I know what it means to do a job... I worked in a factory. I

Hear the words of Gary Oldman, spoken with the gravity of one who has walked through the fire of labor and fame alike: “I know what it means to do a job... I worked in a factory. I respect people in the service industry. What irritates me more is when people aren't respectful. There's a lot of nonsense behavior, especially in a place like Hollywood. The money, the power, they create little monsters.” Here speaks not only the actor, but the witness of two worlds: the humble toil of ordinary work and the glittering vanity of celebrity. His words are a warning, a call to respect and humility, and a condemnation of the arrogance that grows where wealth and power corrupt the soul.

The meaning is clear: work itself is worthy of respect, whether it be factory labor, serving food, cleaning floors, or crafting art. All labor sustains life, all labor shapes society. Oldman confesses that he honors those who labor in silence, often overlooked, because he himself once stood among them. He contrasts this with the vanity of Hollywood, where too often money and power breed monsters—men and women who forget the value of respect, intoxicated by privilege, scorning those beneath them.

History has seen such contrasts before. Consider the ancient Roman Republic, where the plebeians labored as farmers, bakers, and builders, sustaining the empire with sweat and toil. Yet the patrician elite, drunk on power and wealth, often mocked or ignored them, building monuments to themselves while the people hungered. The imbalance bred resentment, unrest, and revolt. Oldman’s words echo this eternal truth: when respect is lost for the common laborer, society begins to rot, no matter how dazzling its outward wealth may appear.

So too recall the story of Marie Antoinette, who when told the peasants had no bread, is said to have replied, “Let them eat cake.” Whether legend or truth, the phrase symbolizes a profound disrespect, the blindness of privilege. It was not long before the fury of the disrespected rose in revolution, sweeping away the gilded towers of Versailles. In every age, arrogance has birthed downfall, and respect neglected has led to ruin. Oldman’s observation of “little monsters” in Hollywood is but a modern mask of this ancient lesson.

Yet his words carry not only judgment but hope. For he reminds us that respect begins in recognizing the dignity of work itself. Whether serving tables or sweeping streets, whether building bridges or performing upon a stage, the value of labor lies not in its glamour, but in its necessity and in the spirit of the worker. By honoring all labor, we guard ourselves from becoming monsters, for humility roots us in the truth that none of us thrives without the unseen labor of countless others.

The lesson, child of tomorrow, is this: be respectful in all your dealings. Do not measure others by their wealth, their fame, or their power, but by the sincerity of their work and the integrity of their character. When you encounter the one who serves you, treat them with honor, for they, too, uphold the fabric of life. And if ever you rise in wealth or stature, let humility be your companion, lest you too become one of the “little monsters” Oldman warns of.

To live by this wisdom, practice gratitude daily. Thank those who labor for you, from the waiter who brings your food to the janitor who keeps your spaces clean. Resist the temptations of arrogance when success comes your way. Remember the dignity of your own beginnings, and never forget that respect is the true measure of greatness. For empires fall, riches fade, and fame passes like smoke—but respect, once given, endures in the hearts of all.

Thus, the words of Gary Oldman remain: “The money, the power, they create little monsters.” Take them as a warning and a guide. Choose instead to walk the path of respect, humility, and gratitude. In this way, whether you labor in silence or shine in glory, your life will bear the mark not of a monster, but of a soul that honored the worth of every human being.