For me, it was important Wonder Woman wouldn't be a Goody

Host: The studio floor gleamed under the white-hot glare of spotlights. Cameras on cranes hovered like curious birds, and a faint hum of machinery filled the cavernous soundstage. It was late — long past the scheduled wrap — but the air still crackled with creative energy, the kind that lives between exhaustion and art.

At the center of it all, in front of a half-dismantled green screen, Jack sat slouched in a director’s chair, rubbing his temples. Jeeny, in black jeans and a loose denim jacket, leaned against a set prop — a faux marble column that looked like it belonged in a temple for gods.

Around them, the crew packed up silently — coiled cables, dimmed lights, gathered armor and swords that only looked real under camera magic.

Host: The world of make-believe heroes was collapsing into quiet reality — and in that silence, the truth behind every performance began to breathe.

Jeeny: (breaking the stillness) “Gal Gadot once said, ‘For me, it was important Wonder Woman wouldn’t be a Goody Two-Shoes. She has a little bit of attitude, and when she fights, she has a smirk on her face. I didn’t want her to be polished. I want people to relate to her.’”

(she tilts her head) “That line’s been in my head all day. You ever think about how we’ve been raised to worship perfection, when what we actually crave is imperfection?”

Jack: (half-laughing, tired) “You’re quoting superheroes now? You’ve officially crossed into pop philosophy.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Pop or not, she’s right. Flaws make people real. If heroes never bleed, we stop believing in them.”

Host: The overhead light flickered, one of those studio fluorescents that refused to die gracefully. The set around them looked surreal now — half myth, half machinery.

Jack: “You know what the problem is? The audience says they want authenticity, but they punish imperfection. We build idols, then crucify them for being human.”

Jeeny: “That’s why I like what she said — about attitude, about the smirk. It’s not arrogance; it’s rebellion. Wonder Woman doesn’t fight like a saint. She fights like someone who knows she could lose.”

Jack: (looking up) “You think that’s what makes her powerful?”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes her alive. She’s not polished, not divine. She’s flawed. Angry. Playful. Honest. She fights with empathy, but she still enjoys the fight.”

Host: The camera crane shifted, casting a long shadow across the floor, slicing through them like a question.

Jack: “Funny. I spent half my life trying to be the kind of man who doesn’t smirk in a fight — who’s controlled, reasonable, always the good guy. Turns out, people relate more when you show your teeth.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Or when you show your cracks.”

Jack: “Yeah. That too.”

Host: She crossed her arms, walking closer to him, her boots echoing on the hollow floor. The set smelled of paint, sweat, and adrenaline — the scent of creation mid-chaos.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? Perfection’s a costume. You wear it so long, you forget what your own skin feels like.”

Jack: “And when you take it off, everyone stares.”

Jeeny: “Good. Let them stare. Maybe they’ll see themselves.”

Host: The sound of a distant generator hummed — steady, like a heartbeat for the empty studio.

Jack: “So you’re saying we need more heroes who smirk? Less angels, more humans?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because we don’t want gods anymore. We want mirrors.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “Mirrors can crack.”

Jeeny: “So can people. The light still gets through.”

Host: The silence that followed was heavy, not with conflict, but with recognition — that rare kind of understanding that sneaks in at the end of long conversations and longer days.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about that quote? The word ‘relate.’ Gadot didn’t say she wanted Wonder Woman to impress people. She wanted them to connect with her. That’s the secret. We don’t fall in love with perfection. We fall in love with the fight.”

Jack: “With the grit, the scars, the smirk.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You ever notice how people who’ve been through hell always laugh differently? It’s not loud — it’s deep. Like they’ve earned it.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You sound like you’ve been through a few battles yourself.”

Jeeny: “Haven’t we all?”

Host: She reached out, plucked a small fake flower from the broken set, and twirled it between her fingers. The petals were plastic, the stem bent, but somehow it looked beautiful in her hand — an emblem of imperfection that refused to be discarded.

Jeeny: “Maybe strength isn’t about looking untouchable. Maybe it’s about staying soft in a world that keeps trying to harden you.”

Jack: (quietly) “That’s what makes heroes human.”

Jeeny: “And humans heroic.”

Host: The lights dimmed further, one bulb burning brighter than the rest, spotlighting the two of them amidst the ruins of fantasy — just Jack and Jeeny, two ordinary souls talking about extraordinary truths.

Jack: “You ever wonder why we need heroes at all? If we already know they’re just reflections of us?”

Jeeny: “Because we need reminders. Sometimes the only way we remember who we are is by seeing it in someone braver.”

Jack: “Or someone who smirks in the face of fear.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. A little attitude goes a long way.”

Host: The crew called “wrap” from across the room. One by one, the lights began shutting down. The magic unspooled. The set — once a world — shrank back into scaffolding and plywood.

Jeeny picked up her jacket, slinging it over her shoulder.

Jeeny: “Come on, hero. Let’s get out of here before they turn off the last light.”

Jack: (grinning) “You mean before we turn back into mortals?”

Jeeny: “No. Before we forget we already were.”

Host: The camera pans wide — the soundstage now dark except for one glowing lamp left behind, reflecting faintly on a broken shield lying on the floor.

Host: And as they walk away — two silhouettes, one laughing, one thinking — Gal Gadot’s words linger like a promise carved into the air:

Host: That real strength isn’t polished —
it’s personal.

That a true hero doesn’t rise from perfection,
but from flaws worn fearlessly.

That a smirk in the middle of the fight
is not arrogance —
it’s defiance,
a quiet rebellion against despair.

Host: Because what people relate to most
is not the goddess in armor —
but the human beneath it
who still bleeds,
still loves,
and still dares to smile.

Host: The last light flickers out.
The set sleeps.
And somewhere in that silence,
a hero — imperfect, unpolished, alive —
keeps smirking in the dark.