The Majestic Monologues

In 1951, a blacklisted Hollywood writer gets into a car accident, loses his memory and settles down in a small town where he is mistaken for a long-lost son.

That's why we call it The Majestic. Any man, woman, child could buy their ticket, walk right in. Here they'd be, here we'd be. "Yes sir, yes ma'am. Enjoy the show." And in they'd come entering a palace, like in a dream, like in heaven. Maybe you had worries and problems out there, but once you came through those doors, they didn't matter anymore. And you know why? Chaplin, that's why. And Keaton and Lloyd. Garbo, Gable, and Lombard, and Jimmy Stewart and Jimmy Cagney. Fred and Ginger. They were gods. And they lived up there. That was Olympus. Would you remember if I told you how lucky we felt just to be here? To have the privilege of watching them. I mean, this television thing. Why would you want to stay at home and watch a little box? Because it's convenient? Because you don't have to get dressed up, because you could just sit there? I mean, how can you call that entertainment, alone in your living room? Where's the other people? Where's the audience? Where's the magic? I'll tell you, in a place like this, the magic is all around you. The trick is to see it.

The 5th Amendment is out of the question. But there is another Amendment that I'd like to invoke. I wonder if anyone here is familiar with it. "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion."

"Congress shall make no law... respecting... an establishment of religion... or prohibiting the free exercise thereof... or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press... or of the right of the people peaceably to assemble and petition the government for a redress of grievances."

The fact is I… I've never been a man of great conviction. I never saw the percentage in it… and quite frankly, I suppose I, uh… lacked the courage. See, I'm not like Luke Trimble. He had the market cornered on those things. I never met the guy, but I feel like I've gotten to know him. The thing is, I can't help wondering what he'd say… if he were standing here right now. You know, I think what I think he'd probably tell you: the America represented in this room… is not the America he died defending.

He says I'm a communist. In fact, this very moment, some grey little FBI guy, in a grey little FBI suit, is hunched over my screenplay, checking it, line by line, for the poisonous Marxist propaganda which surely lurks therein. Hope they check the spelling. I can always use help with that.

'Ashes to Ashes', my movie! Could've been good, even with the stupid dog. My 'Grapes of Wrath', my shot at doing something really good, something...