Why should people go out and pay money to see bad films when

Samuel Goldwyn, the mighty figure of Hollywood’s golden age, once declared: “Why should people go out and pay money to see bad films when they can stay at home and see bad television for nothing?” Though spoken with wit, his words are more than jest — they are a challenge to the hearts of all who create. In them we hear the cry of a man who knew that art must be worthy of the people’s trust, that the sacred bond between creator and audience must never be broken by carelessness or greed. This utterance, veiled in humor, carries the weight of a commandment: do not waste the attention of others, for their attention is their life.

The ancients knew well the cost of mediocrity. In Athens, when the people gathered for the festival of Dionysus, they expected not only entertainment but truth, beauty, and catharsis. The playwright who brought forth a weak play was not merely ignored but shamed, for he had insulted the gods and cheated the people of their devotion. Goldwyn echoes this spirit: why demand coin from the pockets of men and women if what you give them is less than what they could find for free? To create poorly while charging dearly is not only folly but dishonor.

Let us recall the story of the Roman Colosseum. Though it was a place of spectacle, it was also a place where the empire displayed its power. Imagine if the emperor had summoned the people and given them not games of grandeur but shabby, half-hearted diversions. The crowd, weary and cheated, would have turned against him. For even bread and circuses must be done with magnificence if they are to bind the loyalty of the masses. Likewise, in the realm of cinema, if the offering is weak, the audience will turn away, for their time is as precious as their gold.

Goldwyn’s words are not merely for film producers but for all who labor in the fields of creation. The lesson is this: quality is sacred, and to give less than your best is to betray those who place their trust in you. Whether you carve stone, write books, or build companies, know that your audience, your readers, your customers, come to you with hope. Do not squander that hope on bad work. It is better to remain silent than to offer what is empty, for silence offends none, but poor craft wounds the spirit.

And yet, let us not despise failure, for failure is the mother of growth. What Goldwyn despises is not the honest stumble of one striving for greatness, but the lazy, mercenary act of those who care little for the sacred duty of creation. There is a difference between a noble failure and a careless one. The first draws sympathy and respect, the second earns scorn. Thus, if you err, err valiantly, with fire in your heart and sincerity in your work, and the people will forgive, even admire, your striving.

What, then, must we do? Strive always to give more than you take. Before you offer your work to the world, ask yourself: “Would I pay for this with my own hard-earned coin? Would I honor it with my own time?” If the answer is no, then let it not be seen, for to cheat others is to diminish yourself. Instead, labor until your creation is worthy, until it has that spark which makes men forget the weight of their daily lives. This is the eternal contract between artist and audience, between maker and receiver.

So hear this teaching, O children of the future: do not trade in bad films, bad books, or bad deeds, for such commerce leads to ruin. Instead, make of your life a work that honors those who give you their trust. For when you create with excellence, people will gladly journey forth, pay their coin, and remember you long after your voice is silent. And then, as Goldwyn himself knew, your work will not be compared to bad television, but will stand as a beacon — something worth leaving one’s home for, worth remembering, worth cherishing as part of the eternal story of mankind.