Regimes planted by bayonets do not take root... Our military strength is a prerequisite to peace, but let it be clear we maintain this strength in the hope it will never be used, for the ultimate determinant in the struggle that's now going on in the world will not be bombs and rockets but a test of wills and ideas, a trial of spiritual resolve, the values we hold, the beliefs we cherish, the ideals to which we are dedicated.
Colonel William F. Guile: Troopers! I have just received new orders. Our superiors say the war is cancelled, and we can all go home. Bison is getting paid off for his crimes, and our friends will have died here... will have died for nothing. But... we can all go home. Meanwhile, ideals like these - freedom, and justice - they get packed up. But... we can all go home. Well... I'm not going home. I'm gonna get on my boat, and I'm going up-river, and I'm going to kick that son-of-a-bitch Bison's ass so HARD... that the next Bison wanna-be is gonna feel it. Now who wants to go home... and who wants to go with ME!
Gusteau: Remy, what are you doing in here? Remy: Emile shows up, I said not to, but he goes and blabs - Yeah! It's a disaster. Anyway, they're hungry, the food safe is locked, I need the key. Gusteau: They want you to steal food? Remy: Yes. No... it's complicated. It's family. They don't have your ideals. Gusteau's Corn Puppies: [the cardboard Gusteaus start speaking] Gusteau's Barbecue Spare-Ribs: Ideals? Hah! If Chef Fancy Pants had any ideals you think I'd be hawkin' barbecue over here? Gusteau's Microwave Burritos: Or Microwave burritos? Gusteau's Tooth-Pickin' Chicken: Or tooth, I say, tooth-pickin' Chicken? S'about as French as a Corn Dog! Gusteau's Corn Puppies: Roof! Rumming Roon! Gusteau's Barbecue Spare-Ribs: Ha! We're inventin' new ways to sell out over here! Gusteau's Haggis Bites: Will ye' be wantin' some Haggis Bites, then? Gusteau: I cannot control how they use my image Remy, I am dead! Remy: Will you guys SHUT UP? I've got to think!
Praetor Shinzon: Some ideals are worth dying for, aren't they, Jean-Luc?
King Arthur: You may kill me... but you'll never destroy the ideals of Camelot. Ruber: Well, I've got to start somewhere.
It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are wretched, for they are full of the truthless ideals which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact with the real they are bruised and wounded. It looks as if they were victims of a conspiracy; for the books they read, ideal by the necessity of selection, and the conversation of their elders, who look back upon the past through a rosy haze of forgetfulness, prepare them for an unreal life. They must discover for themselves that all they have read and all they have been told are lies, lies, lies; and each discovery is another nail driven into the body on the cross of life.
A thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it.
The Duke: I don't like this ending... Zidler: Don't like the ending, my dear Duke? The Duke: Why should the courtesan chose the penniless sitar player over the maharajah who is offering her a lifetime of security? That's real love. Once the sitar player has satisfied his lust he will leave her with nothing. I suggest that the courtesan chose the maharajah. Toulouse-Lautrec: But, but tell me, that ending does not uphold the Bohemian ideals of truth, beauty, freedom, and... The Duke: [shouts] I don't care about your ridiculous dogma! Why shouldn't the courtesan chose the maharajah? Christian: [shouts] Because she doesn't love you!... Him... Hi-him, she doesn't love... she doesn't love him. The Duke: Oh, I see... Monsieur Zidler, the play will be rewritten with the courtesan choosing the maharajah and without the lovers' secret song. It will be rehearsed in the morning, ready for the opening tomorrow night... Zidler: But, my dear Duke, that will be quite impossible. Satine: Harold, the Duke is being treated appallingly. These silly writers let their imaginations run away with themselves. Why don't you and I have a little supper, and then we can tell Monsieur Zidler how we would like the story to end.
And, what's more, this 'precious' body, the very same that is hooted and honked at, demeaned both in daily life as well as in ever existing form of media, harrassed, molested, raped, and, if all that wasn't enough, is forever poked and prodded and weighed and constantly wrong for eating too much, eating too little, a million details which all point to the solitary girl, to EVERY solitary girl, and say: Destroy yourself.
Anything artistic should have some ambiguity to it. And, uh, you know, if there's only one way of interpreting it, it's probably closing in on propaganda. So, you know, it was just examining a world in which things are very desensitized, and it was sort of even asking the question of
You can tell the ideals of a nation by its advertisements.
Love is an ideal thing, marriage a real thing
I am at liberty to vote as my conscience and judgment dictates to be right, without the yoke of any party on me... Look at my arms, you will find no party hand-cuff on them.
Happiness consists not of having, but of being; not of possessing, but of enjoying.... Man is the creator of his own happiness. It is the aroma of life, lived in harmony with high ideals. For what a man has he may be dependent upon others; what he is rests with him alone.
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