Arnold Schwarzenegger, I don't know if you'd call him a great

Host: The cinema was nearly empty, its flickering screen throwing restless light across rows of scarlet seats and shadowed faces. The smell of buttery popcorn, dusty velvet, and faint ozone from the projector bulb filled the air. The movie had ended, but the credits still rolled — white text drifting upward through an ocean of darkness.

Two figures lingered in the back row: Jack, reclining with that lazy, analytical calm of someone who never fully leaves a movie even after it’s over, and Jeeny, sitting upright, her brown eyes glowing with reflection and amusement. The last frame froze for a moment — Arnold Schwarzenegger, larger than life, one eyebrow lifted, the crowd’s hero in motion and myth.

Jeeny: softly, smiling “F. Murray Abraham once said, ‘Arnold Schwarzenegger — I don’t know if you’d call him a great actor, but he’s amazing in terms of his presence, and he is interesting enough that you want to watch him.’”

Jack: grinning faintly “Presence. That’s the word. The man could say three lines with the emotional depth of a toaster, and you’d still be glued to the screen.”

Jeeny: laughing “You’re terrible.”

Jack: smiling “I’m honest. There’s something magnetic about him. It’s not art — it’s gravity.”

Jeeny: softly “Exactly. That’s what Abraham meant. Acting isn’t just about talent — it’s about power. Presence. The ability to exist in a space so fully that people can’t look away.”

Jack: leaning forward “But isn’t that what makes a great actor?”

Jeeny: shaking her head “Not always. Great actors make you believe in their characters. People like Schwarzenegger make you believe in them.”

Host: The light from the screen faded as the credits ended, leaving only the dull glow of the exit signs. The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it hummed, like the air after applause.

Jack: after a pause “You know, he’s a strange phenomenon — an Austrian bodybuilder who became a Hollywood icon, then a governor. It’s almost… mythic.”

Jeeny: softly “Because his story isn’t about acting — it’s about transformation. The physical kind, the public kind, the kind that makes you believe you can rewrite your origin.”

Jack: quietly “So, presence as power.”

Jeeny: nodding “Presence as conviction. He walks on screen, and the world rearranges itself around him. That’s not subtle, but it’s primal. It’s the same quality great leaders have — or prophets, or warriors.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Or Terminators.”

Jeeny: laughing softly “Exactly.”

Host: The projector whirred to a stop, and a low hum filled the air — the after-sound of the machine cooling down, like a beast catching its breath. The light from the screen flickered one last time, bathing them in the ghost of a movie that still lived somewhere in the dark.

Jack: after a long pause “You know, I’ve always thought that charisma was the cheapest form of genius — the one you can’t learn. You either have it, or you don’t.”

Jeeny: quietly “I don’t think it’s cheap. I think it’s ancient. People have always followed presence before reason. It’s instinct. The animal part of us recognizing strength.”

Jack: nodding slowly “So he’s not a performer — he’s a symbol.”

Jeeny: softly “Yes. The kind of man who represents something larger than himself — ambition, power, survival. It doesn’t matter what he’s saying. You’re watching what he is.”

Jack: grinning “The human embodiment of willpower with biceps.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “And somehow, that’s art too. It’s the art of embodiment — becoming an idea instead of pretending to be one.”

Host: The neon exit sign glowed, painting the floor in red light. Their reflections shimmered faintly on the glossy seats — half-ghosts, half-thinkers caught in a post-film trance.

Jack: after a silence “It’s strange, though. F. Murray Abraham — one of the most refined actors alive — admiring someone like Schwarzenegger. That contrast itself is poetic.”

Jeeny: softly “Because mastery recognizes mastery, even in different languages.”

Jack: quietly “You think Schwarzenegger’s a master?”

Jeeny: nodding “In his own dialect, yes. Acting isn’t one language. There’s method, there’s emotion, and then there’s presence — the ability to dominate silence. That’s his craft.”

Jack: after a pause “You know, when I was a kid, he was the first hero I believed in. Not because he was real, but because he made me want to be.”

Jeeny: smiling “That’s the highest form of influence. To awaken belief, not mimic it.”

Host: The rain began again outside, pattering against the tall windows at the back of the theater. The sound filled the space with rhythm — a soundtrack for reflection.

Jeeny: quietly “You know what’s amazing? That someone who’s not considered a ‘great actor’ could inspire generations more than many who are. That tells you something about how we measure greatness.”

Jack: softly “Maybe we measure it wrong.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Maybe greatness isn’t depth, but energy. Not subtlety, but presence. The power to occupy space without apology.”

Jack: after a pause “That’s rare now — in art, in life. Most people shrink themselves to fit the room. He expands the room to fit him.”

Jeeny: nodding “Exactly. That’s what F. Murray saw. The awe wasn’t in the performance — it was in the being.”

Host: The projector light flickered again as the technician tested a new reel. A brief flash of an old Schwarzenegger clip appeared on the screen — him walking through smoke, shotgun in hand, eyes cold as iron. Then darkness again.

Jack: after a moment “Presence is strange, isn’t it? You can’t fake it. You can act emotion, but you can’t act weight.”

Jeeny: softly “Because weight isn’t performance — it’s truth. It’s lived energy. The sum of who you’ve been.”

Jack: quietly “So his presence comes from history — from everything he endured to get there.”

Jeeny: nodding “Exactly. Immigrants, dreamers, the underestimated — they all carry that kind of density. When they arrive, the room knows.”

Jack: smiling faintly “So, he’s not great because he pretends well, but because he exists loudly.”

Jeeny: grinning “Yes. Some people act. Others just are.”

Host: The theatre lights rose slowly, revealing rows of empty seats glowing soft gold. The spell of cinema dissolved, leaving only the quiet intimacy of two people still lost in its echo.

Host: And in that quiet glow, F. Murray Abraham’s words unfolded like an ode to presence itself:

That greatness is not always technique,
but magnetism.
That not every artist speaks with subtlety —
some speak through force of being.

That to hold the screen,
to command stillness,
to make strangers lean forward without understanding why —
that is its own kind of art.

That amazing does not mean perfect;
it means unforgettable.

Host: The exit doors opened, spilling streetlight into the dark.

Jack: softly “You know, Jeeny, maybe what we crave in heroes isn’t acting — it’s certainty. The kind of confidence that says, ‘I belong here,’ even when you start from nothing.”

Jeeny: smiling gently “And that’s why we watch. Because we want to borrow that certainty, even for two hours.”

Host: The camera panned back, capturing them walking out into the wet night — two silhouettes in the neon glow of the marquee.

Behind them, the sign still flickered:
“Now Showing: The Terminator — 40th Anniversary.”

And as the rain fell and the city lights blurred into movement,
the truth hung in the air like steam rising from the street —

that presence, not perfection,
is what makes a person unforgettable.

That being watchable —
being alive —
is, in the truest human sense,
amazing.