Films for TV have to be much closer to the book, mainly because

Host: The room was a dim screening hall, the kind that had lost its glamour decades ago. The air smelled faintly of dust, film reels, and the echo of forgotten applause. Rows of empty red seats stretched before a single flickering screen, where the final credits of an old black-and-white film scrolled in silence.

Jack sat alone in the second row, his arms folded, his expression unreadable—a man dissecting a ghost. Jeeny entered softly, her footsteps barely audible on the carpeted floor, her silhouette framed against the light of the projector booth behind her. She held two paper cups of coffee, steam rising like thin white threads between them.

Jeeny: “Michael Haneke once said, ‘Films for TV have to be much closer to the book, mainly because the objective with a TV movie that translates literature is to get the audience, after seeing this version, to pick up the book and read it themselves. My attitude is that TV can never really be any form of art, because it serves audience expectations.’”

Jack: “Haneke’s right. Television isn’t art—it’s an algorithm dressed as empathy.”

Host: The projector light flared, illuminating the dust in the air—tiny particles suspended like thoughts that never settled. Jeeny handed Jack his cup and sat beside him, her eyes glancing at the screen, where the last frame still lingered: a woman’s face frozen mid-blink.

Jeeny: “You always quote cynics like they’re prophets.”

Jack: “They usually are. Haneke understood something most filmmakers won’t admit—TV doesn’t provoke; it pacifies. It gives people exactly what they already think they want.”

Jeeny: “And what’s wrong with giving people what they want?”

Jack: “Because art isn’t supposed to please. It’s supposed to unsettle. To disturb. TV isn’t art—it’s comfort food. Soft, predictable, digestible.”

Jeeny: “But even comfort can be beautiful, Jack. Sometimes the world’s cruel enough—we don’t need our screens to bruise us too.”

Jack: “Then what’s left? A mirror that flatters? That’s not reflection—it’s seduction.”

Host: The screen dimmed, the light fading, leaving only the ghost glow of the exit sign against the far wall. Outside, the faint hum of the city seeped in—like the heartbeat of something too large and indifferent to stop.

Jeeny: “You talk as if accessibility and art can’t coexist. Maybe television isn’t lesser—it’s just democratic.”

Jack: “Democracy kills art. You can’t design by committee and call it vision. Art has to risk alienation. If everyone’s comfortable, you’ve failed.”

Jeeny: “So you’d rather make something no one watches, but call it pure?”

Jack: “I’d rather make something that makes people feel—even if they hate it. Haneke’s Funny Games, The White Ribbon—he forces you to confront what you’d rather ignore. TV doesn’t do that. It smooths over edges until nothing’s sharp enough to cut.”

Jeeny: “Maybe cutting isn’t always necessary. Sometimes tenderness reaches deeper than shock.”

Jack: “Tenderness is fine if it’s earned. But most TV serves it prepackaged—with laugh tracks, cliffhangers, fake catharsis. It’s engineered addiction.”

Jeeny: “And film isn’t?”

Jack: “True cinema doesn’t beg for attention. It trusts silence, ambiguity. It asks questions without answering. That’s art. Television’s job is to answer everything before the next commercial break.”

Host: A pause—long, deliberate. The projector hum continued like a distant heartbeat. Jeeny leaned forward, her voice low, soft, but edged with quiet defiance.

Jeeny: “You think art only lives in difficulty. But maybe there’s beauty in translation too. Maybe TV, even when simple, invites people to curiosity—to reach for the book, the idea, the feeling beyond the frame. Isn’t that what Haneke meant?”

Jack: “Maybe. But curiosity’s a rare impulse now. Most viewers don’t pick up the book—they just scroll to the next show.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the problem isn’t TV—it’s us.”

Host: The screen flickered again, showing a brief clip—a child running through a field, the colors slightly muted, the image grainy, imperfect. Jeeny watched, her eyes glistening, as though the imperfection itself moved her.

Jeeny: “Maybe imperfection is art. Even if it lives in the wrong medium.”

Jack: “You really think TV can be art?”

Jeeny: “I think anything can be art—if there’s honesty behind it. Haneke saw TV’s danger, but maybe he also saw its potential: to lure people back to something real. To make them pick up the book again.”

Jack: “So you see TV as a bridge?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Maybe it’s not the cathedral—but it leads people to the door.”

Host: The rain began outside, tapping gently on the glass skylight above. The sound mixed with the hum of the projector, creating a rhythm that felt both mechanical and alive. Jack looked at Jeeny, his expression shifting—not agreement, but contemplation.

Jack: “You know, Pei said architecture has to have roots. Maybe art does too. Cinema’s rooted in solitude; television’s rooted in connection. Maybe that’s its art.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. TV doesn’t serve an artist—it serves the collective heart. Maybe that’s not lesser. Maybe it’s just different.”

Jack: “So you’d defend the crowd?”

Jeeny: “No. I’d defend the possibility that the crowd can still feel deeply, even through noise. Haneke despised audience comfort because he respected their capacity for thought. Maybe that respect is art too.”

Host: The lights in the hall began to fade back on, a soft hum preceding their return. The screen went black. The two sat still, bathed in the new, sterile brightness—as if they had surfaced from a dream that wasn’t finished.

Jack: “So, what you’re saying is... television isn’t the death of art—it’s the test of it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Art survives when truth finds a way through expectation. Even in 42 minutes and ad breaks.”

Jack: “Haneke would hate that answer.”

Jeeny: “That’s why it might be true.”

Host: A smile ghosted across Jack’s lips, something rare and almost tender. He rose, stretching, the echo of his footsteps filling the empty theater.

Jeeny stayed seated, her eyes lingering on the now blank screen, where imagination still flickered even in absence.

Jeeny: “Maybe art isn’t about the medium, Jack. It’s about what survives the translation.”

Host: The camera panned out, showing the two figures dwarfed by the empty rows, the screen before them glowing faintly—like a window to memory.

Outside, the city lights shimmered through the rain, a thousand small stories flickering at once—each one seeking meaning, reflection, connection.

And as the scene faded, Haneke’s paradox lingered like a quiet refrain:
that art may never live comfortably on television—
but perhaps it still breathes through it,
whenever a single viewer, stirred by something half-felt,
turns off the screen—and picks up the book.