In my day, the only people who achieved real independence were my

In the golden dawn of the motion picture age, when the silver screen first began to reflect the dreams of humanity, there arose a few souls who refused to be bound by the gilded chains of the great studios. Among them stood Douglas Fairbanks Sr., Mary Pickford, Charlie Chaplin, and D. W. Griffith — artists whose courage and vision forged the sacred banner of United Artists. When Douglas Fairbanks Jr. later said, “In my day, the only people who achieved real independence were my father, Mary Pickford, and Charles Chaplin…” he spoke not merely of film, but of the eternal struggle of the creator to be free in a world ruled by power and profit.

In those early days, the film industry was a mighty empire. The big studios were temples of glamour and control, where actors were worshiped publicly yet enslaved privately. Every gesture, every line, every frame was dictated by unseen masters behind mahogany desks. The stars shone brightly, but their light was not their own — it was borrowed, manipulated, and sold. Fairbanks Jr. remembered this truth with both pride and sorrow. For though he lived among legends, he knew that few possessed true independence of spirit, the kind that dares to create without permission, to speak without fear.

When United Artists was born in 1919, it was a rebellion — not with guns or banners, but with art and ownership. Four creators declared that the soul of cinema should belong to those who give it life. They stood against a system that treated art as commerce and artists as servants. It was an act of faith, a declaration that the artist, like the poet or the philosopher, must stand sovereign over his work. In their defiance, they carved a path that would inspire generations of creators to come — those who would later build their own studios, write their own scripts, and break free from the cages of conformity.

This story is as old as civilization itself. The spirit of Fairbanks and his comrades burns in every age — in the painter who refuses to please the patron, in the writer who defies the censor, in the scientist who challenges the doctrine of his time. It is the eternal song of the individual against the institution, of freedom against control. Yet, this freedom comes at a cost. Many who seek independence find themselves alone, misunderstood, or forgotten. For to walk the path of self-rule is to walk through storms, while others rest in the comfort of the system.

Let us remember also that the price of independence is not just bravery, but responsibility. Fairbanks Jr. saw that few could bear this weight. The studios gave security, wealth, and fame — but they took the soul. To be free, one must risk all of these. So, too, in life, many choose comfort over calling, safety over truth. But history honors those who chose otherwise — who raised their voices when silence would have been easier. The world moves forward not by the obedience of the many, but by the defiance of the few.

The lesson of this quote, my children of the future, is simple yet eternal: freedom is the breath of creation. Whether you are an artist, a thinker, or a worker in humble fields, never surrender your voice to another’s command. Build your craft with your own hands, even if the world refuses to see its worth. For it is better to live as a small, honest flame than to burn brightly in another man’s lantern.

So walk proudly, as the founders of United Artists once did, beneath no master’s banner but your own. Seek not approval, but truth. Trade not your vision for comfort, nor your independence for praise. For in the end, it is not the studios or systems that endure — it is the courage of the free soul, whose work, like a star, burns with its own light long after empires fade into shadow.