A lot of people who are in charge in Hollywood are women, so they

Host: The afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows of an old studio café in downtown Los Angeles — a place where the walls wore decades of posters, each one whispering silent stories of cinema, rebellion, and dreams. The air was thick with the smell of espresso and the faint static of ambition. Outside, the street buzzed with the constant pulse of the film industry — sleek cars, rushed meetings, and endless auditions under the heat of possibility.

Inside, Jack sat at the corner booth, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, watching the room as though every person were part of a scene he was unwillingly cast into. Jeeny sat across from him, notebook open, pen idle between her fingers, her expression contemplative — that kind of calm fire only she could carry.

The sound of a coffee grinder hummed through the air. Somewhere, a young director rehearsed lines under her breath.

Jeeny: “Reed Morano said something that’s been in my head all morning. ‘A lot of people who are in charge in Hollywood are women, so they have the power. Now, I've met a lot of these amazing women who are offering opportunities to other women, and they're awesome. But for the women who maybe haven't done that yet, it's like, why?’”

Host: Jack leaned back, his jaw tightening as he stirred his coffee slowly, the spoon clinking against the cup like a heartbeat muffled by fatigue.

Jack: “That’s a bold one. She’s not wrong, though. Power shifts — and when it does, you learn how many people were never in it for change, just for rotation.”

Jeeny: “You mean women who fought for seats, then forgot to open the door behind them?”

Jack: “Exactly. The revolution turned into a reservation.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes flashed with irritation, but also understanding. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, the pen now tapping softly against the wood.

Jeeny: “You think that’s fair? For centuries, men monopolized every door, every chair, every narrative. Now, women finally get a seat, and they’re expected to save everyone instantly? Maybe they’re just trying to survive up there.”

Jack: “Survival’s not enough when the point was change. If you climb the ladder only to pull it up after you — what’s the difference between you and the ones who kept it hidden?”

Jeeny: “The difference is — they had to fight their way into a room that wasn’t built for them. You talk like it’s easy to lead after years of crawling through cracks.”

Jack: “But leadership means you stop crawling once you’re inside. You stand. You make space.”

Host: The light shifted, falling through the window in slanted gold lines that painted Jeeny’s face — soft, determined, fierce. She set her pen down.

Jeeny: “You think it’s that simple? Power changes people, Jack. It isolates them. Even women. You finally reach the table, and everyone’s staring — waiting to see if you’ll choke on the air. Some start protecting themselves instead of others because they’re terrified they’ll be the next one pushed off.”

Jack: “So fear justifies apathy?”

Jeeny: “Fear explains it. Not justifies it.”

Host: The café’s door opened, a gust of hot wind rushing in, stirring napkins and conversation alike. A young assistant in a sharp suit passed by — phone in hand, anxiety etched into her face. Jeeny’s gaze followed her for a moment.

Jeeny: “You see her? She’s probably balancing two scripts, three egos, and an invisible wall she can’t name. And if she makes it — if she gets that title, that office — maybe she’ll remember how it felt to be invisible. Or maybe she won’t. Either way, the system wins. Because the system teaches you to survive, not to lift.”

Jack: “That’s the thing. Survival and solidarity don’t have to be opposites. Reed wasn’t attacking — she was calling out the inertia. It’s not betrayal to ask, ‘Why not help?’”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that question heavier when it comes from the outside? You’ve never been the woman in those rooms, Jack. You’ve never had to make yourself smaller just to be heard.”

Jack: “Maybe not. But I’ve seen what happens when people finally get the mic — and forget the silence they came from.”

Host: The sound of the espresso machine roared, then settled. Steam curled through the air, like a sigh of exhausted machinery. Jeeny’s brow furrowed, her pen tracing idle circles on the edge of the page.

Jeeny: “You think women are forgetting?”

Jack: “I think some are. Power doesn’t come with gender; it comes with gravity. And gravity always pulls down — no matter who’s holding it.”

Jeeny: “You’re cynical.”

Jack: “I’m observant.”

Jeeny: “Then observe this — the fact that we’re even talking about women in power means something already shifted. The conversation exists because they climbed. Maybe it’s not perfect, but it’s progress.”

Jack: “Progress is a dangerous word when it makes people complacent. It’s easy to celebrate the milestone and forget the marathon.”

Host: A pause — deep, simmering, the kind that carries more truth than comfort. The faint jazz from the speaker filled the silence, old and grainy.

Jeeny: “Do you know why I love Reed Morano’s work? Because she doesn’t film women as symbols. She films them as contradictions — strong, scared, selfish, kind. Maybe her quote isn’t criticism. Maybe it’s grief — grief for the dream that equality would fix the human flaw of forgetting.”

Jack: “Forgetting what?”

Jeeny: “That power isn’t the goal. Compassion is.”

Jack: “You think compassion survives power?”

Jeeny: “It has to. Otherwise, all we’ve done is repaint the same wall.”

Host: The sunlight faded, replaced by the faint flicker of hanging lamps. Their faces glowed in the dim amber light — two shapes carved out of conviction and fatigue.

Jack: “You know what’s ironic? The same system that tells women to fight for space also teaches them to compete for scarcity. Divide and rule — just dressed in empowerment hashtags.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why Morano’s question — ‘Why?’ — matters. Why aren’t we helping each other more? Why are we inheriting systems instead of remaking them? That ‘why’ isn’t accusation; it’s invitation.”

Jack: “An invitation most people are too tired to RSVP to.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the revolution needs rest before it can rebuild.”

Host: The rain began to fall outside — soft, rhythmic, cleansing. The sound pressed against the glass, gentle but persistent.

Jeeny looked up from her notebook, her voice softer now.
Jeeny: “You know, when I was a kid, I thought women in power meant the world would finally be kind. That compassion would replace cruelty. But the truth is — power amplifies whoever you already are. If you were empathetic before, you’ll lead with grace. If you weren’t, no title changes that.”

Jack: “So the question isn’t who holds power — it’s how they use it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: “Then maybe the next revolution isn’t gendered at all. Maybe it’s ethical.”

Host: The rain fell harder now, echoing against the window like applause from unseen hands. Jeeny smiled faintly, closing her notebook.

Jeeny: “Reed was right to ask why. But maybe the real answer is because we’re still learning how to wield what we were denied. The world taught us to fight to get in the room — not how to love once we’re there.”

Jack: “Maybe the real lesson is to do both.”

Jeeny: “Maybe.”

Host: They sat in silence as the café emptied, the barista turning chairs upside down, the smell of rain and coffee merging into something strangely hopeful.

Jack glanced at Jeeny — at the quiet fire that never dimmed in her even when her words softened.
Jack: “You’d make a good director, you know.”

Jeeny: “Why?”

Jack: “Because you’d never stop asking why not.”

Host: The lights dimmed. The rain slowed. The city outside shimmered in its reflection — flawed, alive, and still learning how to lead with grace.

And in that fading café light, their silence became an understanding — that progress was never about who sat in the chair, but about who remembered to make another one beside it.