This is the sad tale of the township of Dogville. Dogville was in the Rocky Mountains in...

[first lines] Narrator: This is the sad tale of the township of Dogville. Dogville was in the Rocky Mountains in the US of A, up here where the road came to its definitive end, near the entrance to the old abandoned silver mine. The residents of Dogville were good honest folks, and they liked their township. And while a sentimental soul from the East Coast had once dubbed their main street Elm Street, though no elm had ever cast its shadow in Dogville, they saw no reason to change anything. Most of the buildings were pretty wretched, more like shacks, frankly. The house in which Tom lived was the best, though, and in good times, might almost have passed for presentable. That afternoon, the radio was playing softly, for in his dotage, Thomas Edison senior had developed a weakness for music of the lighter kind.

This is the sad tale of the township of Dogville. Dogville was in the Rocky Mountains in the US of A, up here where the road came to its definitive end near the entrance to the old abandoned silver mine. The residents of Dogville were good honest folks, and they liked their township. And while a sentimental soul from the East Coast had once dubbed their main street Elm Street, though no elm had ever cast its shadow in Dogville, they saw no reason to change anything. Most of the buildings were pretty wretched, more like shacks, frankly. The house in which Tom lived was the best, though, and in good times, might almost have passed for presentable. That afternoon, the radio was playing softly for in his dotage, Thomas Edison, Sr. had developed a weakness for music of the lighter kind. Ladies and gentlemen, - the President of the United States. - My friends... Tom, do me a favor, will you? The radio? Just because the music's over and you might risk hearing something useful? I thought that's why we had the radio. Well, I need to rest, as you know. Mock me if you like. Tom's father had been a doctor and now received a modest pension. So it was no great disaster for Tom to drift about not doing anything in particular. Tom was a writer... at any rate, by his own rights. His output as committed to paper was so far limited to the words "great" and "small," followed by a question mark, but nevertheless meticulously archived in one of his many bureau drawers. Bye, Dad. Evenin', Master Tom! Evening, Master Olivia. You don't forget about the meeting tomorrow. No. In order to postpone the time at which he would have to put pen to paper in earnest, Tom had now come up with a series of meetings on moral rearmament, with which he felt obliged to benefit the town. - Hi, kids. - Hi, Tom. Evening, Chuck. Will we see you at the meeting tomorrow? I could do without your lectures.