Movies are an art form that is very available to the masses.

Hear these words, O seeker of wisdom, spoken by Richard King, master of sound and shaper of silence: “Movies are an art form that is very available to the masses.” In this simple utterance lies a truth as vast as the sky and as enduring as stone. For while the painted canvas once belonged to the halls of kings, and while the carved marble stood only in temples and palaces, the movie—the dance of shadow and light—descends among the people. It belongs not to the few but to the many, not to the chosen but to all who gather before the screen.

From the dawn of civilization, art has been both a mirror and a torch. Yet often it was bound in chains: the frescoes hidden in cathedrals, the manuscripts locked in monasteries, the opera confined to gilded houses where only nobles trod. But the movie, born of invention and electricity, broke those chains. In every city, in every village, the theater became a new temple—not of marble, but of light—where men, women, and children, regardless of wealth or station, could sit side by side and be carried into realms of wonder.

Think, O listener, of the year 1895, when the Lumière brothers cast their first moving images upon a wall in Paris. Factory workers leaving their shift, a train arriving at a station—scenes so simple, yet they ignited awe in all who beheld them. And when that train roared toward the screen, the crowd cried out in fear and amazement, believing it might burst through reality itself. In that moment, art was no longer a treasure hoarded by the few—it was a shared experience, open to all hearts, from the humblest to the mightiest.

Consider too the Great Depression, when despair lay heavy upon nations. Bread was scarce, and pockets were empty, yet the people still found their way to the cinema. For a few coins they could sit in the dark, watching stories unfold—tales of love, of courage, of laughter in the face of hardship. In those theaters, they found not only escape, but also unity, a reminder that they were not alone in their struggles. Thus, the movie became both balm and beacon, offering solace and strength to the weary.

The wisdom of Richard King is thus revealed: the art form of cinema carries a unique power because it is available to the masses. It does not demand literacy, wealth, or privilege. Its language is universal—expressed through faces, gestures, sound, and image. A child in Mumbai, a farmer in Brazil, a teacher in Cairo, and a worker in New York can all behold the same story, and though they live oceans apart, their hearts may beat as one in that shared moment. This is the sacred democracy of art.

Yet, O traveler, do not take this gift for granted. To be available to the masses is to carry both opportunity and responsibility. For if the people can be lifted by stories of truth, courage, and compassion, they can also be misled by tales of falsehood, vanity, and fear. The power of cinema to shape minds and hearts is great, and with such power comes the need for vigilance.

The lesson is clear: cherish the arts that are open to all, and strive to create works that uplift rather than corrupt. If you are a creator, remember the weight of your influence; if you are a viewer, choose wisely the stories you let shape your soul. Let the movies you embrace be those that deepen your humanity, sharpen your wisdom, and broaden your compassion.

So remember, O seeker of truth: the movie is the campfire of the modern age, around which all people gather. Let it be used not for shadows alone, but for light. And as you sit before its glow, may you find in its stories not only entertainment, but also the spark of understanding that binds you to the great family of mankind.