Primitive London (1965) Movie Script

# So what do you want
to make those eyes at me for?
# When they don't mean what they say
# They make me sad, they make me glad
# They make me want a lot of things
that I never had
# You're fooling around with me now
# You lead me on and then you run away
# Well, that's all right
I'll get you alone some night
# And then you'll surely find
you're flirting with dynamite
# So what do you want
to make those eyes at me for?
# When they don't mean what they say
NARRATOR: When this song was new,
automobiles were a novelty,
aeroplanes had yet to fly,
and 67 million men were still to die
in two world wars.
Yet the sentimental message
still reaches us loud and clear.
Man is a sentimental creature.
And sentimentality, like Charles II,
is "an unconscionable time a-dying."
# So what do you want
to make those eyes at me for?
# When they don't mean what they say
# When they don't mean what they say #
NARRATOR: In a city like London
with its nine million people,
you have to look hard
for evidence of sentimentality,
but it is there.
"We are a civilized
people, " they will say,
then they'll be insulted to be reminded
that they are also animals.
Sentimentality shies away
from the realities of life and death.
In our world, 6,000 people die every hour,
yet few civilized people
have seen a dead body.
Every hour, 14,000 people are born.
Yet, unconsciously, sentimentally,
we prefer to smudge over
the first and last facts of life.
Medical science has made childbirth safe.
But no matter how sophisticated the apparatus
and skills gathered around the birth,
the event itself is, in every sense,
a fundamental and unchanging miracle
constantly renewed.
A gynecologist attending this birth said
it was the most difficult he'd ever known,
and he had delivered over 5,000 babies.
All men are born equal,
but this baby will have to fight
harder than most for life.
The first convulsive gasp for breath.
The cord is cut. The last link of the child
to his mother is severed.
Now he is a separate being,
and must, as life is pounded into him,
begin to discover his separate identity.
These feet must carry
him far in this world.
That is, if he lives at all.
He must tread warily in a society
which seeks to categories.
The lines are drawn,
the route through life mapped early.
The child defines the limits
the adult will observe.
The friendships now established,
the values set, the pattern for the future.
The prep school will lead him
through higher education
to affluence and possible influence.
A nicely-ordered existence
where expensive gadgetry
smooths a calmly correct life.
The primary school
will make him a wage-earner,
a man with a number.
He has little affluence,
and significance only in mass
at times of election.
These lines are drawn early.
But on his way to these ordered categories,
he will find a no man's
land called teenage.
Perhaps he will become a mod.
"Mod" is a generic term
for the modern young man.
He rides a motor scooter,
likes brightly-colored clothes,
and tolerates mod girls as an accessory.
He doesn't know that the emergence
of the peacock trend in male dress
was forecast by sociologists
after the end of World War II.
Sociologists saw that, in the 60s,
there would be more eligible boys than girls
for the first time in many centuries.
Clothes would be brighter.
And to meet this demand, the male boutique
made its appearance in London.
At first laughed at,
they are now firmly established
trendsetters among the mod teenage boys.
The colored trousers, the scarlet jacket,
none of this would have been conceivable
15 years ago on a man.
The clothes are distinctive,
they are his identifying uniform.
They proclaim his assertion
and his acceptance of the group mold.
The rockers are another teenage category.
They deride the mods' dress display,
but they peacock in their own way,
just as frantically.
Metal studs in leather jackets,
the leather wear itself, the jackboots,
these are just as much
a proclamation of group identity.
To discover their philosophy,
we shall return to them later.
Another group is the beatniks.
Their name has something of defeat in it.
They pride themselves on
their non-conformity.
But their very revolt
serves to emphasize the norms
against which they
proclaim their rejection.
# Now, John Henry, he was a little baby
# He was sitting on his pappy's knee
# Lord, he gave out a long and lonesome cry
# Said, "This hammer is
gonna be the death of me
# "Lord, Lord
# "This hammer is going
to be the death of me"
# Young Henry was working on the rail road
# His hammer was striking fire
# And the mountain was so tall
John Henry was so small
# Lord, he laid down his hammer
Lord, he died, yeah, yeah
# He laid down his hammer and he died
# Some say he's from Texas
# And some say he's from France
# But I know he's just a Louisiana boy
# He died with a hammer
in his hand, Lord knows
# He died with a hammer in his hand #
- MAN: What's your name?
- Michael.
- How old are you, Michael?
- Twenty.
- Do you work, Michael?
- No.
- What do you do?
- I write poetry.
- You write poetry?
- Yeah.
- Is this your aim in life, to write poetry?
- Yes, it is.
- Had anything published?
- No, not as yet. No.
- Can you quote me a stanza from...
- The only one I can remember offhand is
one of my early ones, and it's,
"I turned right into heaven and saw that
pothead Peter polishing the keys to the pad."
That's all I can remember of it.
Tell me, I'm intrigued, that key
in your ear, what's that for?
Well, it's purely for decoration.
It's me nickname, you know.
- What's your nickname again?
- Jailer.
- Jailer. Tell me one thing, Michael.
- Yeah.
- Do you believe in free love?
- Yeah.
- Where were you educated?
- Berkhamsted Public School,
Northwestern Polytechnic,
and in my bedroom.
In your bedroom? I see.
- Many of them.
- Many of them.
- Do you believe in marriage?
- If people love each other, they are married.
- I see. How about you, David?
- I believe in it, um...
Choice of the two people
as individuals, as well as together.
You mean, if you like one another,
you live together?
Yes. I think one should live together
for a certain time beforehand, though.
MAN: What do you think about it?
BOY: I don't believe in marriage.
You don't believe in it. Would you
live with a girl if you liked her?
- Certainly.
- How about children, would you have them?
I believe there ought to be some form
of contract written for children,
in the case of children.
# I got my brand on you
# I got my brand on you, yeah
# I got my brand on you
# I got my brand on you
Oh, yeah
- MAN: How old are you, Sammy?
- 16.
Sixteen. Where do you work,
or what do you do?
Well, I work at Waterloo.
I work in an office.
- I see. Would you say you're a beatnik?
- No.
- You're not?
- No.
- Suzy, how old are you?
- 17.
- Seventeen. What do you do?
- I'm an insurance typist.
- Are you a beatnik?
- No.
- No? Why do you come here?
- 'Cause I've got a lot of friends here.
- Boyfriends or girlfriends?
- Both.
- Both girlfriends and boyfriends?
- Yeah.
- Would you like to marry a beatnik?
- I don't know.
How about you?
Would you like to marry a beatnik?
- No, I wouldn't.
- You wouldn't?
# Well, you can go to the east
# Go to the west
# I don't care where you go, baby
As long as you come back
# I got my brand on you
# I got my brand on you
# Oh, yeah
# There ain't nothing you can do, love
# I got my brand on you #
- MAN: What's your name?
- Larry.
- Would you like to say a few words?
- "A few words."
MAN: A few words.
Very good, very good, Larry.
- Tell me, what do you do for a living?
- Nothing.
- Nothing at all? How do you live?
- I don't, I exist.
- Who supports you?
- My dad.
My dad? Good old dad.
- What's your name, dear?
- Anne.
- Do you know Larry?
- Yes.
- Are you his girlfriend?
- No, but we're very intimate, though.
- You're very intimate?
- Yes.
- Together, that is?
- Yes, together.
Very good. Tell me,
what do you think about beatniks?
- I think they're great.
- You think they're great?
Do you believe in...
Well, tell me, what is a beatnik?
- GIRL: A great nit!
- (LAUGHING) A great nit!
- MAN: Do you think you're a great nit?
- No, I'm not a beatnik.
Well, you just told me
beatniks are great nits.
It wouldn't... I'm not a beatnik.
- You're not a beatnik?
- No!
- Anne, are you a beatnik?
- No.
- Larry, surely you are?
- I'm a tramp.
- You're just a plain old...
- ANNE: He's a bum.
- He's a bum? Are you sure?
- ANNE: Yes.
- How much is that camera worth?
- That camera? Two or three hundred quid.
- Ever thought of flogging it?
- Well, we pawn it now and again.
- William's uncle's down the road.
- Uncle's down the road, well done.
What's your definition of a beatnik?
Well, I don't like the word myself,
because if you ask the average person
in the street what a beatnik is,
they'll immediately turn around and say,
"A person who doesn't wash, doesn't work,
"just got long, filthy hair
and is a parasite on society."
MAN: And you think this is entirely wrong?
- Yes, it is entirely wrong.
- Entirely wrong. Thank you very much.
- Have you been playing together long?
- Yeah, about two years right now.
- Two years?
- Yeah.
What's your ambition, Ryan?
To be the top harmonica player in this country,
what I've always wanted to be, you know.
Wonderful. Tell me,
what do you do in the summer?
Well, we go down the south of France,
usually Cannes,
and busk around the cafs,
and make a few bob. It's pretty good.
- How do you get down there?
- Oh, we go by train.
It costs 12.10 from London to Cannes,
you know.
Oh, I see. Sounds like an advert
for British Railways.
- Well, that's all right.
- I see. And in England, what do you do?
Well, folk singing, and that,
we go busking down the stations
and a few folk clubs,
that kind of thing, you know.
Which station? Mainline?
No. Piccadilly Circus
Underground station, usually.
- Piccadilly Circus? I see.
- Saturday night.
- And how do you get on?
- Eight pound a night.
- Got a girlfriend?
- Me? No.
You know, I just get them when I can,
you know.
But no, I'm not living at home at the moment.
Now I'm living down at Brompton Road.
- Just off the old Brompton Road.
- Do you believe in marriage?
Uh, this I can't really say now, you know.
- I don't really know.
- I see.
- But you'll give it a miss for a while, anyway?
- Yeah.
NARRATOR: There are others
belonging to no group
because they are unaware of themselves
as members of any society.
They dissipate their identity
in complete passivity.
They become reduced
to human adjuncts of a machine.
And the machine's flashing lights
lend an air of action, of doing something,
a sedative to cover an attitude
of cynical indifference.
And there are adult activities which display
a curious mixture of all these elements.
- Good morning, Charles.
- Morning, Larry.
- Good morning, Basil.
- Oh, morning.
Oh, under the weather.
You haven't taken your fizzy health drink
this morning.
- He was on the booze last night.
- I understand.
- Well, what's on this morning?
- Now, let's see, just one job. Five words.
- We should be finished in an hour.
- I'll bet.
- Mac.
- Morning, all, what's the job?
Well, we were just talking about you.
Now, I'll show you,
this is the original storyline.
I see. All right, now. "The...
"The customer enters supermarket,
passes coffee display, stops, moves back,
"moves hand towards Brand A,
stops, and then..."
That's been scrubbed, Mac.
The sponsor thought that...
Even to show Brand A being considered
would be wrong.
- Right. How did you know?
- So?
So then the customer is going to see
a display of our product.
- Now that's been scrubbed.
- You're right.
The sponsor didn't feel that that shows
that our product beats all the others.
- So?
- So, now we have the customer
entering the grocery store
and asking advice about the best coffee.
Don't tell me. And the grocer,
a nice, friendly old man
who acts like everybody's favourite uncle,
looks wise, points to a sign which reads,
guess what?
"Seor Coffee is real good."
- Mac, you must have written the script.
- And that's been scrubbed.
Oh, let's say it's been altered a little,
but the punchline remains the same.
All right. Well, now,
what sort of voice would you like?
I was thinking of something like...
Like this, perhaps.
"Seor Coffee is real good."
Or perhaps...
"Seor Coffee, it is really good."
"Seor Coffee, it is real good."
Very good, Mac. Very good.
But now, the agency just wants a soft sell,
a nice, easy reading.
Ah, I see, you mean, like...
Seor Coffee is real good.
That's fine. Now, we should be
finished in 30 minutes.
Wanna bet?
NARRATOR: The 20th century has
its own particular booby trap.
The synthetic.
We deal in synthetic emotion,
synthetic music,
ready-made opinions
and hand-me-down philosophy.
In this school, girls are taught
the technique of the striptease dancer.
The law of supply and demand
works everywhere.
To these pupils, there's no art of dancing.
Merely a few rudimentary rules to be mastered
along the road to making a little money.
As these girls come into London
from the provinces and suburbs,
they find a need and they fill it.
The sadness is not in them,
but in a society that demands
the substitute, the synthetic.
In this case, synthetic,
and mostly cynically indifferent eroticism.
These pupils are not at grips
with the need for self-expression.
There's no talent
struggling for recognition,
merely the acceptance of
another way of making a living.
There's no star status to aim for,
no hope of achievement.
It's a job of work which enables a girl
to capitalize on a pair of good legs
and a well-built body.
The clubs these girls will work in
are a far cry from the plush nightspots.
Usually, they'll be cellars
with a minimum of decor.
The idea is to get the overheads, like the
girls, down to the barest essentials.
Stimulating demand is essential
to the nation's economy.
Stimulating the male
is essential to the female.
A topless dress...
LOUIS: I can do anything, I'm the director.
HARRY: And I'm the editor,
and I say you can't do it.
LOUIS: You do it the way I tell you, okay?
Now, cut to close shot.
- What's that?
- HARRY: It's a cow.
LOUIS: A cow I can see.
What's it doing in my picture?
HARRY: What do you got against cows?
LOUIS: In fields, nothing.
In my picture, I want girls.
Where's those shots of the girls
in that topless swimsuit?
- Harry, are you some kind of nut?
- That's a very beautiful shot, Louis.
- It has grace, artistry.
- LOUIS: If it isn't too much trouble.
- HARRY: They'll never show it.
- Not enough grace or artistry, you mean?
HARRY: Too much girl.
LOUIS: You interest me, Harry.
You've got anything against girls?
Are you married?
- HARRY: No, Louis, you know...
- I got it. You want an award. That's it, isn't it?
HARRY: I feel the need to express myself.
LOUIS: You're aching for recognition.
HARRY: Yeah.
- You're intellectually aware.
- Yeah, yeah.
- You're stimulated.
- Yeah, Louis, yeah.
- You're creative.
- That's it, Louis.
LOUIS: You're fired.
Now, what's this thing doing?
NARRATOR: A few years ago,
young ladies learned the gentle arts
of crochet and country dancing.
In a newer, tougher world,
they need to learn
the less gentle art of self-defense.
Judo flourishes.
It has become an Olympic sport,
but unlike most sports,
it has no derivation in war.
It is purely a defensive skill,
and cannot be used effectively in attack.
It is a means of turning aggression
against itself.
Judo was developed in 1882
from the earlier Japanese art of jujitsu.
The male-dominated Japanese society
can never have envisaged
this female assault on the male.
But the possibilities for any girl
acquiring the skill are endless.
"I don't want to force you, darling,
but don't you agree I need a new dress?"
Don't make him too dizzy,
or he won't be able to sign his cheque.
Both judo and kendo originated in Japan,
a society which learned many centuries ago
the use of ritualistic courtesies
to compensate for the pressures
of an overcrowded population.
Unlike judo, kendo is aggressive.
It is attack, attack and attack again.
No defense is taught.
The slashing, stamping stance
derives from the battle exercises
of the ancient samurai warriors.
Kendo remains an exercise in aggression.
And in the modern, aggressive world,
you can't start getting into the
spirit of things too young.
Kendo, unlike judo, is an exercise
with no practical application.
That is, unless the student has ambitions
to become a samurai.
Surrounded by ritual formality, perhaps,
but nakedly aggressive in fact.
Today, selling is aggressive, too.
- Let's have one for level, Mac.
- "Seor Coffee is real good."
- Fine for me.
- Sounds good to me.
- Can we go for a take?
- Why not?
Morning, people. How's it going?
Hello, Roger. About to roll.
You're just in time.
Well, you just carry on.
I'll probably only stay a few minutes.
- Where have I heard that before?
- Who's doing the reading?
- Mac. He's over there.
- Oh, so it is. I see him.
- Morning, Mac.
- Morning, Roger. How's the agency?
Fine, fine.
You told him the sort of reading we want?
Nice and easy, a soft sell?
I told him. Roger was just saying
the sponsor wants a nice, easy reading.
- Okay, got it.
- MAN: Ready to roll.
- Ready.
- Call it.
Stand by.
This is take one of
Seor Coffee TV commercial.
Fifteenth submission, rectified
and revised. Action.
Here we go.
- Seor Coffee is real good.
- Cut. How is that, Larry?
- Level sounded good to me.
- What do you think, Roger?
First-class. Just what we want.
You are gonna have an insurance take,
aren't you?
- How about it, Larry?
- May as well. Just for safety.
Well, as we are going again,
do you mind if I say a word to Mac?
Go ahead.
Mac, could you emphasize
the last word just a little,
bring out the fact that
the product is good?
Emphasize "good".
- Right, will do.
- Mac, don't lose that nice, easy approach.
- MAN: Take two.
- "Seor Coffee is real good."
- MAN: Cut.
- Great improvement, great improvement.
- What do you think, Basil?
- It impressed me.
- Does that wind it up?
- Well, no.
As we've got a little time,
I'd like to make an observation to Mac.
- Mac, could you this time accentuate "real"?
- Yes, certainly.
- I think it will flow better.
- MAN: Take three.
- "Seor Coffee is real good."
- MAN: Cut.
- How was it, Roger?
- Fantastic. A really first-class reading.
Nothing harsh. A nice, soft sell.
There's just one thing, though...
NARRATOR: There's always a search
for the biting emphasis,
for the edge on your competitors.
This applies to everyday life as well.
We see it at work
in this famous London hatter's.
In most men's hatter's,
it's a matter of rummaging though stock
until you find a hat
that fits, more or less.
But here at Lock's of St James,
no such chance is taken.
No, that's not the hat.
That's a device for measuring
the exact conformation of the head,
the machine that makes
tiny pinpricks on paper.
This becomes the personal pattern
of the shopper,
and will allow the assistant to make sure
the hat fits perfectly.
Stored way in these files, there are
literally tens of thousands of patterns
belonging to some of the world's
most distinguished heads.
The paper pattern is fitted to this brows,
it's called in the trade,
and the contours of the hat
are shaped to the brow.
No matter where he may be,
in any part of the world,
the customer has merely to state the style
and color of hat he requires,
and he will receive a hat
which is a perfect fit.
A little pressing,
to add that extra snap to the brim.
A derby, known in London as a bowler,
is nowadays the epitome of city elegance.
It originated as the original crash helmet,
protecting the skull from injury in case of
a fall from a horse in the hunting field.
There, fine! Now he's set for life.
Unless his new elegance causes
his head to swell, or he gets a haircut.
Hair makes for different problems
with different people.
These two girls start with
widely different hair,
but both are determined
on the same final effect,
sleekly groomed and coiffured heads.
Doesn't seem possible?
Well, when a woman wants something,
she usually gets it.
With the fizzy, tight curls,
there's the primary problem
of straightening out to be dealt with.
While for the straighter hair,
the process goes ahead quite quickly.
Lotions, curling pins and
all the paraphernalia
that women have demanded
and got over the years.
For the more recent problems
of the frizzy head,
the chemists came up
with this de-frizzing cream.
Your hair can be straighter than straight.
Now, every man knows
he couldn't get this service from science
for any problem, like, say, baldness.
But if women suffered from baldness,
the scientists would be working
night and day to find the answer.
Now all that remains is to remove the pins.
With the last few essential touches
from monsieur,
and, voil, the final effect.
Both as sleek as chemistry can make them.
And they talk about equality of the sexes.
There is one field, however,
where no man can compete with the female.
In the world of club entertainment.
Since Salom, beautiful girls
have always been able to entertain
and dazzle the male with physical display.
The reverse is not true.
The male works alone in his gymnasium.
Cultivation of the male physique has never
lent itself to commercial exploitation,
and so the cult of the body beautiful
in the male
remains one of personal satisfaction
and a certain skill
gained only by considerable application
and self-discipline.
The rippling of the pectorals,
the shudder of the sinews,
the flexing of the biceps,
all this is more likely to bring a laugh
rather than a sigh from the lips of women.
The bodybuilders are concerned with
muscle control and muscular definition.
The exercise is more
cosmetic than functional.
But these men are more in earnest.
Their muscles work for them.
Here is a way for the muscular male
to exploit his strength,
if not his physical beauty.
This is the world of the all-in wrestler.
No holds barred,
no quarter given and none asked.
The man in the tee-shirt is Mick McManus,
a star of this world,
billed as "the man they love to hate."
During workouts like these,
professionals practice the throws and holds
that bring a huge audience
to professional wrestling
and make it one of the
top TV entertainments.
We use the word "entertainment" advisedly.
The boys themselves
recognised this a few years ago
when they all joined
the British Variety Artists' Federation.
Personal combat has always been
the prerogative of the male.
Suitably attired, he would sally forth
in defense of honor, title or reputation,
carrying his lady's favour
and ever-ready to meet his opponents
in mortal combat.
Chivalry was the code.
Pride, the touchstone.
Women just don't go in for personal combat,
except in beauty contests, of course.
Everyday, someone somewhere
is being chosen as Miss Something-or-other.
Suitably draped or undraped,
the girls parade to show
off the physical shape
they've been able to pull,
push or diet themselves into.
The prize may be cash, a screen test,
or a promotion tour in aid of some product.
But what these girls are really after and
what they're competing for, is attention.
Being noticed. They want to be discovered.
By whom, for what, they're not certain.
But they are sure that somewhere,
someone is watching, admiring,
deciding that this is "the" girl.
Each one dreams of being noticed,
of being swept up on a gush
of hot-air publicity to undreamed heights
while they ride the magic
carpet of affluence.
But there's no skill in it,
no element of ingenuity,
no long hours of solitary practice.
Either you have it, or you don't.
The judges will decide.
It's true, isn't it?
What's that we were saying
about personal combat?
Merciless? No holds barred?
Well, suppose you do cheat a bit.
Pinch a little, pad a little.
What if the dressing room does look
more like a meeting of the Magic Circle
than a beauty contest?
The judges can't see into the dressing
room, so what does it matter?
They do say one girl pulled a rabbit
from her bra,
but it turned out to be a photographer
from Playboy magazine.
Now, with the way the world is, you don't
actually have to have it any more.
Just look as if you do. Sound as if you do.
It's enough. It's marketable.
One of the strangest impulses among humans
is the desire for personal decoration.
Tattooing is perhaps one of the earliest
manifestations of this impulse.
Before man decorated the walls of his cave,
he decorated himself.
It predates clothing.
It was an identification mark
showing which tribe a man belonged to.
Its survival into the 20th
century is a curiosity
and owes much to the servicemen
seeking to escape the sameness of uniform.
But lately in Europe, more and more
young girls are going to tattooists,
and presenting a puzzle for psychiatry.
The design being worked out here
is simple and anonymous,
but will be prominent
in a swimsuit or a low-cut dress.
How come this primitive urge
amongst a generation devoted to modernity?
Is it an extension of the sweater emblems which
declare adoration for some current idol?
Or is it a further manifestation
of the loss of identity?
The terror of anonymity
which so besets so many youngsters?
No one knows, but the thing is happening.
This form of bathing is very ancient.
The Turkish bath aims to liquefy...
LOUIS: I'd like a word with you.
HARRY: Yeah, Louis?
LOUIS: Perhaps you'd like
to explain this sequence.
HARRY: Well, Louis, it's
like man was saying.
Turkish baths should really
be called Roman baths.
LOUIS: Roman?
HARRY: Sure.
See, the Romans invented them,
and the Turks took them up.
LOUIS: Why was that, Harry?
HARRY: Well, the early Christian fathers
got worried about their behaviour.
Some of the goings-on in the baths.
LOUIS: Yeah? What sort of behaviour?
HARRY: Well, you know, misbehavior.
- Ha! I made a funny.
- LOUIS: And?
HARRY: They closed them.
But the Turks kept at it.
LOUIS: You got something
against Turks now?
HARRY: No, Louis, that's the way it was.
HARRY: Well, the crusaders went crusading
and brought the idea back again.
They called them Turkish baths.
LOUIS: And this misbehavior,
that started up all over again, huh?
HARRY: No. No, it didn't. See for yourself.
LOUIS: We got any girls in this picture,
Harry? HARRY: Sure. Coming up next.
LOUIS: And what are they doing?
HARRY: Taking a bath.
LOUIS: Well, don't just stand there.
Cut to the girls.
What's this?
HARRY: That's the girls.
I told you. Taking a bath.
LOUIS: With their clothes on?
HARRY: Sure. They're jean-shrinking.
LOUIS: Which one's Jean?
HARRY: Jean is the pants they got on.
LOUIS: Uh-huh.
HARRY: See, the idea is that
if the jeans don't fit tight enough,
they get in this bath
and shrink them around their legs.
LOUIS: I get the picture.
HARRY: You like it, Louis?
Because I've got an idea.
LOUIS: Congratulations(!)
HARRY: Remember the hat-fitting bit?
LOUIS: The pins and all that jazz?
HARRY: Sure.
Well, suppose we worked on a machine with
a pin system to help the fitting of jeans.
You know, a girl-shaped machine.
- Hey, where you going, Louis?
- LOUIS: To get a cup of coffee.
Call me when you get through, Harry.
I'd appreciate that.
HARRY: Sure, Louis. Okay.
Now while Louis is out of the way...
Great! Great!
LOUIS: Hey, what's this?
HARRY: Hi, Louis. Just running some music.
# Can't help but thinking
of something about you
# Somehow, this feeling
I just can't explain
# I don't know
But sugar, there's something about you
# And I wonder
Do you feel much the same?
# There's something when you walk
# There's something about you
# Yeah, something when you talk
# There's something about you
# Yeah, there's something when you smile
# There's something about you
# And I really don't know what
# It's strange
But baby, there's something about you
# Something in my heart
that I just can't deny
# I think I'm gradually
falling in love with you
# And I'm certain when I look in your eye
# There's something when you walk
# There's something about you
# Yeah, there's something when you talk
# There's something about you
# Yeah, there's something when you smile
# There's something about you
# And I really don't know what
# I think I'm gradually
falling in love with you
# Yeah, I'm certain when I look in your eye
# There's something when you walk
# There's something about you
# Yeah, there's something when you talk
# There's something about you
# Yeah, there's something when you smile
# There's something about you
# And I really don't know what #
NARRATOR: In the two distinct groupings
within the teenage population,
the mods go for groups
like The Zephyrs we've just heard.
And the rockers go for
less sophisticated surroundings.
They prefer motorcycles to motor scooters.
Their chief instrument is noise,
in their music and their machines.
# Can't buy me love
# Love #
NARRATOR: Group identity is established
by bizarre motifs on machines and clothes.
Admission to this group is via a 'ton-up'.
That is, achieving 100 miles an hour
on their motorcycles.
Their boast about this matches
their overemphasis on masculinity.
The atmosphere they wish to create
is reminiscent of the behaviour of a
gangster in a cheap waterfront flophouse.
In their innocence, they've not yet
realised that such overemphasis
calls the basis into question.
Their attitude is assertive, but aimless.
Their philosophy, negative.
- MAN: How old are you?
- About 18.
- MAN: About 18?
- Yeah, about 18.
MAN: Where do you work?
Well, I used to work
with a builder's merchant,
but I'm looking for another job now.
MAN: Have you had any trouble with mods?
Not with mods, no. They try cut you up now
and again, you know, but they don't manage.
MAN: Why do you wear all that clobber?
Well, I just like it, and...
You know, you...
You come off the bike
and you don't bounce, you just slide.
I mean, you slide along the road.
Know what I mean?
MAN: If you could pass a new law, Colin,
one new law, what would it be?
Ban all the scooters off the road.
MAN: If you were, say, Prime Minister,
what would you do?
Get out of it quick.
MAN: What is it about this
mods and rockers business?
They don't like us, do they?
No, no. Remember that time
at the Ealing Club? Eh?
Same as The Palais.
I mean, they just won't let you in.
Also, some of them try and cause trouble,
but... I don't know.
If you screw one of their girls
or something, I think, you know,
because you're all in leather and that,
you know...
They're not worth...
They're not worth looking at.
- MAN: Do you read a lot?
- No.
- MAN: No books at all?
- No.
MAN: If you could pass a law,
what law would you like to pass?
Better roads, I suppose.
'Cause I can't go fast enough.
These roads are bad now.
- MAN: You've had an accident?
- Once.
- MAN: Bad?
- Yeah, pretty bad.
- MAN: You get hurt?
- Yeah.
- MAN: But it hasn't scared you?
- No, no.
- MAN: What do you like most of all?
- (CHUCKLING) Women.
NARRATOR: In Great Britain alone
a killer strikes every 75 minutes,
24 hours of every day.
That killer is the automobile.
On the 17th of August, 1896,
a young woman was knocked down
and killed by an automobile
on the demonstration track of the
Crystal Palace Exhibition in South London.
She was the first of an army
of 10 million Britons
over whom the automobile has rolled since.
More people have been killed on the
roads of Britain in the last 10 years
than the total number of civilians by all
the air raids on Britain in World War II.
A killer that strikes 20 times a day,
every day, in Great Britain alone.
Yet, the reaction to these figures
is one of almost complete indifference.
They're part of our way of life.
Or death.
The measure of the public's indifference is
seen when set against their shocked reaction
to another far rarer sort of death.
On the 6th of August, 1888,
Martha Turner, a prostitute,
was hurrying through the streets
of White chapel in the East End of London.
She was the first victim
of a murderer who was never unmasked,
although his name lives on in infamy.
Jack the Ripper.
There is a modern Jack the Ripper
at work in London today.
WOMAN: You might call it
an occupational hazard, I suppose.
Any one of the men we pick up
could be a Jack the Ripper.
I mean, going off with
strange men like we do.
I suppose they're all strange in some way.
Not surprising, really, when you think about it,
that you find some real bad lots among them.
NARRATOR: Gwyneth Rees, age 22,
found strangled here, November 1963.
Hannah Tailford, age 30,
found strangled here, February 2nd, 1964.
In 12 months, six women have been murdered.
All six girls were strangled.
All were prostitutes.
All were found on or near the Thames
within the same five-mile stretch of river.
Helen Barthelmy, age 26,
found strangled here, April 24, 1964.
Irene Lockwood, age 26,
found strangled here, April 8th, 1964.
Mary Fleming, age 31,
found strangled here, July 14, 1964.
The girls in the shadows wait,
and so, perhaps, does he.
# In the good old happy days of Tony Pastor
# And Lady Astor, and Dapper Dan
# There was someone
who could make a heart beat faster
# She was disaster to every man
# At the barber's shop
the gentlemen would gather
# And in a lather they'd start to foam
# 'Cause her fabled fascination
# Was the road to ruination
# She would make a faithful husband
# Leave his home
ALL: # His home, sweet home
# Oh, those lips, oh, those hips
# They could launch a thousand ships
# All those curls when she swirls
# They could ruin a fella's nerves
# While her eyes, settling down
# Well, they'd like to turn a frown
# She knows the way to raise a guy's morale
# All those girls, eyes are blue
All the things that they can do
# They broke every heart
from here to Timbuktu
# Oh those lips, oh those eyes
How these hips would hypnotize
# She's the idol of a million guys
# To the lady who the fellas love the most
# May we offer now this laudatory toast #
ALL: Ladies and gentlemen!
Miss Diana Noble!
# After you've gone and left me crying
# After you've gone, there's no denying
# You feel blue, you feel sad
# You missed the best
starlet you've ever had
# There'll come a time, now don't forget it
# There'll come a time
when you'll regret it
# Oh, my! Think what you're doing
# You know my love for you was right
# After you've gone
# After you've gone away #
NARRATOR: Car keys dropped
into a balloon glass.
This is a key party.
Key parties are the latest game of chance.
More exciting than bingo.
It's the latest party gimmick
to whet the jaded appetites
of some of London's party set.
Come on, everybody round.
You're in the middle, come on.
Sister Susie's sewing shirts for soldiers.
All day long she sits and sews...
ALL: (CHANTING) Faster, faster, faster...
Sister Susie's sewing shirts for soldiers.
All day long she sits and sews,
all day long she sews and sits.
ALL: Faster, faster, faster!
Sister Susie's sewing shirts for soldiers.
All day long she sits and sews.
All day long she sews and...
I've got a good game. Have you got
an umbrella or a walking stick?
NARRATOR: The evening begins with some
harmless, even naive, party games.
But this husband is not so sure.
Those keys do have a significance.
Even, for some, a disturbing significance.
- One.
- ALL: One.
- Two...
- NARRATOR: The wife is eager. Why?
Well, at the end of the evening
we'll return and see.
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Thank
you very much for that wonderful intro.
What wonderful intro?
Lovely, lovely. You eating here?
- Yes, I am, thank you.
- COMEDIAN: You are?
- Are you enjoying the food?
- Yes, very much.
- You really are. Nice food?
- Mmm. Yeah.
Rather interesting, because...
You see, I had a friend of mine
who used to work in the toilets here.
If you don't mind me saying this
while you're eating.
He used to work in the toilets here and...
He had to leave. He couldn't stand
the smell from the kitchen.
Eat in good health. Enjoy your food.
NARRATOR: There's something significant,
even disturbing,
in the new wave of comedians.
They're all comedians
now, no longer comics.
There was a time when
the comedian's stock-in-trade
was a lovable personality.
He tried to create a bridge of affection
across the lights to his audience.
To do this, he wore baggy pants, a red
nose, or loud-striped or chequered suits,
like the caricature of the bookmaker.
That approach has now been relegated
to the circus clown.
It's okay for kids.
He said it was damned awkward.
Then I went to see Mr Harold Wilson,
and he wasn't in, but...
I waited, you know.
He came around eventually,
exhausted after a hard
day's nationalization.
And Mrs Wilson met him with his
carpet slippers and dressing gown and pipe.
And very nice they looked on her too...
But I think that there is only one man
capable of leading Great Britain
in her time of crisis.
A man of great talent.
NARRATOR: The modern comedian is a hater.
A man able to voice the unspoken aggression
of a status-ridden audience fluently,
and to rehearse their
unconscious uneasiness effectively.
...dedicated to Malta,
Cyprus and Kenya, entitled...
# They've thrown our customs in our face #
MAN: I really must protest about your
insulting remarks about the mother country.
What do you mean, "mother country"?
I never mentioned Israel once.
I'd like to introduce you now,
ladies and gentlemen,
to a young man who's made the
British Empire what it is today.
Much smaller.
Stand up and take a bow, off of a cliff.
Finally, and in conclusion,
and as my last remark,
and also to end this debate,
I'd like to present to
you Martine's manifesto
for a brighter, better, cleaner,
smut-free Britain.
Number one. Hairnets for
The Rolling Stones.
Number two.
Free false teeth for nursing mothers.
Number four, Millie as Colonial Secretary.
Number five. I've only
done four, haven't I?
Anyway, lastly, Barry Goldwater
as Minister of Defense.
WOMAN: I say, young man,
what are you doing up there?
What am I doing up here?
Madam, and I mean it, I'm doing up here...
I'm doing up here publicly
what you're doing back there privately.
Innit marvelous? Innit marvelous?
Now I know where they've all gone.
The police drove them off the streets
and they're all in here tonight.
NARRATOR: He'll find a comeback
you'd wished you'd had ready
when that idiot boss
bawled you off this morning.
You'll no longer have to make
your own insults.
Even they come ready-wrapped.
There's an expert to do it for you.
You can buy aggression almost anywhere.
Come on, everybody, let's have a game.
The spoon game.
NARRATOR: Our party
is gathering momentum.
Parties used to be given for people
to meet and talk to one another.
They might even develop friendships
that would last a lifetime.
This party is different.
Here, nobody cares about tomorrow.
They don't know if there'll be one.
The furthest these people
are willing to look into the future is
who goes home with whom.
The only rule is that you don't go home
with the partner you came with.
The keys will decide.
Meanwhile, they dance away the time
till the lottery takes place.
Not much point in giving a party, really,
since the only important thing
is when you leave.
Eat, drink and be merry,
because tomorrow you'll have to lie.
And speaking of, uh, exaggeration...
Hit coffee. Okay, I've got it.
That's right. Hit the product. Mention
it with pride. That's it, with pride.
With pride.
Okay, Larry. Okay, Charles. Roll.
Take 57.
"Seor pride is real good."
- Cut.
- That's it, Mac. Simply great, simply great.
- A terrific interpretation, wasn't it, Basil?
- But Roger, Mac said "pride".
I know. Great, wasn't it? Just right.
Mac said what?
"Pride!" Oh, no, that's wrong.
It's coffee, spell S-E-N-O-R.
- Mac, haven't you got a script?
- No, sorry, it's all that talk of pride.
Well, concentrate, Mac.
And as we're going again,
I'd like to remind you,
the sponsor likes to hear his name.
(SIGHS) Sponsor's name.
- MAN: Rolling.
- Take 58.
"Seor Coffee is real good."
- Cut.
- Practically there.
I like that easy style, Mac.
By the way, the agency department head
likes to hear all the words.
You're tending to lose "is" there,
Mac, like this,
"Seor Coffee's real good."
MAC: Watch "is".
MAN: Take 59. Action.
"Seor Coffee is real good!"
- What about it, Roger?
- Fantastic.
Simply great, simply great.
A terrific interpretation.
Nothing harsh, a nice soft sell.
There's just one thing...
NARRATOR: Throughout history,
man has created idols.
Someone or something they can see as
projections of themselves, but writ large.
Billy J. Kramer is one
of the current idols.
A personal appearance by him
anywhere in Britain
is certain to draw
screaming crowds of teenagers
and create headaches for the police.
The teenagers will scramble and fight
to get close to or touch
the object of their idolatry.
# If you're alone and blue
in the hush of the night
# Call me, then I can let you know
just how much I care
# I can make you happy
just by being there with you
# I can show you all the things
a love like this can do
# When things are bad
and you lie awake each night
# Call me, say that you need a friend
And you'll find me there #
NARRATOR: The young man
pushing through the crowd
is Terry Dene, one of the first pop idols,
the object of as much,
if not more, adulation.
Today he sings better than he ever did.
But he's not known to this generation
of pop worshipers, and is unrecognized.
They're wholly concerned
with their present idol.
When Terry Dene was king,
this audience was five or six years old.
Terry Dene is now 24 years old.
Certainly, their adulation is intense.
But their rejection is absolute.
Ten-pin bowling had a slow start
in Great Britain during the 1950s.
But it's the boom sport of the 60s.
Its fascination? Subtle, submerged,
canalized aggression.
The launching of this heavy,
destructive missile,
the strike, a symmetrical pattern
violently broken.
But then, hypnotically,
the machine remakes the pattern.
Symmetry is restored.
Ten-pin bowling caters for
the aggressive spirit,
a harmless release of the stress
of modern urban living.
The operating theater is ready.
The patient, trusting to the
surgeon's skill, awaits the knife.
The theater sister is tense.
The instruments are prepared.
All the surgeon's training,
skill and knowledge are brought to bear
as he prepares for
a delicate and critical operation
on a goldfish.
The fish is kept alive by water
passed into the gills.
This saves him in an alien atmosphere.
A needle is injecting a mild anesthetic to
cover the pain of the forthcoming operation.
The surgeon needs a magnifying lens
to inspect his diminutive patient
and locate the source of the trouble,
a fungoid growth on the tail.
There goes the fungoid growth.
Left to himself in the wild,
the patient would die.
Weakened by disease, he would probably
fall prey to some predatory marauder.
Here in civilized captivity,
he's fed a solution of whisky
to act as a heart stimulant.
All the benefits of modern science
in exchange for life imprisonment.
Civilization loves all its animals.
It waxes sentimental
over its fawning dependents,
except when it eats them.
Civilized man refuses to acknowledge
that he is a predator.
The housewife doing her shopping
is prepared to believe that
chickens are born plastic-wrapped
and oven-ready.
Any other thought
is likely to spoil the appetite.
These are battery-raised chickens
arriving at a processing plant.
They're taken from the only homes
they've ever known
and hung by their feet
from this moving belt.
They've lived little more
than seven or eight weeks.
Now, they're stunned by electric shock.
Thirty volts jolts them
into unconsciousness.
An unconsciousness
from which they will never rouse.
The belt rolls on towards the knife.
They're now part of a machine,
a product for processing.
Blood sacrifice to the hunger of animals
that no longer hunt for themselves.
With most of their blood drained,
the birds are next prepared for plucking.
The machine takes them forward
into a channel of high-pressured jets
of boiling water, scalding,
to loosen the feathers that were
chick fluff seven weeks before.
This machine rips out the larger feathers
and starts the process of
depersonalizing these birds,
making them into that
anonymous thing, food.
The smaller feathers are removed
by this threshing machine.
Now, finally, the neck
feathers are ripped out.
The denuded birds are passed once more
to human hands.
From hatched egg to fattened death
in seven weeks.
A short span during which
these birds never scratched earth,
caught a worm or saw daylight.
Now, they take off,
rising for their first and only time,
Looking more like a flight of
prehistoric pterodactyls than chickens.
The machine is inexorable. But not for all.
This bird has found himself free.
But he doesn't know freedom.
He will be returned to the machine,
and eventually arrive here, where the
last remnants of feathers are removed
by women whose eyes find
every last wisp of down.
Not all is immaculate, however.
Even the machine is not perfect.
The birds now have their legs
neatly folded into place.
Symmetry makes for sales appeal.
It is these methods
and their undoubted efficiency
which has brought chicken for dinner
out of the luxury class
and onto the ordinary table.
The price of chicken has been halved while
the price of most other foods has doubled.
Now, the last stage, packaging for market.
The whole process,
from the arrival of the live chickens
to their removal in cardboard boxes
has taken 15 minutes.
The chickens will rendezvous at
the supermarket with the housewife,
who prefers not to be thought of
as a predatory animal.
Now, the product of
another processing plant.
Let's follow one of the graduates
of the strip school we saw earlier.
STRIPPER: Can't afford to be late.
They stop your money.
I do about six to eight shows a day,
all in different clubs.
And if I'm, say, just two minutes late,
they stop me ten bob.
Ooh, me gloves. They're important.
STRIPPER: Clothes are a big expense
in this business.
Most of the girls start between 16 and 18.
How long they stay depends on their luck.
Most of us drop out in our mid-twenties.
I reckon we earn our money
just rushing about.
We do about 40 shows a week,
and very few of us get more than 20 quid.
I worked it out once.
I dress and undress about 100 times
in six days. They're closed on Sundays.
Lots of girls come into the business
because they think it's going to be easy.
They soon find out different.
Some of the girls get married
and still go round the clubs.
Most of us are glad to get out.
Weather's another thing.
Oh, rain can ruin your mascara.
Makes it a drag, having
to keep redoing your makeup.
And these dressing rooms.
Well, they're dirty, but some of them
are downright filthy.
Well, it's obvious, really.
You get ten girls all using the same room.
Who's going to stop behind and clean up?
Not me, anyway.
I ought to dress more sensibly.
For the street, I mean.
You can't wear a blouse.
Shows the dirt too much.
But sweaters don't.
You have to watch your hair.
Hairdos cost money.
I've done this routine so often
I could do it in me sleep.
Most of the girls in this game
come up from the provinces.
Show business is beckoning, you know.
But nobody bothers with you
if you work in these places.
Most have had some training.
Drama school or something.
No. There's no chance of
being discovered down here.
Found out, maybe. Discovered, never.
How far you go with your strip
depends on the club management.
Even they don't always have the same ideas.
One day you come in and they say,
"Keep it on, " meaning the G-string.
Next, they might tell you
to give it everything.
Depends on who's in, I suppose.
Oh, this pressure is hard on the clothes.
But I can tell you what
it's hardest of all on.
And that's the feet.
NARRATOR: There are certain ailments
which always seem enormously comical
to others,
that is, to non-sufferers.
Corns or calluses of the
foot is one of them.
This may seem a familiar-enough scene,
but is in fact an almost unique
and very skilful operation.
This chiropodist is one of the few in Britain
able to remove a corn by entire dissection.
That is, by carefully cutting between
the live and the dead tissue
to remove the corn in one piece,
as opposed to merely paring away
the surface dead tissue
and possibly leaving a living root
to grow again.
This technique has its opponents, but for
the sufferers there's only one reaction,
a long sigh of relief.
The business of publicity
has itself become a glamor symbol.
Our key-party continues.
Music and alcohol
have served their social purpose
to blur the edges of what is accepted.
Adult petting of this kind
has a word to describe it:
The husband who watches is not so certain.
Events go forward under their own momentum,
and lottery time is here.
Come on, everybody, break
it up, break it up!
Come on, let's do the key game.
ALL: Oh, yeah!
Uh, you, Angela, come on.
NARRATOR: A final degradation of love,
the sex lottery.
Chance made absolute.
It's the Jaguar. Come on, whose is it?
It's me, darling.
Ah, Tony.
Who should we have next?
Um, Peggy, you come on.
NARRATOR: Now it's the wife's turn.
Is her husband sufficiently
anesthetized with alcohol?
The roulette wheel. Who's the lucky fellow?
NARRATOR: Apparently, he is.
However, if he isn't, he has to conform.
Emotion has no place here.
It's the Triumph. Whose is it?
NARRATOR: "She's doing it,
why shouldn't I?"
is a ready phrase for going on with it.
This is the death of love.
When you take a chance on a car key,
then the respect essential to love
is thrown away.
In the name of fun
and in pursuit of the transitory kick,
ordinary decency is
thrown out of the window.
Life must look sick to anyone willing
to compromise it in this fashion.
Psychiatrists will explain that one of
the marks of the delinquent personality
is an incapacity to look ahead.
An incapacity to postpone present
excitement in the hope of future happiness.
These people are true delinquents.
Where, now, is future happiness?
An hour's boredom
dissipated into a lifetime of regret.
They put their happiness in jeopardy,
risk their marriage
and mortgage their children's future.
Their present justifications
may seem reasonable,
albeit through the bottom of a glass.
But the party was tonight.
What about tomorrow?
There's one certainty in all this.
The hangover lasts longer
than the state of intoxication.
# Put your arms around me, honey,
and hold me tight
# Cuddle up and cuddle
up, and hold me tight!
# Oh! Oh! When you're by my side
# I just, I just idolize!
# When you look at me my heart gets a rush
Then it starts a-rocking like a rocking horse
# Oh! Oh! I never knew any boy like you
# Any boy like you
# Our live show is the best show,
the best show you can see
# It's fun and that makes the song
that brings joy to you and me
# You're dressed up
It's exciting
# There's magic in the air...
# And when night bird is rising
# There's a thrill beyond compare
# Let's go
# on with the show!
Ladies and gentlemen. Every night
is New Year's Eve in Churchill's.
To prove it, we have one short
but very exciting horse race
known as the Churchill Stakes.
Now then, we have our three racehorses,
loads of lovely lady assistants
and we need the assistance of
three sporting gentlemen from the audience.
Come along now, gentlemen.
One, two, three and they're off!
Ladies and gentlemen,
the first one to reach the front
is going to be the winner
of the Churchill stakes.
Come along now, gentlemen,
let's make a good race of it.
Come along, a very bad one there.
Number one there, number one over there.
He might win! He's fallen
at the last fence!
# Every night is New Year's Eve
at Churchill's # Churchill's!
# That's what I do believe at Churchill's
# Churchill's!
# Had enough of prohibition
Let's try the new edition
# You'll really live it up at Churchill's
# Churchill's!
# I met a saint supreme at Churchill's
# Churchill's
# He's fallen, he's a dream at Churchill's!
# Churchill's!
# Don't try prohibition,
throw away your inhibition!
# Every night is New
Year's Eve at Churchill's
# One more time, boys
# Churchill's!
# And another one for Harry
# Churchill's!
# What's the name, girls?
# Churchill's!
# Come on, girls, spell it out
# C-H-U-R-C-H-I-L-L
# Apostrophe-S
# Churchill's #
NARRATOR: Every night is
New Year's Eve.
The eternal human cry for renewal.
And there is renewal.
This is the same baby we saw being born.
Now, 14 days later, he's doing fine.
The human is a tough animal at birth.
He needs to be.
Before him now is a struggle to live
in a world he has yet to discover.
Maybe he'll find the world a better place.
Or maybe, in some way,
he will make it a better place.
Feed well, little fellow. Grow strong.
You'll need your strength.
You've a long, strange way ahead.