Mondo Cane Script - Dialogue Transcript

Voila! Finally, the Mondo Cane script is here for all you quotes spouting fans of the Paolo Cavara and Gualtiero Jacopetti cult movie.  This script is a transcript that was painstakingly transcribed using the screenplay and/or viewings of Mondo Cane. I know, I know, I still need to get the cast names in there and I'll be eternally tweaking it, so if you have any corrections, feel free to drop me a line. You won't hurt my feelings. Honest.

Swing on back to Drew's Script-O-Rama afterwards for more free movie scripts!

Mondo Cane Script






'' neglect

your respectable engagements



and to be here with us,

remembering and celebrating



one of the many children

that this generous land



gave to the world

of culture and art.



Rodolfo Guglielmi,

a son of this land... ''



We are at Castellaneta,

in the province of Taranto,



where Mister Semeraro,



vice minister

of the cultural affairs,



is commemorating the honorable

citizen Rodolfo Guglielmi,



son of the late Giovanni

and Gabriella Barbi,



born here on May       



who died in America

on August        .



''...But his persistence,



his energetic nature,

prevailed and captured



the attention of those who

worked in the movie industry



then starting to come to life.



...his path was not spread

with roses,



but there were thorns,

and many of them.



The Latin actors were given

the most hateful roles:



the hoodlum, the bad guy,



the man to be eliminated. ''



At Castellaneta, the community

consists of a few families,



all related.



A lot of the Guglielmi blood

flows among this crowd



that counts dozens of

close and far relatives



of the great late actor.



Among them we can easily find

some legitimate resemblance



with the fateful Rodolfo

who smothered with love



the women of half the world.



''And l'm now glad

to stress the opinion



expressed on Valentino

during his trip to ltaly...''



For    years,



the young men of Castellaneta

have been waiting



for the movie industry

to discover among them



the heir of the great Deceased.



Finally, tonight

the lights go on.



The cameras start humming.



Many anxious eyes

look into the lenses.



Yes, in this little rural

town of the Apulia,



where the land is not generous,



the opportunities offered by

the movie industry seem more



appealing than those offered

by the agricultural reform.



Castellaneta's night

smells more like pomade



than like ripe crops.



And the young one's dream,



enraptured by the sweet

rhythm of tango.



''...of the other communities. ''



But, alas, in Rossano Brazzi,



Rodolfo Valentino has

found his heir a long time ago.



lt's for him today

to perpetuate in America



the Valentinian myth

of the ltalian lover.



That sort of Mr. Love-muscle

that for thirty years



thirty thousand American women

expect to be an ltalian.



Poor Brazzi!

Look what happened to him



when he went to

a big department store



to take shirt measurements

for advertising purposes.



But if American

women are for real,



these women are not joking.



Do you know what they want from

their suntanned Rossano Brazzi?



Well, all we can tell you is

they don't want his autograph.



East of New Guinea,

lies the Trobriand archipelago.



And this is Kiriwina,

the biggest island,



surrounded by dreamlike

beaches and probably



the most beautiful

coral ocean in the world.



Here, the sun shines eternally,

the land is generous,



and nobody works.



Consequently, the general mood

leans toward having a good time.



These women, attractive

and carefree about love,



have been practicing for

centuries on these beaches,



one sport that, here too,

is very popular:



hunting the male.



This sport made them

so famous in the world



that today there isn't

one respectable anthropologist



who doesn't refer

to this archipelago



as one of the few places

in the world



where women still

practice polygamy.



As you can see,

even in Kiriwina,



the rules of the game

remain unchanged.



The male, once captured,

is democratically assigned



to the healthy and thrifty love

appetite of the community.



With maybe the only difference

that here, it's not a custom



to tear up his shirt.



And the male?



Not a problem. Here, like

elsewhere, the male is smart



and knows how to stay

away from danger.



Unfortunately, the male of

the Trobriand, when in fear,



keeps making the mistake

of climbing on something



where, sooner or later,

he will be caught



and forced to nest,

one way or the other.



As you may have noticed,

hunting the male is a sport



that has many analogies

all over the world.



Maybe these women practice

the hunt more like a sport,



so to speak, in the open air

and bare-chested.



But this is the only difference.



After all, in the Riviera,

a region famous for games,



male hunting is practiced in

the open air and bare-chested,



if not literally so.



This woman's child

has been killed.



Now she must nurse a small

pig whose mother died.



This is how the law

of the Cimbus goes,



in the heart of New Guinea.



There's still a place

on this earth



where there is no difference

between the life of child



and that of a pig.



Under an immense sky,

on high mountains



that seemed to raise the land

to the sources of light,



men live surrounded by darkness.



The land, still waiting to know

the secrets of plow and seeds,



is not generous.



lt's the Kingdom of Hunger.



Many of these men

have eaten human flesh,



which used to be

their ancestors' usual food.



The tribe has come down

to the village



where a general celebration

is about to start.



Which, according to a tradition

imposed by poverty,



only happens once every   years.



A violent celebration during

which, for   days and   nights,



they will gulp down meat

until they burst out.



Soon, hundreds of pigs,

the only wealth they gathered



through many years

of starvation,



will be killed

and devoured in a few hours.



Then, back to the long fasting.



lt'll take five

more terrible years



before the survivors

will come back to celebrate



three days of feasting, wearing

bird of paradise feathers.



The cooking of the pigs



is probably more brutal

than their execution.



Here, cooking a pig means,

more or less



burn it here and there.



The dead animals still have

their guts full of bowels.



But the natives don't believe

in such formalities.



Hunger can't wait

for the big moment



when the tribal chiefs

announce that finally,



after   years of waiting,

the meal is ready.



Someone thought

about the children,



and gave up eating the bladders.



Maybe playing soccer

is also an instinct



as ancient as hunger.



Here too, the chiefs

are allowed to eat



as much as they want.



As long as they do it

without looking hungry,



as they are an example

of good eating manners.



Along with the tribal chiefs,



the dogs enjoy a special

treatment too.



lt's maybe some sort

of gentle feeling,



something unexpected

among so much cruelty,



so, we'd be happy

for having discovered it.



Or maybe, these are just

the dogs of the chiefs.



Then we wouldn't have

discovered anything new.



But the country

where compassion for dogs



goes beyond the limits of

human imagination is America.



We are in the canine

cemetery of Pasadena,



in the outskirts of Los Angeles.



The same that inspired

Evelyn Waugh's famous book.



lt's one of those

windy and sunless days



when the sky of California

turns to the color of despair.



Here, the memory of

the deceased, all of them,



is so happy, and this

place is yet so pathetic,



that we could shed a tear or two

over the small graves



of these venerable creatures.



Over their dead ancestors,

these dogs behave in a way



that only to human standards

is irreverent.




only to canine eyes



could the intense human behavior

appear inexplicable.



At Taipei,

in the Formosa island,



dogs receive a different

kind of attention.



They are selected,

raised with extreme care,



made fat, and they get cooked

following old and complex



recipes, for the joy of

a large public of gourmets.



Such restaurants, where the

customers can directly choose



from the cage,

the most appetizing pet,



are extraordinarily

popular all over China.



ln these areas, people are very

fond of Dachshunds, Poodles,



Boxers, Great Dane cubs,



but, usually they have

a preference for the Chow-chow,



those very cute dogs

also appreciated



for their intelligence

and their faithfulness.



ln Rome, when Easter

is approaching,



hundreds and hundreds

of chicks are immersed



in a colored bath and locked up

to dry in a    degree oven.



They are selected, tested

and multicolored guaranteed,



and they are ready to be

locked up in the Easter eggs.



lt is unfortunately estimated

that out of every     chicks



that undergo this treatment,

about    end up being



victims of

some unpleasant accident.



ln Strasbourg, known as

the capital of foie gras,



over half a million geese



undergo every year

this kind of treatment.



Their liver, in order

to swell and get fatter



and reach the right weight,

needs high nutrition.



So every day, the specialized

staff stuffs them



albeit with the help

of a little force,



such a big amount of food

that even the greediest goose,



without supervision, would be

unable to digest in one week.



Up until two years ago,



to prevent the geese from

losing too many calories,



they used to nail

their feet to a plank.



But now, thanks to these

very small cages,



most of all,

thanks to the funnels,



we can obtain

the same amount of foie gras



with a more humane

and civil treatment.



ln Japan, about

    miles from Tokyo,



there is the most sophisticated

cattle farm of the world.



Eight hours a day

these experienced masseurs



take care of the bulls in

order to soften their flesh.



Plus, every bull receives

six liters of beer a day



in order to expedite

their fattening process.



The beer is given to the animals

directly from the bottles



to prevent the liquid

from losing its dilating power.



All the steaks

coming from these bulls



end up in three or four

specialized restaurants



in Tokyo and New York.



They cost approximately

     liras a kilo.



Here, where drinking

beer is unknown,



they resort

to the use of tapioca,



a starch that has more or less

the same fattening qualities



as potatoes.



We are at Tabar,

the largest island



of the Bismarck Archipelago,



where, by tradition, the most

beautiful women of the tribe



are locked up in strong cages



similar to those we've seen

in Strasbourg to fatten geese



and they get filled

with tapioca



until they reach

at least      kilos.



Then, they will be

offered as wives



to the village's dictator,

Utame Alunda,



famous all over the islands

for his physical power



and his odd personality.



The fattening process

goes from   to   months,



meanwhile, Utame Alunda

didn't remain idle.



These are some of his most

recent children,



that he loves to show to

the foreigners in this dance,



as a proof of his virility.



This is his last spouse:



eight children and

one hundred thirty kilos.



This is his favorite wife.



Ten children and     kilos.



And this is

the great chief Alunda:



   children and    kilos.



The American woman, instead, if

she wants to be a lucky lover,



needs to lose weight.



We are in Los Angeles, in one

of the many Vic Tanny gyms,



the famous health gym

specializing in



feminine reshaping.



Here, hundreds of American

women come to spend most of



their recurrent widowhood

in order to eliminate



the weight gained

during their last marriage



and to reconcile

with the law of gravity,



while waiting for the next

inevitable wedding.



Due to the constant flow and

financial weight of its patrons,



the Vic Tanny is a heavy

and prosperous industry.



A must stop in the American's

long trip around marriage.



The next train to the next

honeymoon leaves from here.



A train that whistles,

pants, puffs, sweats, blows,



and then brakes

and stops here again.



ln Hong Kong,

where it's harder to get fat,



about two million hungry Chinese

crowd these local markets



where, for about

    liras a kilo,



you can chose at will,



crocodiles, toads, snakes,

turtles, lizards, et cetera.



Prices, in spite of

the great range of choice,



are generally

considered excessive.



ln New York, instead,

for big spenders,



there is the Colony,

one of the most expensive



and sophisticated

restaurants in the world.



While the average American,

in order to survive,



must settle for the usual steak,



here, the rich Americans can

fully enjoy all this bonanza.



Fried ants, stuffed

roaches, butterfly eggs,



battered worms, rattlesnakes,

muskrats, et cetera.



Most of the Colony's patrons



are internationally famous

gourmets, politicians,



diplomats, tycoons,

church leaders,



aristocrats, et cetera,

et cetera.



Here, a light breakfast

costs about $  .  



about        liras.



But, considering the exceptional

rarity and taste of the food,



the price is usually

thought to be fair.



To open a store like this

in Singapore,



where snake is the national

dish, is always a hassle.



Malaysian customers are very

picky and before they decide



what to buy, they always

choose meticulously.



ln order to really be edible,

snakes must have innumerable



prerogatives: weight, length,

color, age, skin conditions,



a particular season for each

race, et cetera, et cetera.



The Malaysians,

who know them all,



once they choose their snakes,



don't lose track

of them for a moment.



lt is estimated that,

out of     sold snakes,



at least    are discarded

as totally inedible



and are regularly shipped



to the American

and European gourmets.



There is a little village in

the Abbruzzi where the snakes



are part of an ancient

and gentle tradition.



At Cucullo, on Saint Dominick's

Day, the statue of the saint



is carried through

the procession.



And the believers follow it



with their hands full of

these harmless creatures.



ln ancient times,

as the legend goes,



the valleys of this region

were infested with vipers



which the saint,

with the power of his love,



made harmless by depriving

them of their poison.



Beyond its pagan aspect

and its unusual folklore,



the ceremony reveals

an ancient and deep



act of faith toward goodness.



The name of the village

is Nocera Tirinese,



in the region of Calabria.



The day is a Good Friday,



and the police are trying



in vain to implement

the priest's request.



He's been trying for

a few years to convince



the believers to give up

the ritual, the ''battienti''.



The ''battienti'' perpetuated

through the centuries



a tradition whose

origins are obscure.



On every Good Friday,

they flagellate their legs



using wooden disks

full of fragments of glass



and run to spread

their blood on the streets



where, in a few hours,

the procession,



with a crucifix,

will pass by.



Nocera Tirinese is a small,

hidden village in Calabria.



lt's their way to exalt

Christ's flagellation.



These girls, all between

   and    years old,



who parade in the streets

of Sydney,



belong to the Life

Savers Girl Association,



that is, the girls

who rescue the people



who are about to drown

in the Pacific Ocean.



So now the Australians

have two Armies:



The famous Salvation Army,

whose goal has been,



for a long time,

the rescuing of the souls



and this one,

more recently established,



whose goal is

the rescuing of the body.



But, to avoid unpleasant




the two armies have been

given different uniforms.



Today, the Association

celebrates, on Manley Beach,



the decade of its formation

with a big display.



Of course,

under the circumstances,



the rescues are imaginary,

therefore, any reference



to real drowned people

is purely coincidental.



But the most interesting

phase of the rescuing



is undoubtedly the CPR,



a treatment judged as

very beneficial by all those



who have received it.



On these beaches, the physical

importance of the life savers



speaks for itself.



The ocean is tricky

and the young Australians



are getting more and more

reckless each day.



For   days, this long stream

of small white flakes



has been leading us toward

our next adventure.



They are migrating butterflies,



killed by the radioactivity

of these waters.



We are in the Pacific Ocean,



a few miles

from the Bikini atoll.



Ten years ago,

after the explosion



of the last American H-bomb,



a few types of birds

which used to stay



in their underground nests

only during the brooding,



learned that,

if they wanted to survive,



they must no longer come out.



Such an instinct, caused

by a long forgotten event,



was transmitted to

the following generations.



And now these birds, rather

than coming out of their holes,



let themselves be captured.



But this is just one sign

of the dramatic alteration



of the fauna

in this archipelago.






the animals seem to mistrust

their natural habitat.



Even some fish,

like this particular specimen,



which can usually

live out of the water



only for a very short time,



not only have learned

to leave the polluted



and radioactive ocean

for many hours a day,



but they even migrated

to the top of the trees.



Thousand of eggs

that will never hatch



cover the surface of the atolls.



They are the eggs of sea gulls

and other birds.



Sterile eggs that died

before they were even laid.



This sea bird went out

looking for food,



but every night,

it still comes back



to sit on them.



The atom killed the seed

of life in the eggs.



Atomic contamination,

even more tragically,



destroyed the sense of

orientation in the sea turtle.



Tired and lost,

rather than toward the sea,



the animal walks

into the inner land,



where it will be killed

by heat and fatigue.



Some eggs of the barret

hatched in this island



and the chicks watch

the turtle's agony in amazement.



The turtle, like in a mirage,

believes it's back in the sea.



Hundreds of turtles

die every day



in this hot desert of sand.



The barrets nest inside

the big skeletons.



The little ones look for

some meat among the bones.



The natives of the Malay

islands bury their dead



in this immense

underwater cemetery.



Their religion teaches

that the sea washes the bodies



and frees them from sin.



Only during the day are these

waters empty and still.



At night, the sharks

rush in to perpetrate



their devastating action.



They only leave the bones,

which the friends



and families of the dead

arrange, with macabre pity,



among the bizarre

coral branches.



ln these waters, the sharks

of the Malay coast learned



how to feed on human flesh



and become man eaters.



Catching man eaters is

the only resource in Raiputh,



a village on the Malay coast.



Fishermen who were disabled

by the sharks' bites



pile up in the sun

dried fins on the beach.



They will sell them

to rich Chinese communities,



where they are thought to have

a strong aphrodisiac power.



Every day in Raiputh,

a fisherman doesn't come back,



or returns in this condition.



But the village is poor and the

Chinese pay well for their vice.



So the sacrifice goes on.



The only alternative to despair

and pain is revenge.



Today there has been

another victim.



ln these waters,

a    -year-old boy



has been devoured by a shark.



Today the fishermen of Raiputh

give up their prey.



They give it back to the sea



with a poisoned sea-urchin

stuck in its throat.



lt will suffer at least

for one week before it will die.



ln the Roman cemetery

of the Capuchins,



death has been assigned

a decorative task.



A few centuries ago,

maybe the monks wanted



to give this place

a sense of immortality.



ln spite of its gruesome

results, this work shows



a certain sense of beauty, which

is always motivated by love.



Love that survives death,

death that survives love.






Still in Rome,

on the Tiberina island,



the ''Red Sacks'' brotherhood

keeps carrying out its mission.



The ''Red Sacks'' brotherhood

started around the     's



upon the initiative

of some Romans who,



during the plague, wanted

to bury the abandoned bodies



of the poor and the unknown.




after so many centuries,



the ''Red Sacks'' still look

after their mortal remains,



the sole but eloquent evidence

of the old compassion.



Protecting the bones

from the ravages of the time



is the task of some local

families who gather here



once a week on Fridays

to work and to pray.



Just like these Germans

from Hamburg,



let's drown the memory of

so many cemeteries in the beer.



lnstead of focusing

on the cult of death,



in this happy German beer-house

on Repabahm Strasse,



our attention goes now

to the cult of life.



Life as happiness

for being alive,



freedom of spirit,

agility, physical health,




peacefulness, oblivion.



But most of all,



complete absence of any memory

or thought of death.



Who said, ''Drink beer

and you'll live to be    ''?



But the Japanese in Tokyo,

after a very busy night,



come straight in here

to get back in shape.



This is a Tokyo Onsen,



a real service station

to wash and lube



those Japanese who got drunk

on the previous night.



The perfect functioning

of the company depends on



some hundred girls

in shorts and bras,



so that the patrons,

besides so many tortures,



can at least comfortably

enjoy the landscape.



According to a gentle

Japanese custom,



the patrons must be naked.



We covered him according

to a gentle custom of ours.



Japan is maybe the cleanest

country in the world.



The rituals of bathing

and massage



are as old as its civilization.



ln Tokyo, a city with

   million people,



  million women tend every

day to   million men,



pampering, flattering,

serving and rubbing them,



in order to make their lives

more pleasant,



according to an old,

admirable tradition.



So, Japanese men,



with every inch of

their bodies taken care of,



without the smallest

personal effort,



can taste

the heavenly relaxation



that their god

will only grant them



in the afterlife.



Chinese men too,

give themselves up



to the hands of a woman on

the day of their last makeup.



They entrust

to her seductive arts



their uncertain fate to come.



Buddha is a wayward god,

very impressionable,



and when he opens the gates

of the flowering garden,



he cares more for the looks than

for the virtues of the dead.



This is the funeral

of a rich Chinese



in a temple of

the city of Macao.



Friends are bringing food

to his altar,



so he can nourish himself

during his long trip.



Then they bow before

the mourning family.



ln a corner,

a woman burns his money,



which, only this way,

will be able to follow him



and preserve for him,

in heaven, what to every



Chinese is the utmost good

of this life and the other:






The heirs attend in tears

the sad ceremony.



Not only here in Singapore,

but in all Malaysia,



the Chinese represent over

a third of the population.



Never tired to figure out

a thousand ways of making money,



they are nonetheless famous

for their physical laziness.



They don't swim, run,

jump, or play soccer.



As the Chinese

don't waste their money,



likewise, they don't waste

their energies,



which they prefer

to use around the table



or in bed.



Between snacks, the Chinese

find the time to fill



their houses with children,

legitimate and illegitimate.



This guarantees a big bunch

of birthdays to celebrate



with abundant meals.



The Chinese celebrate

everything by eating:



Religious and national

holidays, business,



a competitor's failure,



an averted danger, births,



and even death.



Here we're not allowed

to photograph.



We had to force

the situation to show you



Singapore's ''home of the dead''.



All the terminally ill

end up dwelling here,



in this tragic hotel

for the dying.



The Chinese homes,

full with children,



have no place for them.



Down the streets,

their relatives,



relaxed and confident,

wait for their funeral.



lf you don't die soon,

sing the Chinese,



your good dinner gets cold.



lf they see us eating,

say the Chinese,



they'll get hungry too.



Death is still late

and the Chinese urge the gods



with a dance.



To the cars, the house

of the dead is America.



California kills three

of them every   hours.



They get dumped

in these cemeteries,



but their remains

will not be eternal.



Compressed to save space,



thousands of Fords, Chevrolets,

Chryslers, Oldsmobiles,



Cadillacs, Lincolns, Buicks,

no longer need any repair.



But they're not yet at the end

of their destiny.



Soon they will be shipped to the

great European car factories,



where the modern mechanical




will bring them back

to life as cars,



with a new, more humble

label: ''economy vehicle''.



Correction: not all of them

will come back as cars.



ln Paris, in one of the most

respectable modern art stores,



we recognized the remains

of an old Ford,



whose name was changed

into a charming



''Esprit de la Carrosserie'',

''Spirit of Chassis''.



The price:

half a million francs.



The Czech painter

Yves Klein is ready.



Music gave him the thrill.



These models, covering

themselves with paint,



are the human brushes

that soon Klein will use



to turn his creative

fever into art.



You may have guessed, by now,



that Klein's favorite

color is blue.



Moreover, blue is his only form,

his only color.



Blue like his pictures that sell

like hot cakes in Paris.



Blue like the event that

our camera is approaching,



which most venerable critics

consider as the utmost



Klein masterpiece,

whose dominant color,



as any connoisseur may guess,

happens to be blue.



Dripping with blue,

the human brushes



leave their prints

on the canvas,



while Klein guides

them from afar,



with the energy of

his creative genius.



The work, that we had

the privilege to catch



in all the phases

of its creation,



is on sale for only

  million francs.



ln search of tropical,

impressive views,



and the picturesque aspects

of primitive life,



three thousand American

tourists arrive in Honolulu.



Yearning for romantic

experiences and eager



to face

unexpected adventures,



they will follow the program



of the ''Hawaiian Travels

Organization'' that,



for only $    

taxes included,



organized for them    days

of a ''very exciting holiday,''



as it is advertised

in the brochure,



a vacation across a ''tropical

dance and paradise of love.''



The paradise of love and dance.



The first page of

the Hawaiian Travels'



long and detailed

program says that



the landing ceremony

will take place in a charming



Hawaiian atmosphere

and according to



the romantic customs

of this love island.



Therefore the company's

management invites



the gentle ladies not to be

jealous of the innocent



attention that the splendid

Hawaiian girls



will direct to their husbands.



Soon after,

the company's photographer,



provides the tourists

with their arrival souvenirs,



which includes,

according to the program,



smiles and flowers leis

that the splendid



Hawaiian girls

lay on their guests



with amazing generosity.



The speaker is now informing

the tourist



about the main customs

of this tropical paradise.



He says:



''Ladies and gentlemen,

fate has been generous with you



by giving you the privilege



to visit this island

before it was too late.



The beautiful women

who are giving you



this charming performance

are the last specimen



of a race

that is disappearing.



lt's a pity you can't savor



a bit of their

very sweet language. ''



They sing:



''Welcome, welcome,

strong and handsome white man.



Welcome, welcome, seductive

and beautiful white woman.



You will teach me the secret

of your elegance wherefore



you can seduce your men.



l will teach you the secret

of my dance wherefore



l seduce mine.



Come, come to learn the Hula.



This, ladies and gentlemen,

is the Hula.



You think it's too difficult?



Of course,

ladies and gentlemen,



but nothing is impossible

as Abraham Lincoln used to say.



Look at that dancer.

She's the best in the island.



But, ladies and gentlemen,

when she was a child,



she was struck by polio

and do you know what



had the power to free

her poor crippled limbs?



The Hula,

ladies and gentlemen.



The Hula and her willpower. ''



They listened, clapped,

had fun and got moved,



exactly as it was written

in the program.



And now that the program

prescribes a Hula lesson,



they go to learn Hula,

nice and diligent.



This candid generation

of once hard workers now



believe in the Hula, in theirs

and other people's happiness,



while they enjoy

a little murdering rest,



with their first symptoms

of arthritis.



They still believe

in this tropical paradise



that they have destroyed

and where the only real,



genuine native dance we can

still attend, is this one.



After six hours

of cold steel training,



Sergeant Rhuba Narcktitle

is being made up as a woman.



The situation

is pretty embarrassing,



for a fierce warrior who,

only a few years ago,



during the war against

the Malaysian communists,



decapitated    partisans.



But today is

a national holiday



and the tradition wants him

to celebrate it with a dance



in a woman's costume.



The fierce Gurkhas

live in the mountains of Nepal.



For one and half century,

they have been mercenaries



under the English empire.



According to the tradition,

their celebration must be



attended by

all English officers,



their commander-in-chief




Seeing them in this circumstance

and dressed like women,



nobody would believe

they are the fiercest



and most faithful soldiers

in the world.



Still, during the last war,

when they were captured



by the Japanese,     of them

preferred to be decapitated



rather than betray

their promise of loyalty



to her British Majesty.



Today is the anniversary

of that memorable day



and the Gurkhas celebrate it

with great solemnity.



This time too, the bull's head

has fallen with one strike.



The honor of

the battalion is saved.



The spirit of the fallen

Singapore soldiers is at peace.



The English officers

watch with satisfaction.



The English colonel

encircles the heads



of the champions

with a white strap,



a symbol of strength,

fidelity and bravery.



About a month later,

in Portugal, a few bulls



take their revenge

goring and killing   people,



and injuring   .



We are at Vila Franca

de Xira, where the people



happily celebrate

the traditional ''Forcada''.



Later on, in the arena,



the nobles too give

a proof of their courage.



On these mountains of

the Garoka region in New Guinea,



lies the border between

history and prehistory.



Here we found the last cave man,

still armed with a club.



He doesn't even know metal,

he lives in the unreachable



caves of the mountain with

his women and children,



he's as wild and suspicious

as a beast.



We don't know how

he'd react if he spotted



our camera pointed at him.



Rather than by a camera,

these images seem to be



caught by a huge telescope

pointed into time.



They could be the shadow,

the photographic memory



of the stone age.



This day, this moment,

goes back   or   thousand years.



Nothing particular is happening.



Now as in the past,

life goes on under the eternal



guide of their instinct

for work, leisure, children,



food, human contact

and an orderly social life.



   miles north of there,

a Catholic mission marks



the extreme outpost

of civilization.



Five missionaries have been

killed in recent years



before the sound

of a bell could awake,



through these old valleys,

the instinct of faith.



Here, after hundreds of

centuries spent in the dark,



men discover, for the first

time, that there's a doubt,



a question they cannot answer,



sense of anguish,

unknown so far,



which is not hunger

or thirst or physical pain,



but that hurts,

nonetheless, like a wound.



lt's the anguish that follows

men from the beginning



to the end of world.



But they still don't know it.



Only yesterday

they discovered the world



and themselves and today

they need to believe,



to hope that they'll be better

in a better world.



But one fine day,



the aboriginal comes down

from the mountains and,



as he approaches the coast,



his experience runs across

hundred of centuries



in a few days.



Here, at the gates of

Port Moresby airport,



where the aboriginal ends

his journey through the time



and where he cannot find

a reason to all the things



he learned,

but saw too quickly,



the ''Cargo Cult'' has

burgeoned inside of him,



that is, the cult of

these cargo airplanes.



Along the great oceanic

course between



Hong Kong and Australia,

flown every day by tens



of cargo airplanes

that stop here in Moresby,



the Cargo Cult has a temple

almost everywhere.



Here is one,



with the altar built at

an altitude of      meters.



The small airplane

is at one end of the track.



On the other end,

the control tower.



The native of

the Rozo and Mekeo tribes



wait for some airplane,

attracted by their bamboo decoy,



to land on this track.



To them, airplanes

come from heaven,



sent by their ancestors,

but the white men,



those cunning thieves,

take charge of them



and lure them

in the big Port Moresby trap.



Build your airport too,

says the Cargo Cult doctrine,



and wait with faith.



Sooner or later

your ancestors will find out



the treachery and will lead

the airplanes to your track.



Then you'll be rich and happy.



They wait motionless,

scanning the sky.



There is no other world

beyond these mountains,



so the big birds that fly up

there can only come from heaven.



ln heaven,

there are only their dead



and only their dead

could build them.



The spirits of the dead

do not know the whites,



so all those wonderful things

carried by the airplanes



are sent to them by

their dead ancestors.



They destroyed their villages,

they abandoned their jobs,



but here they are,



still waiting with faith

at the gates of heaven.



Special help by SergeiK