Cinema connects people: they respond as a group, you feel you are

Host: The city lights flickered outside the old cinema, their neon glow reflected on puddles scattered across the street. A faint rain had just stopped, leaving the air heavy with moisture and the smell of dust and memory. Inside, the theatre was nearly empty—just the flicker of the projector, the hum of electricity, and two silhouettes in the back row: Jack and Jeeny. The screen cast a pale light over their faces, illuminating their eyes like ghosts of forgotten dreams.

Jack leaned back, his hands buried in the pockets of his coat, his expression distant, unreadable.
Jeeny sat upright, her eyes still fixed on the credits that rolled over the screen like echoes of another time.

Jeeny: “Do you feel that, Jack? The silence after the film, when everyone breathes together… it’s like the whole world just paused for a moment.”

Jack: “It’s just silence, Jeeny. People watch, they clap, they leave. You’re romanticizing an industry built on selling dreams.”

Host: The projector whirred, a faint buzz in the dark, like an insect trapped in a glass bulb. Jeeny turned, her eyes still glowing faintly from the screenlight, as if the film itself had lit something inside her.

Jeeny: “Cinema connects people, Jack. That’s what it was meant for. You sit with strangers, and for a few hours, you’re not alone. You feel the laughter, the tears, the fear—all shared, all human. That’s rare now.”

Jack: “Connection? That’s an illusion. You could say the same about football fans or theme parks. It’s all manufactured emotion, sold to you for the price of a ticket and a bucket of popcorn.”

Jeeny: “But people believe in it. They recognize themselves on that screen, and that’s not manufactured. That’s truth—raw, collective truth.”

Jack: “Truth doesn’t come with marketing campaigns and franchise deals. Look around, Jeeny. The posters out there scream, ‘You will buy this because you are special.’ They’ve made even empathy a product.”

Host: His voice was low, edged with steel, but behind it lay something else—weariness, perhaps, or loss. Jeeny watched him, her brow furrowed, the reflections of the screen still shimmering in her eyes like the last of the stars before dawn.

Jeeny: “Maybe. But when I saw that Bosnian film—Zbanic’s Quo Vadis, Aida?—the audience didn’t think about brands or algorithms. They just cried. Together. That’s what she meant, you know? That cinema reminds us we’re not alone.”

Jack: “And yet, the next day, those same people scroll through ads and influencer reels, looking for what to buy next. Empathy doesn’t survive in the marketplace, Jeeny. It expires faster than milk.”

Host: The light from the screen finally dimmed, and a hollow darkness settled over the room. The sound of rainwater dripping from the roof echoed like slow applause.

Jeeny: “You really believe that, don’t you? That capitalism has won everything—that even feelings belong to the highest bidder?”

Jack: “I believe people are tired. They want to escape, not connect. Streaming services give them what they want: no crowds, no noise, no strangers. Just you, your sofa, and your screen. That’s the new church.”

Jeeny: “But it’s a lonely one. And that’s the problem. We’ve traded the cathedral for a cubicle. The communal gasp for a personalized recommendation.”

Jack: “Isn’t that just evolution? Technology makes life easier. You can’t blame people for choosing comfort.”

Jeeny: “Comfort isn’t the same as living. It’s like eating candy instead of bread. You fill yourself with something, but it’s not nourishment.”

Host: A gust of wind shook the windows, and for a moment, a neon sign outside flashed through the glass—“BUY HAPPINESS,” it said in red letters, flickering as if mocking them both.

Jack smirked, bitterly. “See? Even the city agrees with me.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s warning you.”

Host: The tension hung between them like smoke. Jack stood, pacing, his boots echoing on the wooden floor. Jeeny remained seated, her hands clasped, her voice calm but shaking at the edges.

Jeeny: “Do you remember when we used to go to the cinema every Friday? You’d always complain about the crowds, but when the lights went down, I’d see your eyes soften. You were moved, Jack. You just won’t admit it.”

Jack: “I was younger then. And foolish. I thought art could change people. But I’ve watched too many films, seen too many reboots, sequels, superhero masks—it’s all profit now. No truth, just formula.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you stopped looking for the truth. It’s still there—in the quiet films, the foreign ones, the stories made not to sell, but to speak.”

Jack: “And how many people watch those? A few hundred in independent festivals? The rest are too busy with Marvel or TikTok. Cinema as a social bond—that’s nostalgia, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s memory. And memory is what keeps us human.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like ash. The projector’s bulb gave a final flicker, and the room sank into darkness. The only light now came from the streetlamp outside, casting long, uneasy shadows across their faces.

Jack: “So what do you want, Jeeny? For people to go back to queuing for tickets, sitting next to strangers, sharing popcorn with coughing kids? The world moves forward. You can’t freeze it.”

Jeeny: “I don’t want to freeze it. I just don’t want us to forget how to feel together. That’s what Zbanic meant. Capitalism tells us we’re all the main character. But the film—the real film—shows us we’re part of a crowd.”

Jack: “And the crowd crushes the individual. Without the illusion that we’re special, why would anyone create anything at all?”

Jeeny: “Because we need each other. Not because we’re special, but because we’re the same.”

Host: The wind howled outside, rattling the doors, as if the city itself were listening.

Jack stopped pacing, his eyes now on the dark screen—a blank canvas, waiting.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I just miss believing that people could still see themselves in something real.”

Jeeny: “You still can. Every time a film makes you feel something, it’s not just your feeling. It’s a thread, tying you to everyone else who’s ever felt it.”

Jack: “And what if that thread snaps?”

Jeeny: “Then we weave it again. That’s what art is for.”

Host: The rain started again, softly this time—gentle, almost forgiving. Jeeny stood, her silhouette faint against the pale light from the doorway. Jack remained, silent, his gaze lost in the void of the screen.

Jeeny: “You know what’s truly horrible, Jack? Not that capitalism sells us lies, but that we buy them so easily, just to feel a little more important. Maybe the only way to fight it is to remember—to sit in the dark, with others, and feel something that doesn’t belong to you alone.”

Jack: “Maybe. Maybe that’s the last real revolution—to just feel together again.”

Host: The door creaked as they stepped out into the wet street, the neon lights flickering against the puddles. Somewhere in the distance, a busker played a violin, the notes drifting through the rain like faint echoes of a forgotten score.

The cinema behind them stood silent, its marquee dark, but inside, the ghosts of a thousand stories still breathed, waiting for someone to listen again.

And as they walked, side by side, neither spoke, but both felt the same thing—a quiet, stubborn hope that the light on the screen could still unite what the world had divided.