'Bond' was like Christmas: can't wait for it to come around.

Host: The evening lay heavy over London, a thin mist clinging to the streetlamps like ghosts of forgotten dreams. The city hummed with a low, restless sound — engines, voices, footsteps, all merging into the eternal rhythm of ambition and memory. Inside a small, dimly-lit bar tucked behind a theatre, the smell of leather and old whisky hung like a perfume of nostalgia.

Jack sat by the window, his coat half-unbuttoned, eyes reflecting the faint neon from across the street. He looked like a man who had seen too many curtains fall, yet still waited for one more encore. Jeeny sat opposite him, her hands clasped around a cup of tea, eyes gleaming with the warmth of someone who still believes in miracles.

The quote had hung between them like a spark:
“‘Bond was like Christmas: can’t wait for it to come around. Being in the films brought me to a global audience, and I have had the opportunity to meet incredible people.” — Colin Salmon

Jeeny: “It’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it, Jack? To feel excitement, to anticipate something so deeply that it fills you like a child waiting for Christmas. To touch the world through art, to connect with people you’ve never met — that’s what makes life worth living.”

Jack: “Beautiful? Or illusionary? You talk about connection as if fame isn’t a mask, Jeeny. That ‘global audience’ — they don’t know you. They know your image, your lines, your edited self. Fame sells mirrors, not truths.”

Host: The light flickered, catching the dust in a brief halo around Jeeny’s face. She didn’t flinch; she simply looked at him, her eyes steady, her voice soft but edged with fire.

Jeeny: “You think that because something isn’t pure, it can’t be meaningful? That’s a tired armor, Jack. People may fall in love with an image, yes — but behind every role, every film, there’s a human trying to reach other humans. Isn’t that what art is — a bridge?”

Jack: “A bridge built on performance, not truth. You act, you smile, you sign autographs — but it’s a transaction. They adore you because they’re told to. Look at how the world treats celebrities: they build them up, worship them, then destroy them for sport. That’s not a bridge — it’s a spectacle.”

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s been burned by it.”

Jack: “We all have. You think you’re the audience, but you’re part of the act. We live in an age of broadcasted intimacy — everyone pretending to be close, everyone selling pieces of their soul for attention. Tell me, Jeeny — how is that different from the Roman Colosseum? The crowd cheers, and the performer bleeds.”

Host: The bar fell into a hush. Only the faint crack of ice in a glass broke the silence. Jeeny leaned back, her hair falling over her shoulders like ink spilling on paper.

Jeeny: “You always reduce everything to its ugliest form, Jack. Yet even in that arena, there was beauty. Even the gladiator had his moment of dignity. Colin Salmon didn’t just play a role — he lived one that touched millions. Maybe the magic of Christmas he spoke of isn’t about the crowd or the cameras. Maybe it’s about that childlike wonder that refuses to die.”

Jack: “Wonder fades. Reality doesn’t.”

Jeeny: “No. Reality changes. That’s the point. When someone like Salmon finds joy in his craft, he’s not naive — he’s resisting cynicism. He’s saying: I can still feel awe, even in a machine built to exploit it.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. The whisky glass trembled slightly as his hand closed around it. He stared into the amber liquid as if it were a portal to a simpler time.

Jack: “Awe is dangerous. It blinds you. Look at all the stars who believed in that fairy tale — Marilyn Monroe, Heath Ledger, Judy Garland. They reached the world, all right. And it crushed them. Fame promises connection and gives you isolation instead.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not fame that isolates — maybe it’s fear. They didn’t die from attention, Jack; they died from loneliness. From a world that loves to consume but never to listen.”

Host: Her words hit him like a quiet revelation, yet he wouldn’t yield — not yet. The neon outside had dimmed to a pale blue, casting their faces in fragile light.

Jack: “You’re romanticizing it. Fame is just another form of capitalism — people trading attention like currency. You think it’s noble because it feels emotional. But it’s still commerce, Jeeny. The actor’s gift becomes a product. The child’s joy becomes a marketing strategy.”

Jeeny: “Then tell me this — why do people cry at movies? Why do they feel less alone when they see a stranger’s story? Because deep down, connection still exists. Even through the screen. Even through the machine. That’s the paradox — and the miracle.”

Host: The air thickened between them, their breath visible now in the cold creeping through the window. A siren wailed faintly outside, echoing like a memory of something they’d both lost.

Jack: “You think a film can save someone?”

Jeeny: “I know it can. Think of Schindler’s List. Or The Pursuit of Happyness. Those weren’t just stories — they were lifelines. People watched them and decided to live another day, to forgive, to hope. Isn’t that power real, Jack?”

Jack: “Real, maybe. But it’s fleeting. People cry, applaud, and then go back to their cages. The world doesn’t change because of movies.”

Jeeny: “No — but people do. And people are the world.”

Host: Her voice had risen now, trembling not with anger but with truth. Jack looked at her, something shifting behind his grey eyes — a crack in the armor. The rain began to fall, tracing slow lines down the window, each drop reflecting the bar’s light like fragments of some old film reel.

Jeeny: “You talk about fame as if it’s poison, but maybe it’s medicine too — depending on how you use it. Salmon saw it as a gift, a chance to meet ‘incredible people,’ as he said. To share joy. To celebrate the fact that something still brings us together, even if just for a moment.”

Jack: “You make it sound holy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Every time we wait for something — for Christmas, for a film, for hope — we’re confessing that we still believe in renewal.”

Host: Jack sighed, the kind that comes from years of unspoken fatigue. He turned toward the window, watching the city blur under the rain.

Jack: “I used to believe that too. That the next release, the next success, the next applause would make it all worth it. But it’s like chasing light — by the time you reach it, it’s already gone.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the point isn’t to catch it, Jack. Maybe it’s to keep chasing. That’s what makes us human — the waiting, the hoping, the coming around again, just like Christmas.”

Host: The rain softened, almost tender now, as if the sky itself had been listening. Jack’s eyes met hers again — tired, yes, but lighter.

Jack: “You really think wonder can survive this world?”

Jeeny: “It already has. You’re just too careful to see it.”

Host: The bar grew quiet, the rain slowed to a whisper. Outside, the streetlights reflected in the puddles like a thousand tiny premieres, each one beginning and ending at once. Jack lifted his glass, not in defeat but in fragile understanding.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the world needs its illusions to stay alive.”

Jeeny: “They’re not illusions, Jack. They’re stories. And stories are what keep us from turning to stone.”

Host: The final light flickered once, then steadied — warm and still. Jeeny’s smile was faint, almost imperceptible, but it glowed like a memory.

And somewhere beyond the mist, beyond the screens and noise, the world turned again — waiting, always waiting, for its next Christmas to come around.