All language subtitles for Mondo Pazzo English

MONDO CANE 2

As we all know, the English
deeply love England, family,

weekends, the Queen, the tea,
but most of all animals.

Among the 41 million
British subjects,

dogs are the most loved,
pampered,

and legally protected
living beings.

The first Mondo Cane
was prohibited in England,

only because of those scenes
that showed

dogs as victims
of human cruelty.

We reverently comply
with the judgment

of the English censor and,
to prove our repentance,

we offer him this almost
bloodless new version.

This sequence is actually
one of the few exceptions.

We shot it at
a hospital in London,

where every day tens of dogs
undergo the removal

of their vocal chords
so that the surgeons

can vivisect them without being
disturbed by their yelps.

We have introduced
this scene at the start

so that the English censor
may use, at his leisure,

the surgical lancet.

By just one strike of
the lancet, he will be able

to amputate our film
without causing any dog

to yelp or curse
the name of the filmmakers.

Yes, we must admit that in Italy
a dog's life is a lot

more frivolous and much
less rewarding.

Whilst in England
they have to cooperate

with the world of science,
in Italy they have to settle

for cooperating with
the world of fashion.

Emilio Federico Schubert,
the famous Roman stylist,

said that this year,
a striped dress requires

a striped dog,
but it would be unforgivable

to wear a polka dot dress
without a polka dot dog.

Of course no hairdresser
can give a dog

the same rewards given to him
by a surgeon, but that's life.

If some dogs are denied the
privilege of losing their skin,

some others have to settle
for losing just their coat.

Losing your hair,
here at Sant'Antimo,

in the Aversa province,
is very lucrative.

Now that wigs are back,
they go for as much as

9 thousand liras a kilo.

A fortune that had been ignored
for many centuries

by the women of
our underdeveloped south.

The increasing request
of braids and straight hair

that gets stuck in the comb,

makes Aversa one the most
combed Provinces of Italy,

maybe of the world.

This is first quality hair
and the American market,

in particular, pays millions
for the exceptional softness

of its texture
which is caused, it seems,

by having grown
on malnourished scalps

with a high shortage
of vitamins.

Nowhere else as in Sant'Antimo,
where women pay off

much better than sheep,
the economy has boomed

with such a loud blast.

Washed, skimmed, carded,
boiled, pressed, bleached,

and newly colored,

Sant'Antimo's hair ends up here,

in one of the many
American beauty institutes,

at the lady's maintenance
and spare parts department.

In America, where women work,

wearing a wig is not
a luxury or an oddity.

It's a social necessity.

The American woman cannot waste
her time with her hairdresser.

She may, at most,
send her head to him,

but she'll leave
the rest of herself at work.

It's 5 o'clock, an average
day in an average office.

In this very moment, all over
America, 24 million employees

wear a wig simultaneously,
eager to find,

as fast as possible,
the unmistakable

signs of their womanhood.

Of the 3 million dollars
of hair imported by the U.S.

from Italy every year,

only a small percentage
is bound to replant the old

scalps of the Rothschild
and Vanderbilt widows.

The largest locks
of locks end up here,

on the hundred heads
of the American Medusa.

And here is an example of
professional use of wigs.

In hundreds of nightclubs,

the locks of hair
from Sant'Antimo's women

are the main fiction of these
fake professionals of vice.

Since beautiful Coxinelle

complied with
her fatherhood instinct

and married a good old boy,
genuine produces are short.

One can only rely
on unemployed businessmen,

or even some retired colonel,

provided they have
some dark precedent,

like having played in college

the role of
Desdemona or Sleeping Beauty.

To almost all of them,
this is a shameful secret,

known only to their wives,
not to their children.

Still, sometimes
to dress like a woman

may be a manly business.

These kinds of scenes
are rather frequent

at the police stations
of many American cities

facing the social evil
of sadists and sexual maniacs.

Padded, shaved, perfumed,
powdered, dressed up,

these palatable cops
will work as decoy agents

on the public benches
or under the suburban lampposts.

Believe it or not, by strolling
around on the sidewalks,

they're able to get
4 to 6 sadists a night.

But as soon as they fondle
within those soft laces,

the suspects meet their match.

A statistic, secondary fact:

each of these
unpredictable Venuses

is propositioned
each night some 30 times

by sexually normal individuals,

which really makes
them very mad.

Mexican cops get very mad too
when they miss the target,

especially
when they hurt someone.

It happens very rarely
but it does happen.

The truth is,
Mexicans have a rather

original concept about death.

Look at the way
they celebrate November 2.

Human skulls filled
with chantilly cream, which,

among all the
desserts by the scoop,

is the one that looks
most like brains.

Much requested by children,
the uncle Judas dead bodies

are real size marzipan
dummies reproducing

the ugly features
of the traitor,

hanging from the fig tree.

As it happens to all
those who die violently,

Judas too has
undergone an autopsy,

so that, through
the wide gash of his belly,

one can enjoy the view
of his bowels:

heart, lungs, liver, pancreas,
kidneys are selling like crazy.

But soon, the toughest parts
of the old scoundrel

will be devoured
also by public acclaim.

Mexico loves its own dead
and hates Judas

who dishonors the category.

With this very ancient rite,
they rid themselves

of an unpleasant neighbor
in a clearly rational way.

The Mexican method
to get rid of parasites

is equally rational.

These bugs are extremely
harmful to the agriculture.

The Mexicans like them alive,
wrapped in tortillas

and with a spread of hot salsa.

Pressing energetically
these tasty omelets

with one finger before
putting them in one's mouth

causes the bugs to give off
that typical odor that makes

the whole thing
even more appetizing.

But the importance
of the bugs in the national

economy is not limited
to nutrition.

Some jewelers
have recently launched

the fashion of
the evening dress bug.

They cover it with
small golden or platinum armor,

studded with precious stones.

Once again, a soft stroke
of the fingers causes

the "jewel" to give off
the same sharp odor

that makes it
even more charming.

Besides, decorating
decorative animals

is not a new fashion.

In New York, for instance,

there are special
jewelers for dogs,

where the faithful
woman's friend can find

a collar, a leash,
or even a pair of earrings

for the reasonable
amount of $20,000.

Make no mistake,

the American women
feel a totally particular

kind of affection
for their dogs.

Among the New York Times
classified ads,

it's not unusual to read
an ad such as this:

"Black poodle lost.
$5,000 reward

for bringing back
just his collar."

"A collar of flowers
in Honolulu for only $5,000."

Says another ad
in the same newspaper

and promises, for that amount,
10 wild days under the sun

of this magic island that will
bring back youth and vigor.

Near the source
of radioactive mud,

the speaker is translating,
for the wild tourists,

an old Chinese saying, that
goes: "Aloha, Athema, ha ha"

According to the speaker,
the translation of

"Aloha, Athema, ha ha", a brief
but wise Hawaiian saying, is:

After her first
half century of splendor,

the white woman
finds out that her skin

is a little worn out,
but she has hopes:

for only $65,
taxes included,

the volcanic, radioactive mud
of this blazing island

will miraculously make
the shining whiteness

of her skin mesmerize again

to her husband's
astonished eyes.

"Aloha, Athema ha ba."

This mud of a totally
different nature is used

by the women of
the African Masai villages.

It's that organic,
viscid, sticky mud that,

in our areas,
has a terrible reputation

and is uneasy to mention.

But here it's used
for all purposes: as fuel,

construction material,
disinfectant, purge,

plaster for broken legs
and, finally, when spread out

on the roofs of the huts,
at night, it gives off

an aphrodisiac aroma
that inspires and encourages

the husbands' activity.

And the wives?
Here they are, eating stones

from the dried up riverbeds

that they swallow
with little sips of water.

They say that just one
of these little stones,

ingested with
the new rising moon,

has the power to make
them sterile for one month.

We said that one stone is
sufficient to make them sterile,

but when the husbands
go away on their hunting trips

and leave the wives
in their fragrant villages

with the young men of their
tribes, rising moon or not,

they rush down the valley
and gorge themselves on them.

But the women of New Guinea
must face the opposite problem.

If they want to find a husband,

they need to prove to be able
to give him a least one child.

Therefore, only at the end
of a premarital training,

which obviously can't be
shorter than nine months,

during an animated
cocktail party,

the bastard babies can meet
momma's official fiance.

They may look like one of
those transient couples who,

here in California, always
carry their home with them.

But they are two rascals who,
when things turn to worse,

move from a State
of the Union to another

to fool the local law.

But, alas! Nowhere else
in the world like in America

these illegal houses need
to show off so blatantly.

Constantly moving
from one address to another,

these whorehouses
are never able to keep a date.

Meanwhile, without
the moral support of a phone,

the call girls play solitaire.

In America nothing is more
sad than these merry ladies.

The small town young men
have no vocation

for the original
sin and, even worse,

they have no original
vocation for sin.

In America, the management
of marital effusions

belongs to women.

The erotic energy. necessary
to perpetuate the species,

is produced by massive
demonstrations of charm

and sex appeal
and it's nationalized.

The users are not allowed
to consume it randomly.

Their flux is regulated
by an automatic meter that

works only on weekends, or
for some great charity events.

This is, indeed,
a great charity event.

As it's well known,
the last Parisian fashion

has failed to promote hats.

Consequently, the market
for American hats is shrinking.

Well brought up ladies
inquire, are moved,

and organized, then they get
together and demonstrate.

They go around
with such headgear that,

if they don't quite
encourage the hat fashion,

they surely attract
the people's attention

over the gravity
of the situation.

Against the oncoming
crisis, sex helps too.

Rhythmettes and Majorettes
kick their legs up

on the presidential
stand of the committee

for the rescuing of the hat,
while some girls, selected

among the local good society,
sell kisses to help

the families of
the unemployed hatters.

One kiss, $5.
Three kisses $10.

The kisses are real, perfect,
guaranteed, sterilized,

like the products
of the supermarket.

One kiss $5. Three kisses $10.

What is a kiss? A pink
parenthesis surrounding

the word "dollar".
What's a parenthesis?

It's $2 wrapped around
the word "love".

What is love? It's a dollar
with a capital

What is an automatic restaurant?

It's a place for lonely men,

on the day their wives
are busy rescuing hats.

It's a kind of wailing wall
for widowers of lunch

made up of many small
burial niches

and under each niche
there's a tablet

with the name of the food
that lies there.

One can also try
to identify the food

through the peephole
but it's not advisable.

On one side of each grave,
where there should be flowers,

there is a slit
where one drops a dollar.

Finally, if you
have chosen a steak,

you'll get a slice of apple pie.

And this is
an automatic highway.

Do you want to go,
let's say, to Los Angeles?

Drop a token in the right box
and, "thank you very much",

you'll end up in the morgue.

It's rush hour. 10 cars by
the second on six lanes.

600 cars by the minute.
Speed limit: 50 miles,

35 kilometers, an hour.

7 traffic signals
every hundred meters,

seventy for each kilometer,

one dead and 4 injured
per hour for each mile,

10 dead and 40 injured every
10 hours for 100 miles,

100 dead and 400 injured
every 100 hours for 1000 miles.

But there are no precise
statistical reports about

episodes of hysteria
or craziness after driving

24 hours in hell.

Still, we have to acknowledge
that in America,

for the thunders of hysteria

and craziness,
there is a good lightning-rod.

In these quiet motels,
far from the big traffic jam,

there's more and more of
these projection rooms

where the motorist, survivor
of the war of the nerves,

can relive, on the screen,
the tough battles of the day

and indulge in some reactions
that the police would

consider inappropriate.

They call them psychological
decompression rooms,

where for $1.50,
the motorist is entitled

to a first row seat and six
pounds of rotten tomatoes,

which is the amount
the American psychologist

considered sufficient
for a good decompression.

The collective hysteria
of this crowd that twists

and shouts in a deconsecrated

Cilento's church
cannot be ascribed to

the intense traffic
of this small village

hidden down in a valley
and secluded for centuries.

Hysteria is the germ
of craziness that nests

in all men forever.
Scientists and popular

imagination gave it difficult
or picturesque names.

They tried to identify
the causes with scientific

methods or
the resources of black magic.

Science, for instance,
calls these people

"the tremulous" and
ascribes their convulsions

to a lack of proteins.

But the people
call them "tarantolati",

which means:
bitten by the tarantula,

since to them the tarantula is
the incarnation of the devil.

Be it proteins or tarantulas,
here they are,

with their anguish, their fear,
their helpless fury.

What do they scream about?
Nothing that makes any sense.

What do they want?
Nothing any human being may ask.

What does their
recurrent madness mean?

Nothing more than
the universal madness means

when we hate, love, adore, kill,
when we curse and when we pray.

Pathetic in his craziness,
or tragic in his humbleness,

man is always a shy actor
showing his amazement

and when he tortures his flesh,

playing a role condemned
even by the church,

he desperately awaits
an applause from heaven.

For years, at Villachira
de Franca, in Portugal,

an act of
absurd humbleness keeps

defying the Bishop's
prohibition.

The image of a Saint

will soon climb
these steps that the believers

are washing with
their bleeding tongues.

Every Good Saturday morning,
at Cucullo,

in the Abruzzi,
hundreds of believers,

young and old, ill or whole,

have pulled the chain of
this bell for centuries

to express their jubilation.

Recently their new priest
wanted to abolish it,

but the whole village
revolted and threatened

to desert the church.

At Pobra Do Caraminal,
in Southern Spain,

it's a usual custom
to buy one's own coffin

well in advance
and take part in a sort of

funeral dress rehearsal.

But if during the parade
they keep

the horizontal posture
requested by the circumstance,

once in the church, they rise
again to thank heaven

for having preserved their live.

Every Good Saturday morning
at Sarsina, in Apulia,

the traditional
"Affruntata" takes place.

The "Affruntata" is the statue
of the Virgin trying

to avoid the believers
who demand that she removes

her black dress

because her son has risen again.
But the Virgin is doubtful,

while the crowd screams,

she runs back and forth
with maternal amazement.

But she finally complies
and drops her mournful coat,

cheered by a storming applause.

All over India,
in the Taifusian days,

fakirs perform stoical
and choreographic exploits.

The more their body is pierced,
tortured, wounded, humiliated,

the more complete
their victory over pain.

The better man was able
to overcome his pain,

the sooner he was able
to defeat his flesh.

The way that leads
to the Indian Nirvana

is a long burning trail
to be crossed barefoot.

Nirvana is not Paradise.
It's the ultimate end to pain,

the only essence of life,
in which man,

ceases to suffer,
ceases to exist.

Walking on fire,
the Indians don't intend

to make a spectacle
of their pain

or to offer it to the divinity.

On the contrary,
he wants not to suffer,

that is, he no longer
wants to be painfully alive.

Because life is pain
and it's every man's duty

to try to get rid of it.

That's why Saigon,
where life is pain,

is today, as never before,
a city where life is tragic.

In its silent and empty
streets, one can sense

a cry of revolt that
no crowd could ever express.

The temples and pagodas
that the army tried to destroy

have multiplied
into these eloquent ruins

harboring the silent amazement
of millions of Buddhists

offended by the sacrilege.

Everywhere,
fences and trestles,

useless in this solitude,
are ready to face

the violence that will not take
place because it doesn't exist.

From up above,
President Diem dominates

and controls an empty city.

At the police check point
on Boulevard Pasteur,

a sign informs the journalists
that it's prohibited to take

photographs and
transgressors will be

punished under
the martial law.

The troops that the President
has just drafted

and the policemen,
wearing fatigues, control

the streets near
the American embassy

which the authorities
suspect of sheltering

two acclaimed monks
who escaped a raid.

The sentinels are ordered to
search all approaching cars

and to shoot at anybody
who attempts

to avoid being checked.

The destiny of the city
is decided beyond this

barrier of barbed wire.

President Diem
and his counselor Nu

have taken on full power.

But in the war
against the Buddhist,

Madame Nu is the only
person in charge.

All over Viet Nam,
the monks suspected

of belonging to the defense
committee are arrested.

These images are unbelievable.

But even more unbelievable
is the fact that,

after 2,500 years,
with the creation of a committee

the Buddhists contradicted
themselves.

When his disciples
asked him to become

the community's chief,
Buddha answered:

"May each of us obey
his own conscience

and seek no other
shelter but himself."

If now they have deserted
that shelter and risk

to betray the spirit
of the master,

there is only one explanation:

the most gentle of men
have been overwhelmed

by the deepest despair.

Only in jails
and concentration camps,

threatened by the guns,
do they seem to regain

their lost faith
in the ancient creed.

If you respond to hatred
with hatred, said Buddha,

hatred will never end.

They no longer
fight in the street.

They sit down and
let their hair be cut

to show solidarity
with their priests.

Now, they will confront
the helmets of Diem

with their shaved skulls.

Many of them will enter
the monasteries in search

of the lost truth which
teaches how to create

our inner silence
and listen to it,

how to kill desire
and passion to enjoy

the perfect gladness
of the fading flame.

The revolt of the Buddhists
in Saigon followed

the first public suicide
of last May 11,

when the monk Ching Thien Dien
demonstrated

with a terrible act that
Buddha himself would condemn,

that in order to fight any form
of persecution with equal arms,

even Buddhism needs martyrs.

They were beautiful,
superb, elegant, bright

and light snowflakes.

Livingstone used to say:
"The Masai, the Kikuyu,

the Samburu, the Watussi are
dark men with white souls."

Each evening, at dusk,
I see them soaring over me,

filling the sky with
ancient, endless flights.

The white Flamingos
of the Magadi lake

have always lived here.

In all the African continent,
they have chosen only

these shores to breed
and prosper.

Then, years ago
the English built

a factory of soda
that dumped tons of poisoning

waste into these waters.

The eggs rot, the chicks
die after a pitiful agony.

The adults now fly higher
and higher through

the African sky
until they disappear.

Another unusual aspect
of the war declared

by mankind on birds,
since the beginning,

is offered by
the Chinese in Singapore.

The birds fighting in
this cage are two musical

blackbirds, a specimen that
is about to disappear.

The feeling that pushes
them to the mortal combat

is not an inborn
sense of revolt,

but a kind of occasional hatred,

produced by the breeders
with a pretty basic method.

For weeks, they keep
the birds in two separate

but very close cages and
while one of the two

is abundantly fed, the other
is almost starved to death.

Naturally, the birds will not
fight a very friendly match

and it's taken
for granted that

the weakest of the two
will be the first to die.

But the Chinese
audience doesn't care.

They follow
the fight not as a sport,

but to see the great
spectacle of death,

provided it'll be cruel
and, most of all, slow.

It would seem impossible
to have two small fish

fight in a fishbowl,
but the Chinese can do it.

They discovered
that a certain kind of fish

that live in the rice fields,
when immersed in a solution

of fermented camphor and water,

become affected by
a kind of madness that

force them to fight to death.

This kind of spectacle
is chiefly dedicated to kids,

who follow attentively
the phases of the fight,

and wait for
that great ending

that always enchants
the Chinese people:

the triumph of death.

One people that currently
numbers over 500 million.

This aquarium is
bigger and so are the fish.

But we are in America,

where everything
is more voluminous.

It's the Marine-land pool,
in Honolulu,

where a swimmer enacts
a fight with a shark.

He starts by crossing
himself and faces danger.

The sharks
have been fed abundantly

to avert any temptation
and the audience follows

attentively
the phases of the fight,

waiting for that great
ending that forever,

at all ages, fascinates
the American people:

the triumph of life.

One people that currently
numbers only 300 millions.

20 years ago
there were 2,000 Elbogo,

today, only 50 are left.

They only live in one village,

on the eastern shores
of the Lake Victoria.

Their territory, as big as a
province, is arid and desolated.

Their only food
is crocodile meat,

which they capture
at the source of the river.

It's white meat
that eases hunger

and doesn't taste too bad.

The problem is that eating
crocodile every day kills

the seed of life in the men.

Still, today too, at the
village, they eat crocodile.

Presently the Elbogo
are just a small, sterile

and resigned tribe
whose hunger

and no variety of food
have doomed to extinction.

In the last 30 years,
at the village only

one child was born:
their last, fragile hope.

His name is Siba,
he's 7 years old.

Today is an exceptional
day for him.

The fishermen came back
with a big fish, all for him.

Because Siba, in order
to grow healthy and strong

and have many children
in the future,

must not eat
crocodile every day.

It's one of those large
carps that seem to be

made of gold
and are rarely caught.

It'll be all his for
a whole week and no one

will claim even
the smallest piece of it.

Still, Siba is sad.
He's a lonely little boy

unable to share the joy
of such a wonderful fish.

But in our world, where we
don't eat crocodile every day,

women has always been the
biggest business of all times.

Take, for instance,
pulp fiction books.

You'd think they sell
for what's inside?

Not a chance.
They sell for what's outside.

This is a big American
studio that specializes

in photos
for pulp fiction books.

The recipe is always the same.

Take a girl, al dente, if you
can, cut her in small pieces,

let her brown lightly and
serve her cold, bleeding rare.

Slavery has been abolished
all over the world,

as the late Hammarskjold
wrote two years ago

when he was
the UN Secretary-General.

The infamous
slave markets are only

a sad memory of long ago.

True. Except for this one.

We discovered it,
risking our life,

between Aden and Mukalla,
on the coasts of the Red Sea.

These girls are Somali,
Ragandi, Nanda,

Kikuyu. All of them
are between 12 and 16.

They cost somewhere
near 1/2 million liras each

and before they get old in
the oriental whorehouses,

they will yield 20 times more.

We are sorry for referring
to the U.N. again,

but we have something to add.

We have the testimony
of this English officer,

Lieutenant Marlon Steel,

from the 3rd district of
the Maridi's military police.

On May 6,
they arrested, in Kivu,

five slave dealers,
guilty of using

these tools of torture
on the Bakudu kids

so they can beg
and evoke the people's pity

with their deformed bodies.

We feel pain and outrage

for lingering on the images
of this terrible document.

This is also painful
and outrageous for this young

English officer
performing the inspection.

But that's his duty.

To you, to us, to the whole
world that calls itself

civilized and feels at peace
with itself and with God,

this is a screaming indictment.

Yes, if we use so many
expressions like "dog's life",

"dog's weather,"
"to die like a dog" and,

most of all, "dog's world",
there must be a reason.

Look at this poor dog,
tied up to a post,

under the scorching dog's heat.

You know what they want
from him? To bring on rain.

This is the sacrifice
offered to the Rain God

during the long droughts, by the
Nandi, in the equatorial Africa.

Sudan is an eternally
thirsty African region.

On a territory of
about 30 thousand hectares,

it only rains one month a year.

The few dewdrops
that fall overnight

on the large leaves
of these plants

are a treasure that the women
pick up with a trembling hand.

The water festival in Brussels,
under the Mannequin Pisse.

They say that the girls
who drink from this

incontinent character's
so called faucet

will get married
within the year

and will have at
least 3 children.

The water festival
goes on through the night

at the "Urinal",
a fashionable spot whose name

doesn't need to be explained.

Truthful to the good taste
of the event,

the strippers are wrapped
in "pink toilet paper."

The spirit of Mannequin Pisse
flies through the sprinkles.

The paper melts,
while the water pours down

gurgling through
the toilet drain.

The allegory is complete.

There are no metaphors here.

These are cows in
the real sense of the word

and this is a service station
for their wash and lube.

Americans
are a practical people

and don't give a damn about
our European skepticism.

To them, a cow is a machine
to produce milk,

therefore it has
to be well lubricated.

They would even put
them in evening dresses

if that provided
a few more liters.

America trusts cows
so much that last year

it shipped 300 of them
to the Elmolo region,

a depressed area
in the heart of Africa,

on the southern
banks of lake Rudolf,

where cows were,
till then, unknown.

Morally speaking,
it was undoubtedly

a commendable initiative.

But in practice,
the Americans overlooked

the fact that cows,
in spite of their tails,

don't have the same organic
structure as crocodiles

and they need to eat grass
to survive.

Last year there were 300 cows,

but now, over half of them
have starved to death.

The others survive by eating the
algae gathered by the Elmolos,

thanks to their tiresome
immersions into the lake.

But when the wind
doesn't allow the cows

to pasture in the lake,
the women must pick up,

leaf after leaf,
their meager forage

throughout this
desolate stony ground.

A hard job, unknown before
the arrival of the cows.

Poor Elmolos! They still
don't know that 500 sheep

are coming from Australia!

Meanwhile, the indigenous
of Sukarno made a similar

kind of mess in New Guinea.

In conformity with the UN
deliberation to encourage

the sense of politics
among their tribe,

especially in the wake
of the elections,

they started to deliver
a government supportive

newspaper in the villages.

This is similar
to the cows' story

because these indigenous
are illiterate.

Nonetheless, even though
sending newspapers

to the illiterate seems
a little too optimistic

during the elections,

we can't deny that,
in New Guinea as well,

political chatters end up,
one way or the other,

meeting the real goal
they are written for:

to blow smoke in the eyes
of the constituency.

Elections or not,
every Sunday afternoon

the famous Hyde Park
in London fills up with

aspiring advocates who promise
a lot to the people

in a particularly
embellished language.

Each man must have a rose,

each woman a jasmine.
Each boy a tulip.

Tum the world into a garden.

Total your neighbors houses and
plant flowers on their land.

Flowers of every color:
white, red, black, green,

large and small.

But Hyde Park
heard worse than that,

during the centuries
of traditional tolerance

for the English
wandering politics.

I speak to all of you
white men who are listening.

The era of the blacks
oppressing the whites

in slavery is over.

You white men must have
the same rights we have!

Do not think you are
inferior to the blacks

for the only reason that
you're white, is that clear?

Yes!

So, white man,
why don't you rebel?

Because I'm a poor red!

And whose fault is it?

The government's, your honor.

When the English seem to
discover inside of them

the germ of
the political vocation,

they come here,
in search of an audience.

Even if the audience
consists of one individual

waiting for the bus,
they call him "people"

and yell their political
recipe at him.

Usually the people
shrug and move on,

yet sometimes, here too,
someone is taken seriously,

and earns a seat
at the Parliament.

This man speaks
so highly about "Perfumes."

Don't you smell
the stench of vice?

Don't you
smell the stench of sin?

Wash your dirty souls and free
them with a purifying bath.

Don't remain nailed to
the earth, raise your heads.

Raise your heads,
do you hear me, people?

Raise your heads!
Raise your heads!

Men, tum away
your eyes from us women.

Our body, full of lust,
is your tomb.

I've been working for
six months to prepare

this speech
I wrote for the masses.

What are the masses?
Who put them so down below?

Who messed with
the masses so massively?

They massively obey
the bosses of masses.

The masses are a mess.
Some go to the Mass,

some others just miss it.

After the space,
we must conquer the time.

My government will destroy
all the watches.

Why only the watches?
Let's kill the time, instead.

But destroying watches
is not enough.

Watchmakers
might make more clocks!

Kill the time!

You must avoid temptation.

I will destroy the watchmakers!

Plant lots of flowers!

...to kill the time!

Give them water!

-Do you smell the stench?
-Water the cyclamens!

Horrible stench of sin!

Plant violets!

The stench!

Lots of mimosas!

-They smell good!
-Do you smell the stench?

-They smell good!
-No!

Undoubtedly, politics
can often highly elevate

their representatives.

Take Thomas Jefferson,
for instance,

who ended his career
at an altitude of fifty feet.

Every year, in early summer,

America reenacts, with
this historical performance

at Tombstone, the most
glorious pages of her history.

The most shining pioneers
of modern democracy,

like Jesse the Bandit,
Joe the Ripper, Bloody Jim,

or the killers of
the O.K. Corral, et cetera,

come back to life,
or rather, to death,

on the very stage
of their epic deeds.

The men's pride
and the kids instinct

for imitation are the gems
of this magic program,

even though this year,

the show is missing
some of the most famous

lynching of black men.

The grand finale is always
the happiest moment.

Tombstone, America, is where
peace triumphs over violence.

No more shooting in Tombstone.

Tombstone, in English,
means "grave".

Anyway, everything
is preset in the best way.

All you have to do is chose,

according to
your taste or your means.

From $100 to $20,000.

This Los Angeles store
makes credit deals too.

Their slogan:
"Die now, pay tomorrow"

has been very successful.

When you reach
the age to have a stroke,

you go to the store with
your future widow and choose.

She's always the one
who chooses.

Usually, the one who also
chooses is a clerk,

who is about the husband's size.

After her 4th or 5th widowhood,

she's now an expert
and teaches in a college.

Her students are future
gravediggers, embalmers,

restorers of
the state of California.

These fake human heads,
worn out by the stress

of modern life, are made
of synthetic materials

and all of them are men's heads.

In America,
a woman is immortal

and her departure
is not contemplated.

At the age of only 34,
Mrs. Agatha Connie Russel

passed away in
her Pasadena house.

It's something
no one was prepared for

and it caught
everybody by surprise.

Nonetheless, thanks
to the embalmer's job,

Mrs. Russel is still there,
sitting stiffly on her couch,

making sure the guests have fun
with the appropriate sadness.

Maybe today Mrs. Agatha
looks a little more tolerant

than usual with her husband
who, after one too many,

lets himself go to a sort of
behavior that Mrs. Agatha

would have never granted him.

Meanwhile, during
the funeral cocktail

offered to the family's
friends who gathered

around the dear embalmed body,

the guests drink the prescribed
amount of whisky and tears:

one tear for each glass.

OK, we are on the other face
of the earth,

but do we have a reason
to be cheerful?

Let's face it, we have also
struggled for a whole year.

Why should a silly
pretext like the carnival

be sufficient to suddenly
make us so happy?

The thing is, for months,
we have done nothing but

being harassed and now
it's time for us to get even.

Tomorrow,
the newspapers will say,

with one of their cliché
expressions

that the crowd was having
a fit of collective madness.

Please! This is not
collective madness!

This is a security valve
that starts whistling

just when the boiler
is about to explode.

The newspapers will also
report "some unpleasant

incident caused
by the usual hoodlums."

Well, yes.
We are those hoodlums.

But do you know
how many we are?

Tens, hundreds of millions.

Damn it!
Why don't we have a flag?

Luckily so, in our South
there still are nice young men

who can express
their exuberance

in accordance
with order and legality.

In spite of any gossip, these
are the roosters of our South.

At midnight they will
wisely go to bed

with their cockiness.

The girls already went
to bed with the chickens

which gives this landscape

an unusual atmosphere
of peace and quiet.

It's a springtime
Sunday morning.

The quiet people of Vaturi,
a Sardinian village

that looks like
a nowhere land,

are heading to the main square
to attend

the traditional
recital of the "hard heads".

They think that the people
from Vaturi have

the hardest heads
of the entire island.

The village is proud
of this acknowledgment,

which implies
some sort of supremacy.

So every year they intend
to keep reaffirming

with some kind
of little Olympiad,

which can even offer
some thrills.

To avoid more
unpleasant fractures,

this year, the participants
are required to have

their heads examined at
the hospital before using them.

Silence, now. And let's start.

EVERYBODY ON THE PIAZZA

You see? They made it.

To hit your head against a wall
with the supreme intent

of breaking your head and the
wall is a manly act in which

we believe with all our support.

Heroic people of our depressed

and underdeveloped South,
who run to your dining table

at the rhythm of
your southern drums,

anonymous crowd
that finally awoke and

without wearing
the helmet of Scipio,

have broken your head,
you are all of us!

Yes, I admit it,
I am not very intelligent,

but I'm able to do many,
many things and I have

lots of things in my mind.

Things !--! can do.
I think I can make it

'cause I feel I'm strong,
I have strong--muscles.

So I admit it. I'm not real
intelligent but the fact is--

when I was a kid, couldn't--

couldn't go,
'cause I had little--

I had something else--

We cannot expect much
more from a southern

aspiring actor after
the tough trial of the shutters.

But this crowd that,
in a small southern town,

wants at all cost
a movie audition,

without giving us the joy
of exceptional discoveries,

has nonetheless confirmed
that in these areas people

have an unusual tendency
to hit one's head against

something hard,
be it shutters or cameras.

Lonely Heart. Take one!

What life is this?
Always sad, always lonely.

Without any comfort,
with no one to help me,

to tell me a nice word.

!--! can't,
I can't go on like this.

Many times I tried
to find somebody,

a person to get along with,
I mean a friend,

a friend for my heart.

So, what's left for me to do?

Mind your own business!

-No. Try to be angry.
-Mind your own business!

Sarcastic.

Mind your own business!

-I'm smart, you know?
-Mean it!

-I'm smart, you know?
-I said: mean it!

I'm smart, you know?

-Mean it!
-! am smart, you know?

-Ok, cool, now.
-! am smart, you know?

22. Take one!

Carlo, Vincenzo
and Franco sent me--

they screwed me up!

Carlo stole my cattle,
my sheep, my horses, my cows.

But Franco stole my love
that I love so much--

The Vampire. Take 11!

I was finally able to kill
my uncle Giovanni, but--

but what shall I do
with his body?

To keep it at home
is not possible.

Sooner or later
they'll smell the stench.

Seventeen!

And what did you
prepare for us?

The scene at the hospital
with a dramatic ending.

Where am I?
I'm in a hospital room.

What happened?
Oh, I see my friends!

Franco, Arturo, Giovanni!
Mario! What happened?

Oh, now I remember!
Oh, yesterday, the bus!»

Yes, I'm coming to help you.

Yes! Oh, my God,
my legs are failing--

Clapping! Take two!

And why do you want
to be an actor?

Because I like to travel,
I like women, I like money.

I like to travel
across all Provinces,

especially Castevetrano,
in the Agrigento Province,

the Trapani province
because I'm from

Montallegro,
in the Agrigento Province,

I'm Sicilian and I--
I want to travel because...

I like women, I want to find
blond women, beautiful women,

'cause I'm tired
of being in Sicily.

They're all rednecks,
derelicts, they're all--

Oh holy knife, get rusty
in my heart and make me die.

God, who joined our hands,

before they belonged
to another,

with this very hand
will hit my heart!

-Bravo!
- Thirteen!

What is your piece
de resistance?

-Love at the station.
-Go on, then.

Bruna, please, don't leave.
I won't do that thing again.

Conductor,
please stop the train!

Thank you, conductor.

She was my greatest love.

There are many ways
to act on a stage,

but the way chosen
by Achilles Gropulus,

a Greek artist in search
of fame in Paris,

is the one we definitely
like the least.

Surrounded by
an atmosphere so phony

you can smell it
from a mile away,

the brave Achilles
performs a kind of painting

that he defines as "stomatic",
which, in spite of what we see,

doesn't mean stomach sickening,

but mouth painting,
from Greek "stoma" for mouth.

He also created all the terms

meant to name
all the ingredients of

his stomach-sickening
minestrone.

The horrid hogwash he obtains

by mixing the colors
in his mouth is called

"Divine Vomitus of the Master".

These poor wretches
who keeps jumping

until they spit it on
the canvas are the Stomatitis.

This is the "stomatary"
which, make no mistake,

doesn't mean spittoon,
but "surface hosting

the spits being spit
by the stomatitis."

And the final work,
once accomplished,

is completed by the Master's
stomach-sickening signature.

Here's another one.
He has been ordered

to make ten paintings
to illustrate the German

edition of Divine Comedy
and he's preparing

the sketches
in the right atmosphere.

But this time the thing
is more serious:

this is the German
Horst Sonnering,

the same who won the Gunther
prize for painters in 1953.

Alas? What happened
to the sacred respect for art?

Of the 9 Muses, 3 are slapped
in the face daily.

There's still some respect
for the 9th one: Music.

Today, thank God,
a concert is still a concert!

Nobody, as yet, has ever
slapped music on its face.

Do you hear them?
They want an encore.

We know that too: encores
should never be granted.

But when the audience claps

and asks for an extra dose,
how can one,

in this dog's world,
refuse to give the other cheek?