - Cash?

I once knew this fella from a little township

nobody know the name of, so there ain't no grounds to mention

what it was called.

He had cash.

Not piles of it.

We are prepared to lend you some money

as covered by this other piece of paper,

and we can also set up a little store here, if you like.

After all, it's a long way to town.

And if you buy enough for all of us,

I bet you're liable to get a real nice bulk discount,

and the goods'“ be cheaper than in town.

Ain't that right, Miss Grace?

I have no idea.

Please sign, everybody.

What this be? What it is?

All right.

Let's go.

Turn it off.

Damn it.

Daddy, you said that I didn't have the power to help Tweety.

You were right.

I was a child then.

So what is it this time?

This time, I have the power to act.

You said so back in Dogville,

that your power would be mine, too,

and that I could use it in my own way.

That power was to carry on the family farm.

That I was open to new ideas.

The power you ask for now will undoubtedly

be applied to something that's foolish at best...

Daddy, you promised.

Oh.

You were a bastard to Mother,

but when you promised her something, she got it.

Okay.

You've been given what I promised you.

Maybe things haven't been split right down the middle,

but this is as far as I'm prepared to go.

I want nothing to do with your plans.

And you won't be able to get in touch with me

if anything goes wrong and you need me, as usual,

to get you out of trouble, because fortunately, my dear,

you'll have no idea where I am.

- Manual-bums“. - No.

I need a lawyer to sort out some paperwork.

No. No! Never!

Never!

I'd never let Joseph go.

He's the only man I know who can draw up a contract

so there's only one possible interpretation,

and though I haven't needed that talent as of yet,

I still might need it one day.

I'll give you Viggo and Bruno for him.

Never.

I've given you my best associates, and you know it!

Daddy, I was meant to have been given half.

If Mother had been alive...

Oh, damn it, Grace!

So that very day, and into the early hours,

Joseph employed the celebrated unambiguous phrases

his previous employer had given him so wretchedly little opportunity

to practice.

New contracts needed drawing up,

and old ones needed nullifying...

all with the astonishing good will that parties always evince

in the company of rapid-firing machine pistols.

These were the deeds of gift.

You transfer the property to the former slaves in joint ownership.

The last document is your contract of employment

by this community.

Employment? I don't...

quite get what you mean by that.

It'll be without pay,

and the right of termination is rather one-sidedly

in the hands of the employer, but nevertheless.

Manual labor...

for you and your family and Mr. Mays.

Hard labor.

Say something, Bingo.

My father's back ain't so strong.

He climbed up to reach the chandelier

one Christmas day, and he fell off the banister

and struck a table.

Well, that's what happens when you've got chandeliers.

When I consider that your understanding

of the worth of other human beings

has reached the desirable stage,

you and Mr. Mays and your family

will be allowed to go.

Go?

- And leave our home? - Yes.

And I assure you that even starting from scratch,

your prospects will be a lot better than your former labors

would have been.

With regards to the presence of me and my men,

we'll only act as your counselors.

The guns are merely a precaution in case of any threats

to the new community.

We intend to stay here,

but only until the first harvest is home,

after which, any of the new shareholders who wishes to do so

may cash in his or her deed of gift and receive a dividend.

All right, will you collect your deeds. Mark?

Nobody was particularly enthusiastic

or confident about these late-night legal formalities.

Victoria.

Flora.

But Grace could see beyond this,

and if she saw little else than fear and disquiet

in all these eyes,

at least she saw gratitude in one single pair...

namely, in Wilhelm's mild old gaze.

Bert.

Got a deed of gift here that ain't been accepted.

Will Mr. Bert approach forthwith and take delivery of his deed of gift?

Mr. Bert.

Mr. Ben?

Ben' had actually prepared his escape

from his ferocious wife.

Despite her lack of faith in his abilities,

Bert had succeeded in meeting a woman

through the fence,

and she had agreed to help him to abscond.

And there he was, waiting at the agreed place

at the agreed time.

A helping hand, the woman had said.

What a peculiar coincidence that two women

should come to the aid of the Manderlay slaves

at the same time.

Grace and Bert's ”helping hand. ”

And the similarities between them were also peculiar.

Young, beautiful, white, in male company.

Actually, male company in alarming numbers.

Where's the nigger?

Grace had moved into the freed plantation

among its new shareholders.

She was there as a guard, no more.

But no one could stop her from using this beautiful spring

to make her own little observations on the people of Manderlay

in the hope of spotting the burgeoning change in character

that freedom ought to bring.

But unfortunately, she saw little of just that.

She saw Victoria for the third time looking down the well

in hope of a glimpse of the body of Bert.

She saw Flora and Elizabeth swooning for Timothy as ever.

She saw the men spending their time on card games

playing for tufts of blue cotton under their leaky root.

And she saw how everybody would ignore the eager Mark

whenever he opened his mouth, not knowing that he was notorious

for never being able to give an intelligible answer to anything.

Well, we called him Puddin' Head, but his real name wasn't Puddin' Head.

Grace saw Victoria beating her eldest son

for stealing a moldy cookie.

And she saw the unstoppable, irrevocable hierarchy of the beatings.

Victoria beating Ed,

Ed beating Milton and Milton, Willie,

who finally vented his frustration further down the food chain

on Claire,

who far too rarely managed to make use of the window

with the outside handle that her loving father Jack

had installed as an emergency entrance.

Which also allowed her to fall asleep every night to her favorite view

of the twinkling stars.

Every noontide, Grace witnessed with pity

how the former slaves were arrayed on the parade ground

with mysterious numbers and marks beneath Mam's balcony,

as if nothing at Manderlay had changed.

However, one of them did not submit

to this all-too-soothing power of habit.

Timothy, of course.

In a flash, his exotic pride almost took Grace's breath away.

This day, Grace walked on past the old peach house

where the whites were now detained,

put to work on sundry, more or less needless little repairs,

on her way to the farm housing her gangsters.

So how's everyone doing?

I'm afraid the men got nothing to do,

and it's not so good for the morale.

In situations like that, your father always came up with something.

I bet he did.

But it's patience that's required.

Not this much patience, Niels says.

Niels' grandpa was a cotton grower,

and he says the cotton should have been sown ages ago.

The soil doesn't look ready.

Might be because nobody's plowed it.

Maybe things are different here from where your grandpa lived.

No, ma'am. Don't reckon so.

Well, if... if it should've been sown,

surely the people here would be the first to know.

As she did not want to impose,

Grace's intercourse with the former slaves

had been limited to brief greetings and the like.

But now it was time for a talk with some meat to it.

Excuse me. Sir?

Mark? May I ask you something?

It's about planting the cotton.

I've been around for sowin' and harvestin'

and birth and death.

Right.

So when should the cotton be planted?

There's strict rules for that.

You can't mess around with that sort of thing.

Manderlay has always been renown for the precision of its harvest.

The swallows always migrate right afterwards.

They settle here for the night on their way across the marshes.

But the planting?

It's a science, my dear lady, and the weather,

which you might have expected, plays a fearsome role.

Yes, yes.

And when will it be time this year?

Not too soon and not too late.

Yes, but when?

Should the cotton have already been planted?

I'm not the sort of fella to pass on information

unless I'm damn sure of it.

Unless the facts of the matter are 100%.

In other words, the facts need be beyond dispute.

You know when to plant?

No.

I better ask Wilhelm. Is he in his cabin?

This mornin', he went down to the bathhouse.

He'd gotten a little frayed around the edges, as they say.

- It's a funny thing... - I'm sorry.

I'll go find him myself.

Excuse me, Wilhelm.

I've come about the fields.

The fields should've been plowed and harrowed three weeks ago,

and the cotton planted two weeks ago.

But does everybody know that?

Oh, yes. But I reckon they thinkin'

somebody else oughta go out in the field first.

In the old days, Overseer Mays

would've driven us out there.

Maybe it's because nobody really trusts you, Missy.

Yeah. But Wilhelm, they could be doing something else instead.

Repairs to their homes.

They badly need it.

The cabins have always been a sore spot.

But Mam said we ain't got no materials to fix 'em up.

But we're going to need what we make on the cotton.

How else will people survive on their own?

Yeah, if folks felt they was given somethin'...

something brought out by this, these new times...

that made their lives better in a convincing way,

right here and now!

I don't know what that might be, but...

But we don't have time for that.

We've been forced to sow late before.

The harvest might be improved if we planted a bit late.

Even says that in Mam's Law.

Mam's Law?

Yes, Mam's Law.

It's all the rules for running the plantation.

But we weren't allowed to read it.

It was just for Mam and the family.

Only for Mam and the family, Grace thought.

Certainly no more.

And there on Mam's bed, skimming through the old book,

wen-fined with bizarre and vicious regulations,

she came upon a page that looked strangely familiar.

A table with numbers from one to seven.

Somewhere Grace had seen something similar, for sure.

Mam's Law revealed it all.

The Manderlay plantation with its glamorous front mansion

and pitiful rear where the slaves had their quarters

had been kept in an iron grip by these very numbers.

They represented the psychological division of the Manderlay slaves.

Sammy was a Group 5: a Clownin' Nigger.

The formidable Victoria was of course a Number 4: a Hittin' Nigger.

No wonder her husband Bert had found it necessary

to accept ”a helping hand”

even if it was another color from his own.

Wilma and Mark were Losin' Niggers.

Wilhelm was a 2: a Talkin' Nigger.

Flora was a Weepin' Nigger.

Et cetera et cetera.

There were Pleasin' Niggers and Crazy Niggers by the dozen.

The final category, Number 1: Proudy Niggers

consisted nowadays of Timothy, as expected,

who was of course not there.

And Elizabeth.

No. It said 7, not 1.

She was a Pleasin' Nigger, also known as a chameleon...

a person of the kind who could transform herself

into exactly the type the beholder wanted to see.

This was how the slave system had been kept alive for so long at Manderlay:

bondage, even through psychology.

As Grace, in deep thought, gazed across the fields of Manderlay,

she recalled another page in Mam's Law,

dealing exclusively with the weeding of the paths

in the romantic "Old Lady's Garden,"

the name of the narrow band of woodland that skirted the plantation.

"Trees and tree trunks,” Grace thought.

So there were materials at Manderlay, after all.

Excuse me.

May I ask you all something?

Isn't it true that somebody who's even poor and colored...

can still take the trouble to maintain their home?

How dare you?

You think colored folks prefer holes in their roofs and wallowing in mud?

Then all you need to do is to mend these holes.

But I told you.

There ain't never been no materials for that kind of thing at Manderlay.

No materials? That's not true.

When I'm in the fields, I see timber wherever I look,

just waiting to be turned into boards for a roof,

or an extension or maybe even a whole new cabin.

That be Mam's garden.

You can't cut that down.

Then why can't we cut down The Old Lady's Garden?

Have you really spent that many happy hours up there on your knees

weeding her romantic paths?

That's true. There's loads of timber.

We ain't seen it as anything but The Old Lady's Garden.

I don't know what you think,

but to me, it sounds like a splendid idea.

And at a stroke, these seated, reclining, resting people

had turned into people going full tilt...

walking, mooing, working people...

without anyone having to threaten them in the slightest

with "The Lady's Hand,”

as Grace had been told the great whip was called.

And Grace had won a kind of victory.

A small beginning of something that would one day erase

an the negative, inherited behavior patterns of Manderlay.

But as Grace had suspected,

the appetite for improving the living quarters

unfortunately exceeded that for preparing the fields.

A few of the former slaves had volunteered,

and with the white family and Grace herself,

they made up a sort of gang to prepare the soil for the seeds

under the gaze of a demonstratively hostile Timothy

with his mysterious white handkerchief.

- He wasn't born here? - He's a Munsi.

It's a line of African royalty. It's a very proud line.

He don't drink either,

or gamble like the others be doin' with their little blue tufts of cotton money.

It was Mam's Law.

We weren't allowed no real money.

Grace knew about the clever system of currency in Mam's Law.

Not real money that you could use in the outside world.

The Munsi don't gamble 'cause they don't believe in winnings.

They believe you have to be humble to your crops

and only take what's absolutely necessary.

I've never heard of these Munsi before,

but I do believe I once heard of the Mansi.

They different. They was slaves of African kings.

They gamble.

They is true mischief, Timothy say.

So Timothy has prejudices, as well.

What?

Oh, nothing. I was just thinking aloud.

So you find company, Flora.

No, no. I was on my way out, anyway.

Timothy?

Let me tell you one thing.

I know you don't like me and don't trust me,

and I can see why.

Although our ideals differ, you have a pride within you,

that I believe will one day be the salvation of everybody at Manderlay.

Let me tell you one thing, too.

You got fine words, a posse of gangsters, and your white skin...

somethin' folks here seem to fall for, but I ain't fooled.

You're not interested in us, not as human beings.

After all, it's tough telling people apart when they're from another race.

We whites have committed an irreparable crime

against an entire people.

Manderlay is a moral obligation,

because we made you.

Luckily, I'm just a nigger who don't understand such words.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've come here for the company of my girl,

and that ain't nothing for you to see.

Black hides meeting.

And if I were you, I would leave now before things get too nasty.

Grace regarded Timothy's hostility as a challenge,

and the very next day, she took a step to dispel his claim

that as a white, she was incapable of caring for blacks as individuals.

She'd had a chat with Venus about her somewhat maladjusted son Jim.

Venus had revealed that Jim's behavior

was merer that of a budding, but frustrated, artist.

Tell me, have you seen Venus?

Nobody here wants your charity.

I have something for Jim.

I've had a really good look at his face since our little chat,

and you're right.

It does possess an artist's sensitivity.

This is far too much.

No, no, no!

Go on, call him. These are for him.

Jim, come on out here with me and Miss Grace, baby.

These are for you, because we believe in you.

Now run along and paint your fantastic pictures.

Never mind those close-minded folks who think they know

what art is meant to look like.

Give them hell from me, Jim!

Excuse me, but I ain't Jim. I'm Jack.

That's Jim.

It is tricky.

As a matter of fact, I've never been able to tell them apart, either.

They're both colored, and they both got curly hair.

Why look any deeper than that?

To be honest, Grace had never been quite sure

which was Jim and which was Jack...

a blunder that would, in her former life among her fellow whites,

merely have occasioned a little laughter.

Thank you, ma'am.

In her life at Manderlay, it was disastrous.

But like her father, she did not take long to transform a defeat into anger,

energy and a counterattack.

This... this is what has created all this resistance.

Even you regard it as almost sacred, don't you?

I must admit it's played a right important part in my life.

That will be my next move.

They shall be allowed to see it...

and understand that it can't do them any more harm.

I wouldn't advise it, Missy.

Presenting it to them would be like showing the child the rod

with which it's been beaten.

I agree it must be made public, but we ain't all ripe for it.

All right.

Then we shall have to see about ripening you, and quickly.

I'm not talking about the couple of cozy meetings I've organized

to which hardly anybody turned up.

I mean teaching with a timetable...

old-fashioned, hands-on schooling.

All right, I've got something for you to do at last.

It even involves bossing people about.

At noon tomorrow,

I'm going to give my first lesson to all of the former slaves of Manderlay.

It'll be your job to make sure they're there.

No excuse for not showing up.

And the family?

No, they're pretty well teaching themselves.

Are you listening to me?

It's 'cause Niels just got a great hand.

What?

Who are you?

My name is Dr. Hector.

DO excuse me a moment.

I'll have to pay my way out of this round.

God knows, I don't believe you possess any cards of real significance.

You have a poker player's face.

You can see here my entire enterprise.

I must say, I've never gained access to Manderlay before.

So when I drove by today and saw the gates were open,

I took it as a sign of new times.

What exactly do you do?

I entertain.

Party games, card games, and the like.

Well, nowadays, mainly the latter.

You play for money.

But I do more than play.

I cheat.

And you have no objections to revealing this... business secret of yours?

Oh, to some people, but not to you.

No, no, you see,

if you and I establish the business relationship I'm anticipating,

you'll be happy to know exactly what to expect.

And what can I expect?

Eighty percent.

You certainly know all the problems that arose

when our beloved New Deal was imposed in '65.

Plantation owners had plenty of land, but nobody to work it.

So they contracted with the former slaves.

But they just didn't have the same hold on the rascals

that they had in the old days.

Of course they lent them money.

But quite a few of the nigras actually saved up

and paid off their debts.

So the plantation owners get worried.

- I bet they did. - Oh, yeah.

That's where my idea came in.

I went from plantation to plantation

with the full backing of the plantation owners

to entertain their employees, and they were sorely in need of diversion,

let me tell ya.

We just had a little game of cards.

If anyone was close to repaying his debt,

I would take the shirt off their back.

And I am prepared to offer you that very same service today, ma'am.

You are not convinced.

Let me give you another token of my profound loyalty.

I have here a letter from a man by the name of Stanley.

He asked me to smuggle it out.

Thought perhaps you'd like to see it before it's mailed.

Listen, Mr. Hector...

Let me just say that I have never met a man

whom I have instantly despised

so wholeheartedly, both for his personality and his occupation.

Does that mean you're turning down my offer?

I never want to see you here again.

All right.

Well, I am disappointed.

I shall nevertheless bestow upon you my thought for the day.

I indulge in word games.

I like to give my clients something to laugh or think about when I leave.

The best technique for a card sharp...

is dealing from the bottom.

Look as if you're dealing from the top of the deck...

but instead you just take the bottom card... one that you know.

Taking from the bottom means something else entirely

in social terms.

But it is what I do. I take from the bottom.

It won't be hard to find me if you change your mind.

The letter was aimed at a Mr. Miller,

one of the truckers who picked up cotton from Manderlay,

and the plantation's only real contact with the outside world.

It was short and to the point:

"We are being held prisoner by gangsters and coloreds at Manderlay.

Inform the police and please come to our aid with all due dispatch."

indignation is a rare emotion for a gangster,

but a state of just that was what Grace's men experienced

while they herded the colored people in for their lesson that day,

as Grace had reported on Dr. Hector's cheap trick of taking from the bottom.

It was hardly the sophisticated ambiguity of the term

that had affected them so dramatically.

Welcome to our lesson.

Yes, I call it a lesson, as the term "meeting"

seems to have scared some people out of attending.

I was comin', but I was late.

Very late.

You hadn't made it by the time we finished.

In the old days we could hear the bell from the old clock in the hall.

It was easy to keep up with time, but we never hear it no more.

Probably because nobody winds it up.

But now for the topic of this lesson: Working together.

Only four people from your wing helped to prepare the fields,

and only five helped to plant.

I'm not a shareholder in this enterprise,

but if I had been,

and if I'd also been one of the five, I would have felt cheated.

Democracy means government by the people.

But, as it's not practical for everyone to sit in Congress,

a method by which people may express their views is required.

This method is called a ballot. All right?

So, let's try it out.

We should choose a problem.

Anything anyone can't decide on?

If I may suggest a small matter...

Please do.

I reckon the little broken rake is mine, but Flora reckons it's hers.

- It's my rake! - That's an excellent suggestion.

It's a great example.

I assume you all know of this dispute and all feel able to have an opinion on it.

Who does the community think owns the rake?

It could turn out to belong to both parties equally.

That would correspond nicely with the subject of this lesson:

Working together, sharing together.

All right, so who thinks it's Elizabeth's rake?

Sammy?

I think I think it's Elizabeth's rake.

All right, all right!

Slowly the point of Grace's edifying discourse dawned on the majority.

Most of them thought the rake was definitely Elizabeth's.

A few, that it was Flora's, and nobody, that it could be shared.

I still remain... undecided...

whether the rake is Elizabeth's or Flora's.

Right. So, not surprisingly, neither party receives Mark's vote.

From now on, the little broken rake belongs to Elizabeth.

That's what ballots are like; there are winners and there are losers.

But the community has spoken.

And now Grace embarked on a protracted explanation

of Flora's difficulties raking without a rake,

and that owning things together could have its advantages.

To make sure that everyone understood the democratic principle,

the meeting carried out another ballot at Jim's suggestion.

I wanna talk about the fact that Sammy be laughin' so loud

at his own jokes, and they ain't funny.

And I'm tryin' to get some sleep, and I can't get no sleep,

'cause he laughs so loud.

Mmmm.

Maybe perhaps there can be a time when he can stop his jokes

and stop laughin', so we can get some sleep.

You can't vote on a man's laughter.

You can't vote on a man's laughter, surely.

I'm hearing that it's at sundown.

At sundown.

That's what I'm hearing. So let's do a vote.

All right, so that's settled.

- Yeah, it is. - It is.

That's democracy.

Finally Wilhelm proposed that it would be practical

if somebody was responsible for winding up the clock

with its small but penetrating chimes.

And for mysterious reasons,

the probing though rainy passive artist Jim was appointed,

despite the song and dance his mother kicked up.

He can't do it!

Grace wound up the lesson

by announcing that the topic for the next day would be:

Our anger and how to communicate it.

Maybe somebody would at least tell me what the time is.

Ask Timothy. He always know what time it is.

He tell by the sun. He always do that.

Or we can always ask Wilhelm.

He's so old, he's from before the clock ever got here.

So Wilhelm and Timothy each made his own suggestion

as to what the time was,

and they were astonishingly close.

Wilhelm thought it was eight minutes to.

Timothy thought it was five minutes to.

Grace rejoiced quietly at this natural ability they found so straightforward.

But rapidly two factions emerged,

one which insisted it was eight minutes to,

and the other would not hear of anything but five minutes to.

They were thus able to draw on the day's teaming and put it to the vote.

The result was five minutes to, by a small majority.

And so it was decided:

The official time at Manderlay was five minutes to 2:00..

Five...

Grace's first lesson of the day took place in relative good humor.

But the second one... the one that had unfortunately proved unavoidable...

was severer in character.

Read.

"Daily ration of food for slaves from Category

Oh. Oh, no. "1... is..."

"Six ounces of solid food."

And they've always been given just that,

no matter how little there was in the stores.

That's a lot less than Category 7, for example.

Why should a "Proudy Nigger" have less to eat

than an "Eye-Pleasin'" one?

How can the way your head seems to be arranged

have anything to do whatsoever with the amount people are given to eat?

I really don't know, either.

Not precisely.

Do you, Mr. Mays?

It could be just to punish them for their pride.

No, I just did what it said.

It mattered a lot to my mother that we follow these rules.

I know of many places where everybody got quite a bit less than six ounces,

and where they began to eat dirt.

It's a kind of custom coloreds have when food's scarce 'round here.

But it was forbidden under Mam's Law.

That's not what we're discussing here.

Don't you see what an affront it is, to divide people up like that?

Folks is different.

Oxen and rabbits don't need equal shares of fodder neither.

Both parties would come down with bellyaches.

Stop it! I'm not at all satisfied with what I've heard here today.

You're all speaking up for this foolishness.

I'm going to have to penalize you,

because so little effort has been made in these lessons.

That evening, Grace thought that her idea

of making the whites make up their faces,

which had seemed so just and edifying

in her flash of anger that afternoon,

was perhaps a tad too much in the wrong direction.

Even though Philomena herself in her own childhood

would not have dreamt of going to the toilet

without the entertainment of her black nanny.

Look at your Uncle Jim.

He's in the bathtub, learning how to swim.

Can we clean our faces new?

Yes. Yes, of course.

Well

Here comes the dust.

Then none of this will matter anymore.

What do you mean?

There's gonna be a dust storm.

The plants have only just begun to grow.

It couldn't be worse.

But Manderlay's fields have never been harmed by a dust storm.

'Cause the windbreak was still in place.

Grace was not inclined to go into what the former overseer meant

by these mysterious words.

Soon she had convinced herself they had no meaning at all

apart from spreading disquiet and despondency.

The next day's lesson

on the importance of unleashing one's anger

met little understanding from the assembly.

It was when they wound up with a series of ballots

and the community had rapidly decided

to use Wilma's potatoes for seed

as she was so old and did not have to eat that much,

that they heard the wind.

Jack, where you goin'?

He goin' to get Lucifer.

The dust had come at this time for as long as anybody could remember.

But every year from time immemorial,

it had spared the newly planted cotton

as the plantation had been cleverly shielded by a narrow band of trees

known in common parlance as ”The Old Lady's Garden."

In the midst of the almost biblical darkness that descended on Manderlay,

Grace knew all too well

that even hand in hand with all the races of the world,

no army of gangsters could counter this:

Nature's extravagant demonstration of power.

All she could do was watch

as row upon row of the seedlings she had so welcomed

disappeared beneath the devastating dust.

Nobody could do a thing.

But apparently it did not mean that no one would try,

for now Grace discerned a rider out there.

He was riding like crazy.

As he progressed across the fields,

wherever he spotted a pile of dust beginning to grow,

he would break it up with his horse's hooves.

Whether it would make the slightest dent in the grand scale of things

was hard to tell, but it was a battle,

no matter how senseless it might be...

heroic and dangerous.

Timothy...

Come back!

Come back! Timothy!

- Timothy! - Timothy's gonna be all right!

He knows these storms.

Miss Grace, you's head over heels for him.

You's a fool, Miss Grace.

- Where'd you find him? - He was behind the house.

Is he alive?

I do believe I know what you mean by that question.

- But what does it mean, to be alive? - It means, is he breathing?

Forget it.

Is he dead?

We colored folks can be awfully hard to kill if we want it that way.

That very afternoon, strong Timothy was back on his feet

surveying the buildings for damage caused by the storm.

The dust had struck a devastating blow.

Unfortunately, hardest hit were the food stores

in the dilapidated Peach House which had lost its roof.

Almost all of their provisions were now inedible.

On top of that, the pneumonia brought by the dust was inevitable.

The dust had got in everywhere,

particulany where no new boards could have provided weatherproofing,

namely through the cracked glass in the window on the stars

above Claire's bed.

Valuables, not to mention cash, were non-existent at Manderlay,

since the elegant clock

miraculously still ticking merrily away on the mantelpiece

turned out to be not Swiss, as Mam believed,

but a copy made quite locally and worth practically nothing.

"The Freed Enterprise of Manderlay" was bust.

Wilhelm and Grace were therefore under no illusions

that anybody would attend class this day.

But then, one by one, the Manderlay flock began to appear.

I'm happy you're all here.

But I don't really have a lecture for you today.

I'd just like to say...

how badly I feel about this hopeless situation.

But, of course, words aren't much use to you.

No. Missy has learned that much, at least.

But as regards hopelessness, it is something we do know a bit about.

There are a million plants out there beneath the dust.

If we can save but 50 of them,

perhaps we can grow a small quantity of great quality

and get a better price for it.

I reckon we should make a move.

And that is how the greatest disaster turned into a stroke of luck for Grace,

and how the people, with a common foe, the dust, as their excuse,

suddenly found themselves working shoulder to shoulder

with their deadliest enemy

to achieve the common goal as free, grown-up Americans.

Stanley and Bertie had sown the fields with little sticks

so people could tell where to uncover the tender seedlings.

While Flora, ever so childishly, kept teasing Grace

with her digs at Grace's supposed romantic feelings towards Timothy.

Good night, old Wilma.

Good night, child.

We can lie down and talk for a while before we go to sleep.

No, thank you, Wilma.

I'm not weary enough to go to bed yet.

A little walk helps.

A walk when a body ain't sleepy is a very good thing.

I do the same myself.

Good night.

Good night.

That everything seemed as moving along on its own

could be nothing but welcomed by Grace.

But her lack of an active part to play

had suddenly left her in a kind of vacuum,

and allowed other things inside her to claim attention.

Human things like instincts and emotions.

An ominous sense of homelessness and loneliness

struck Grace this evening.

As she wandered about, Grace suddenly found herself

outside the wooden rear of the bath house.

Without warning, the homelessness transferred into a strange desire

to move up that rusty pipe against the flow of dirty water

into where naked bodies were being washed in cheap soap.

Black skin.

Male and black manhood.

What Grace had felt at the bath house was undignified, shameful.

Her mind was meant to be devoted to policy at Manderlay,

a matter in which these thoughts had no business whatsoever.

Grace had forced herself to sleep, to rid her thoughts of those black bodies,

an achievement that was actually possible

thanks to the stubbornness that flourished in Grace's family.

But the cotton seedling in her love-starved body did not give up.

It manifested itself as a dream.

Grace was in southern climes.

There were women in exotic costumes and men in turbans.

Even in her sleep, she hated with a passion

any idea of allowing that her father might be right.

But it was a harem.

A group of black slaves appeared, bearing a huge charger piled with dates,

and in a twinkling, Grace lay among the dates trembling with pleasure

as a flock of Bedouin satisfied her one by one with their noses.

And it was even more confusing when Timothy appeared

and was both the slave bearing wine, hands shaking,

and the sheik himself, whose authoritative hands

tested the size of Grace's most intimate orifices.

- I must have overslept. - I'm sorry.

Claire's had another turn.

Yeah.

Yeah, she's running a bad fever again.

Has she had anything to eat?

Oh sure. Pork chops and baked chicken.

She's taken a little oatmeal, but it's hard to get it into her.

She had this trouble with her lungs last year when the dust come, too.

But there's far more dust this year.

Honestly, Missy, you oughta go back home

to the clean air and larders full of food.

We're all in this together, no matter how hard it gets.

And hard it will get.

I've seen what's left around here,

though some folks are still filling their bellies.

Right. We've got to talk about that.

Come on, it'll be all right, Rose.

I propose that we ration what we have left,

and spread our provisions over a month

until we can harvest more from the vegetable gardens.

And, as I hear that there are so very few beans and potatoes left,

I think we should give them to Rose, who needs them for Claire.

What's left will be shared out equally among the rest of us.

- Excuse me. - Mm-hm.

The rest of us? That goes for us, too?

Yes, of course it does.

We've already eaten things your father would never have put up with.

Joseph swears they couldn't be described as food at all...

legally speakin'.

Your father used to let us obtain stuff when the coffers were empty.

Surely we could steal something from somewhere.

But I suppose that's no good, either, Miss Grace.

I'm afraid you're one tough cookie.

Maybe I am.

Sadly, the most nourishing {are the estate could still provide

had not improved Claire's condition much.

But she needed meat, and Timothy knew it.

So henceforth, they would have to do without

the loyal old donkey on the treadmill.

It was not a good portent of the level of morale

that the gangsters were now trying hard to fix the car

from the ravages of the dust.

But luckily, Joseph, 3 legal expert with the ability to interpret

the most incomprehensible of texts,

had met his match in the 1923 Ford owners manual.

Timothy, thank you.

For Claire.

As time went by, the scattered cotton plants at Manderlay

grew side by side with its denizens' hunger

now that the little that was left of the donkey meat

was reserved for Claire.

And Grace found herself

in the peculiar situation of joining Wilma and the other women

in what had been completely forbidden under Mam's Law,

namely, the Southern tradition of eating dirt.

Having given up on the automobile manuals,

Joseph had found a quaint turn of phrase

in the agreement into which he had originally entered

with Grace's father regarding his employment.

The wording could, with a little good will,

be interpreted to mean

that certain circumstances obliged an employee

to obey a higher authority than his boss,

the authority in this case being his stomach.

The good news was that,

although the drought had been hard on the fields,

Stanley and Timothy had invented a weapon to deploy against it.

Wait, wait.

Watch out! It's coming.

Why didn't we think of it before?

But the best news of all was Claire,

who had miraculously gained so much strength

that she could empty her plate of good food.

Always in the middle of the night and when everyone was asleep

when nobody was looking, but even so...

Grace had thought hunger would put paid to her forbidden sensual fantasies,

actually the opposite was more the case.

Flora, what's going on with the chickens?

Are they fighting?

You mean the four whites after the black?

You want I should open the door and have a peek?

N-No.

Mind you, that little black hen real proud.

Wouldn't surprise me if them others took the chance

to give her the odd peck.

Now, don't you tease me, Flora.

Good night, then.

Good night.

Flora had teased Grace before with the little black hen.

But they were hurting it in there. No doubt about it.

And to make everything far worse,

that heat in her loins seemed to come back

in spite of that poor chicken's cry for help...

or even intensified by it.

Devastated, humiliated and overcome by fear for her sanity,

she fled.

In a fit of madness, or what others would simply call hominess,

she threw herself onto her bed on her tummy,

and for a moment, forgot all about shame and political correctness,

and did what she had not done since her childhood

when she had not yet known it was so infinitely wrong.

She pressed herself onto the knot she had rapidly and instinctively formed

by bunching her quilt.

Whether it was pleasurable or painful is hard to tell,

but she kept at it.

It was beyond her control.

With no regard for the sleep of the women around her,

or common decency in general,

the pulsating explosions in her nether regions look over her world.

And who knows how it would have concluded

had there not appeared at that very moment, fortunately for Grace,

a person shaking her back to a reasonable state of self-defense.

Miss Grace! You gotta come quick, Miss Grace!

She dead.

I took such care of her.

I fed her the good meat.

She'd been eatin'.

She dead.

Now she's dead!

Wilma, I wanna show you. Come outside now.

- You're hurtin' me. - I said come on!

She'd been eatin'.

You're hurtin' my arm.

No! She hadn't been eatin'.

This 'un had!

Ya gonna tell 'em, Wilma?

I was so hungry.

I get so dizzy.

And my legs hurt when I'm hungry.

Our good friend

and Claire's beloved old Wilma been visiting the windowsill while we slept.

She emptied Claire's plate every single night!

T'was easy as pie, considerin' that there window

could be opened from the outside.

I've eaten so much dirt in my time.

My teeth can't take it no more.

She killed our little girl.

Jack. Jack, she was sick.

- Miss Grace... - She was sick, Jack.

Rose didn't worry too much about feeding her during the day

'cause she ate so much at night.

I want Wilma punished for killin' my little girl!

I want this matter put to the vote.

I want Wilma punished for killin' my little girl.

I want justice, or I'll kill her myself right now!

Let me go home.

Stop, stop, stop! We will talk about this tomorrow!

- She killed my little girl! - Stop it!

And so, the very next evening, a gathering took place

under the magnificent, clear, twinkling, starry sky of Manderlay.

Now we've heard 'em all, Wilhelm.

Wilma showed no mercy to our Claire,

so no mercy oughta be shown to her. She must die!

Jack...

Killing old Wilma won't bring Claire back.

All we want is justice.

You've said so many times that we're entitled to it.

I propose... that

that she be banished from Manderlay for stealing food in an emergency.

She probably won't survive that anyway, as old as she is.

After all, we don't know if the matter of the food

made any difference at all in Claire's fate.

Wilma can't have known whether it would kill her.

But she didn't care a bit when it came to riskin' somebody else's life,

that of our little girl!

All Wilma saw was a plate nobody was touching.

She was hungry.

What do you think the rest of us was?

All of us here ate what we'd agreed.

What do you think little Claire was?

We all hungry,

and that just makes it far, far worse.

I'd like to ask y'all to vote on Jack and Rose's motion.

All those who believe that Wilma deserves to die,

raise your hands.

Thank you.

Thank y'all.

Stop!

Grace?

I thought we were the ones who made the decisions here.

That's what you always told us. Or maybe it's only sometimes.

Of course not. It's always.

Then they's the decisions you're here to defend, ain't they?

So let me go across and do it.

No.

If anybody is going to do it, it's going to be me.

It must not be an act of vengeance.

That's all right by me.

As long as she suffers as much as Claire.

That will be up to me.

I'll let you know when it's over.

Grace...

Be so kind as to tell me...

What they decide?

Am I gonna die?

No, Wilma, you're not going to die.

What you mean?

I mean the ballot did not go Jack's way.

You're not gonna die.

See, they didn't think Claire would have eaten the food on her plate anyway.

And anyhow, she'd certainly have died from pneumonia

from the dust.

Did they really say that?

Yes. They really said that.

If you knew how terrible the waitin' was...

I'm just so weary.

I know.

I know you are.

But now you can sleep easy.

Yes. I can.

Lie down and get some sleep.

You are the daughter I might have had.

- Lie down. - Will you stay till I sleep?

I'll do that, Wilma.

Here.

Lie down.

Wilma?

Sheep, sheep

Yes, my Lord

Sheep. sheep:

Yes, my Lord

Harvest time finally did arrive and the cotton went safe into the sacks.

Yes, I know

Despite the fewer bushes, the harvest was splendid.

Yes, I know

It was as it all the trials and tribulations

had made the cotton extra white and the fibers extra strong.

And even at current prices, it would bring in a record sum.

Yes, my Lord

And although nothing was the way it had ever been,

the harvest was as precise as always at Manderlay.

The moment the last tun of cotton was in the sack, the swallows arrived,

dropping from the skies towards the marshes.

Everyone observed the sight in awe and for a moment it was greater

than an the words and politics in the world.

The old gin was as ready as ever.

It had been for a week.

Greased and stripped down and reassembled by Sammy

who had teamed up with Niels.

They worked well in harness.

Niels had never found a joke funny in his life,

so Sammy, the Clownin' Nigger, had given up, not unrelieved,

trying to entertain him with his somewhat weak material.

That's fine.

That's fine? All right.

Miss Grace? Miss Grace?

Edward!

I hardly recognized you. You've certainly changed the way you dress.

Yes. Your father thought it was time for a change.

He's on his way into a new area of business.

Is Daddy here?

No, he sent me on ahead to give you a message.

Your father says he'll be by a week, Monday, at 8:00 in the evening.

He told me to tell you he will wait in the car outside the gates

for a quarter of an hour, not a second longer,

the way he did in Dogville, he says, and the way he did with your mother,

I think it was.

- When he asked her to marry him. - Yeah, something like that.

If you want to go with him, you better be there

'cause he says he'll just push on.

I know, I get the message.

All right, I'm on my way.

- Take care, Miss Grace. - You, too, Edward.

- Oh, Edward. - Hmm?

Just tell Dad that new times have come to Manderlay.

But no, Grace had no intention of going with her father when he arrived.

She had her own life to lead now, and it suited her just fine.

But she'd be at the gates, anyhow.

She just had to show him what she had achieved:

a new and better Mandeday.

It was examination day for Stanley and the family.

Because even though things had been going well recently,

when Stanley partook of his traditional beer with Mr. Miller,

nobody would be able to prevent him from revealing what had happened

on the plantation, and thereby min it all.

Wilhelm had been highly skeptical

about letting the whites talk to the drivers at all.

But Grace had insisted.

She trusted them.

Oh, Sammy! Oh, Lord, Sam.

Eejit nigger!

Are you totally useless?

Sorry, Mr. Mays.

Ha ha! I'm jokin'.

Stanley Mays and the family passed.

That very evening,

Grace pronounced them graduate Americans.

Bertie!

And although they were free to go, they had elected to stay,

as there was talk of hiring the family and Stanley Mays

on a permanent basis.

And before anybody knew it, the days had passed,

and the money was in the bank from where it had been picked up

by proud Timothy on horseback.

Niels and Sammy had fixed the car...

wisely without reference to the manual.

- Thank you for everything. - Thank you.

What are you gonna do now?

I don't know.

You could always go back to gangstering.

Where's Mr. Robinson?

He's been down in the cabin, shakin' hands.

Grace was touched by Mr. Robinson's sudden social interest

in the former slaves.

But it felt fight when the car left.

It was time for Grace to say good-bye to power.

Brave and strong, thy men and women

Better this, than corn and wine I

I Make us worthy, God in Heaven

Of this goodly land of Thine

Hearts as open as our doorways

Liberal hands and spirits free I

Alabama, Alabama

I We will aye be true to thee

He's watching you.

- No, he's not. - He's watching you.

No, he's not.

I reckon it have somethin' to do with them gangsters leavin'.

See, honey, when you was boss, he was visitin' your kingdom.

Now you're visitin' his.

I reckon he wants you now.

He should have some dinner. I'm gonna go get him.

- You gonna go get him? - Uh-huh.

You've gotta come get some dinner.

Be quiet, woman.

In Mam's bedroom, Grace recalled Flora's worrying, intimate little details.

Sexual intercourse amongst the Munsi was determined by ancient traditions.

It would not appeal to Grace, Flora had said.

Not with Grace's modem ideas of equality of people and the sexes.

But Grace seemed to have left her progressive attitudes at the table.

Now actually in the situation she had dreamed of,

it was all more bizarre than erotic.

Anyway, Grace decided to hang on to this opinion.

Timothy, wake up!

Timothy's horse had got out of the stable when fires had been lit

around the Manderlay slave quarters while Grace was asleep.

What happened?

I can't tell you.

If you want a clear answer, you're gonna have to ask somebody else.

- The gangsters took the money. - What?

The gangsters took the money.

That's the answer.

And I reckon it's a pretty clear answer, too.

It certainly is very clear.

What makes you think so?

When the party ended...

we all left the table...

to go and take a look at the money.

Timothy had hid it behind the red slope.

Timothy was meant to be keepin' an eye on the place,

but he wasn't there.

And the box had been pulled up.

It was empty.

One of the gangsters dug up the money

when he was pretendin' to say good-bye.

But he couldn't have done it alone.

Someone must have told him where the box was.

And Sammy refused to admit it was him,

although he'd spent a whole lot of time with Niels.

And then everybody started yellin' and screamin' and...

and folks is angry, and no one's listenin'.

Stanley Mays and the family get away, I believe.

Although Philomena and Bertie got cut up real bad.

Elizabeth is dead, too, although that was mostly by accident.

It was too soon to send the guns away.

We weren't quite ready yet.

For once, Grace had nothing to say.

She could but reproach herself in silence

for her tasteless joke to the gangsters

about resorting to their former occupations if things got tight.

- Wilhelm, I can't rouse Timothy. - No, I bet you can't.

He drank three bottles of hooch before we ate.

The Munsi don't drink.

Well, maybe... they do on special occasions.

Well, it certainly is lively around here.

Didn't I tell you I didn't want to see you here again?

Yes, but I've not come to do a deal,

I've come to conclude one.

And in the hope, of course, you'll see that I am an honest man.

I needn't have come back here to settle up at all.

This is your 80%.

Quite a tidy little sum it is, too, as you can see.

It's the money from our harvest.

I expect so.

It's that time of year.

See, I had a little game with a young man who came to see me.

I knew he'd come from here, so... I've made my humble return.

Don't you think you just might have been wrong about me?

Who did you play for all this money?

Well, it was a day ago now. I'd have come sooner,

but I passed this black car

with some gentlemen in dark coats.

They began to follow me,

shouting the whole time that I was going to die,

that I was a con man who dealt from the bottom.

What an accusation, eh?

It just took me a while to get away...

Who was it?

The nigra fellow arrived on horseback.

What was his name?

Timothy.

That was it!

Timothy, yeah, that was his name.

He's a Munsi.

They don't gamble.

Well, I know Munsi don't gamble.

I'm a bit of an expert in this field.

You have a devil time gettin' them to the gamin' table. No.

He's no Munsi.

In fact, he's what I'd call a splendid fella at the card table.

He just stayed bein' splendid, no matter how much he lost.

But he told everyone he was a Munsi.

Of course.

See, all the girls were wild about the tales he told.

All the Munsi tales. The proud African, the royal line.

You know, all that old-fashioned morality.

And the accent, of course.

So, on account of that, the girls was easy to bed.

I'm not even going to avail myself of your gratitude.

That's just the kind of fella I am. Hey, ho!

Now bless me if I can come up with a motto for today.

They say the Mansi are better hung than the Munsi.

Or, the Munsi are so up-stuck, but the Mansi, how they fuck!

Well, I'll be seein' you.

We can talk business another day.

Grace went straight to the last pages with the tables of personal details

on the slaves of Manderlay.

Where was Timothy now?

Yes, his name had a "1" beside it.

A Proudy Slave, as she'd read earlier.

Or did it?

She looked more closely at the handwritten number.

She compared it to the ”7” next to Elizabeth's name.

The Pleasin' Nigger of the chameleon type.

An expert in changing character according to whatever was opportune

and what would titillate and enthrall the other person.

And then Grace could see it.

Timothy's number was not a "1", but a '7."

She had only wanted to read it as a "1."

There was even a note beside Timothy's name:

”Caution. Diabolically clever.”

Grace had called a final meeting for everybody at Manderlay,

for that evening, she had decided to leave the place forever

with her father when he arrived.

Oh, you're all here.

I persuaded the community to assemble extraordinarily...

for two ballots.

Whatever they involve, they can scarcely have anything to do with me anymore.

Don't be too certain of that, Miss Grace.

Well, I am certain.

I've come to say good-bye.

If you've had two ballots today,

oddly enough, that coincides with the two presents I've brought.

Farewell presents, if you like.

The first... is this.

It's the money from our harvest.

Actually it's 80% of it.

A card shark kept the other 20% as commission.

He scammed the money off somebody from Manderlay in a game of cards.

So the gangsters didn't take it?

No. No, they didn't.

And I won't prolong the tension.

It was the treasurer who did it.

The man charged with looking after the money.

He was overcome by his eagerness to play.

Probably because he isn't a Munsi at all...

but a Mansi.

However unimportant that may sound.

Which brings me to my second present.

This one. Painful to you or not, it has to come out.

In this book,

which I still regard as the most abominable, contemptible document

ever written,

Timothy is listed as a Pleasin' Nigger.

A person who can change his appearance to please the beholder,

as he has done.

Let me find the page.

It's on page 104.

How do you know?

I thought no slave had ever seen this book.

How do you know what's on page 104 of Mam's Law?

'Cause I wrote it.

It's all in my meticulous hand.

Mam and I were very young when the war suddenly ended

and this new statute terrified us.

Terrified you?

We tried to imagine what kind of world would these slaves be let out into.

Were they ready for it?

Or more correctly

Was it ready for them?

Legislators promised all kind of things, but we didn't believe them.

It was then that Mam urged me to commit to paper

the way I thought things should be done here

if everyone stayed on at Manderlay.

But it's the prolongation of slavery.

You might call it that.

You also might call it the lesser of two evils.

But did the others know that you wrote this book?

Groups 2,3 and 5... always knew.

A few members of the other groups were better off not knowing.

But everyone knows now.

I wrote Mam's Law for the good of everyone.

"For the good of everyone."

For the good of everyone?

How dare you?

It's a recipe for oppression...

and humiliation from start to finish.

I think you've been reading it through the wrong spectacles,

Miss Grace, if I may take the liberty of saying so.

And then, Wilhelm initiated Grace

into the humane qualities of the lesser of two evils...

Mam's Law.

How it guaranteed food and shelter

and allowed anybody the privilege of complaining about their masters

instead of having to blame themselves for the life of no hope

that they would surely have to lead in the outside world.

How the noonday parade was a blessing

since the parade ground was the only place with shade

at the warmest time of day.

How the numbered groups were determined

according to the patterns of behavior

that human beings resort to in order to survive in an oppressive community

so that life could be made easier for each of them.

Since a Proudy Nigger,

not that Mandenay had seen many, if any of these,

survives by perceiving himself as proud and could be helped

by this system to believe

that he was a bit more persecuted and punished than the others.

Since a Clowning Nigger would benefit greatly from the laughter

that Mam's Law strictly demanded of his master

just as any other groups benefited from similar obligations.

How cash was forbidden,

so that gambling had to be done with cotton money

to prevent ruination and misery for the families.

Et cetera, et cetera.

Until Grace's head felt fair ready to explode.

Damn it, Wilhelm, they're not free!

That's what matters!

I'd call that a philosophical argument,

which neatly brings me to the two ballots I just mentioned.

Was Mam's Law still relevant?

We agreed that unfortunately it was as relevant now as it ever was.

America was not ready to welcome us Negroes as equals

seventy years ago, and it still ain't.

And the way things are goin', it won't be in 100 years from now.

So we agreed we'd like to take one step backward at Manderlay...

and re-impose the old law.

Excuse me, but I'm going.

As for your going, I'd better tell you about the second of our ballots.

As you know, sadly, we lost Mam,

and unfortunately we've good and well frightened off her descendants.

In short, we lack a Mam.

- No! - I needn't tell you

that you received every single vote.

Never.

With all your idealism,

I think you could enjoy

being the guardian for a kind of menagerie of creatures

who have no chance in the wild.

Just as you thought the notion of community would be good for us.

You were so sure, you permitted yourself to use force to convince us.

I'd be sorry if we had to do likewise.

What do you mean? Do you intend to keep me prisoner?

Only until you understand the way you wanted us to understand.

The gate has been repaired and is closed.

The fences are in good shape, but of course, they ain't particularly high.

Those fences... come on.

Two men with a rusty shotgun and a toy pistol.

How dumb do you really think we are?

Too dumb to build a ladder if we really wants to get away?

Grace had spent a great deal of time on this meeting

which, from her point of View, didn't seem to be getting anywhere.

Her father and his car would be at the gate at 8:00.

That was in half an hour. She had no ladder,

and she was on her own and guarded by many.

Just how was she to get out of Manderlay?

When was a section of the fence always down?

Grace would have to change her tactics rapidly

if she was to make the rendezvous.

All right. I'll do as you want.

Not from my heart, though surely, none of you could expect that,

but as my only option.

And you needn't be scared.

I'll obey your beloved law.

So we'd better start by dealing with the present matter: Timothy.

A slave from Group 7

has committed a theft that almost ruined us all.

As I've determined that Mam's Law does not prescribe

any punishment for stealing money, I shall have to be creative.

What was it you once said, Flora?

Something about planting a bottle of Rhenish wine?

I do believe there's a bottle of Rhenish wine

under Timothy's saddle.

Don't you?

So that's what I seen when I went there yesterday.

If it wasn't a bottle of Rhenish wine!

There was still ten minutes until her slavishly punctual father

would arrive outside

to wait for his 15 minutes and not a second longer.

Just enough time for a verbal farewell salute.

Timothy, you can stop being proud and silent.

Cry... and shout...

and beg for mercy...

like the Mansi you are.

The Mansi who you despise so much.

And it's that hatred, Timothy, and the rest of you

bear towards yourselves that you'll never make me accept!

You are a cheat of the lowest kind.

And Wilhelm and all of you who follow him

are nothing but a bunch of traitors to your race.

I hope that your fellow Negroes will, one day,

uncover your betrayal and punish you for it!

You make me sick!

I'm sure you're quite right, Miss Grace.

Most likely it's impossible to revile us niggers enough.

But what I don't get is, why it makes you so angry?

What do you mean?

Aren't you forgetting something?

You made us!

Probably the only thing that could have stopped the lady with the whip

from carrying on forever

was the cheerful tinkle that announced her father's presence.

She needed his support now.

Manderlay, too, really was a place the world would be better off without.

Grace recognized her father's handwriting.

"Dear Girl," it said.

Dear Gin.

So you tricked your father yet again.

I waited the 15 minutes first, but I am too kind-hearted.

So I popped over to the fence behind the bushes and peeked inside

to check that you were okay.

To my great surprise

it really did look as if you had a good grip on things, for once.

I'm proud of you, my gift.

I hope we meet up some day

so you can tell me what you actually meant

by ”new times at Manderlay.”

Love, Your dumb old Dad.

Ballots could be unrivaled,

but determining the time by public debate was rarely feasible.

That was quite apparent.

Grace had but a few seconds to choose the direction in which to flee

away from her swarthy pursuers who,

as her father had so teasingly predicted, were carrying torches.

Grace was in a hurry and did not notice Bert, the former fugitive

with a liberal attitude to other races who never did make it far.

Grace was angry.

Manderlay had fossilized in a picture of this country

that was far, far too negative.

America was a many-faceted place, no doubt about it.

But ”not ready” to accept black people?

You really could not say that.

America had proffered its hand, discreetly perhaps,

but if anybody refused to see a helping hand...

he really only had himself to blame.

They pulled in just behind the bridge

He lays her down, he frowns

"Gee, my life's a funny thing, am I still too young?"

He kissed her then and there

She took his ring, took his babies

It took him minutes, took her nowhere

Heaven knows, she'd have taken anything but

All night

She wants a young American

Young American, young American

She wants the young American

All night

She wants the young American

Scanning life through the picture windows

She finds the slinky vagabond

He coughs as he passes her Ford Mustang

But Heaven forbid she'll take anything

But the freak and his type, all for nothing

He misses a step and cuts his hand but

Showing nothing, he swoops like a song, she cries

"Where have all Papa's heroes gone?"

All night

She wants the young American

Young American, young American

She wants the young American

All night

Well, she wants the young American

All the way from Washington

Her breadwinner begs off the bathroom floor

"We live for just these 20 years

Do we have to die for the 50 more?"

All night

He wants the young American

Young American, young American

He wants the young American

All right

He wants the young American

Do you remember your President Nixon?

Do you remember the bills you have to pay

Or even yesterday?

Have you been an un-American

Just you and your idol singing falsetto about

Leather, leather everywhere

And not a myth left from the ghetto

Well, well, well, would you carry a razor

In case, just in case of depression?

Sit on your hands on the bus of survivors

Blushing at all the Afro-Sheerners

Ain't that close to love?

Well, ain't that poster love?

Well, it ain't that Barbie doll

Her heart's been broken just like you have

All night

All night you want the young American

Young American, young American

You want the young American

All night

You want the young American

You ain't a pimp and you ain't a hustler

A pimp's got a Caddy and a lady's got a Chrysler

Blacks got respect and whites got a soul train

Mama's got cramps and look at your hands shake

I heard the news today, oh boy

I got a suite and you got defeat

Ain't there a man who can say no more?

Ain't there a woman I can sock on the jaw?

Ain't there a child I can held without judging?

Ain't there a pen that will write before they die?

Ain't you proud that you've still got faces?

Ain't there one damn song that can make me

Break down and cry?

All right

I want the young American

Young American, young American

I want the young American

All right

I want the young American, young American

Young American, young American

I want the young American

All night

You want it, I want you

You want I, I want you want

Young American, young American

I want the young American

All night

And all I want is a young American

Young American, young American

I want the young American