Hollywood people want to build you up and make you famous only to

Host: The night was heavy with Hollywood air—that peculiar blend of perfume, smog, and ambition. From the hills, the city below looked like a galaxy made of neon, each light a tiny dream still flickering in denial of dawn.

A rooftop bar pulsed with muted jazz, glasses clinking, voices rising, and laughter just loud enough to cover the loneliness. At a small table by the edge, Jack and Jeeny sat beneath the glow of a flickering marquee sign, its letters spelling half a word, half a promise.

Jack’s suit was wrinkled, his tie loosened, his eyes shadowed by a fatigue too sharp to be physical. Jeeny, across from him, looked tired, but not broken—the kind of tired that came from seeing too much truth in other people’s illusions.

Jeeny: “Morgan Brittany once said, ‘Hollywood people want to build you up and make you famous only to knock you off the pedestal they built for you.’”

Jack: “She’s right. That’s not cynicism—it’s physics. What goes up has to come down. The industry doesn’t love people, Jeeny. It loves symbols. And symbols are meant to be shattered.”

Host: The music from the bar below drifted upward, a lazy trumpet line carrying the ache of an unspoken question. The city lights flickered in Jack’s eyes, like memories he couldn’t quite erase.

Jeeny: “But doesn’t every dream carry that risk? Fame isn’t the villain—it’s just the mirror. Hollywood shows you what the world really values. People worship what they don’t understand.”

Jack: “No. People worship what distracts them. The glitz, the faces, the stories—they’re all a drug. The pedestal isn’t for you. It’s for their fantasies.”

Jeeny: “And when you stop fitting the fantasy, they break you. I know. But still, something in that cycle feels deeply human. The craving for gods—and the joy in watching them fall.”

Jack: “That’s not joy, Jeeny. It’s vengeance. People can’t stand to see someone become what they can’t. Hollywood just capitalizes on that envy. It builds idols out of flesh and sells their destruction as entertainment.”

Host: A plane cut across the sky, its trail catching the city’s glow like a scar across the heavens. Jeeny watched it fade, her expression distant, her voice soft.

Jeeny: “Maybe the fall is what makes it art. Tragedy has always been more beautiful than perfection. It’s human to fail.”

Jack: “There’s a difference between tragedy and spectacle. One has soul; the other sells tickets.”

Jeeny: “You say that like you’re immune to it.”

Jack: “I’m not. I’ve had my pedestal moment—press flashes, fake smiles, promises whispered at midnight by people who vanished by morning. You start thinking you’re the reason the lights shine brighter. Then one day, no one calls. The silence hurts more than the fame ever healed.”

Host: His voice cracked on that last word, barely audible beneath the hum of the city. Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes steady, gentle, seeing the pain beneath his cynicism.

Jeeny: “They took your face, Jack, but not your fire. That’s the trick of fame—it convinces you that your reflection is your worth.”

Jack: “And when the reflection fades?”

Jeeny: “You start seeing yourself again. Maybe for the first time.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmine, cutting through the metallic tang of the city. Below, the billboards kept flashing, selling dreams to those who hadn’t learned yet what they cost.

Jack: “You know what I hate most about this place? It doesn’t kill you outright. It seduces you into dying slowly—with smiles, applause, and hollow validation.”

Jeeny: “But it also gave you a voice, didn’t it? A stage, a chance to create something that touched people. You can’t hate the fire because it burned you.”

Jack: “I can if I never asked to be set on fire.”

Jeeny: “Then why did you come here?”

Jack: “Because I thought I could make something real in a world built on illusion. But every truth I offered got edited for marketability.”

Host: The light from the marquee flickered again, turning their faces gold, then shadow. Jeeny’s eyes softened, her voice quieter, nearly a whisper.

Jeeny: “You sound like one of your own scripts. The bitter man who wanted to tell the truth and got swallowed by the system.”

Jack: “Because that’s the only story Hollywood ever tells truthfully. The rise and the fall. It’s not art—it’s ritual.”

Jeeny: “But even rituals can be sacred. Maybe that’s why it still draws us. The rise gives hope. The fall teaches humility. Every star that burns out reminds us how fragile light is.”

Jack: “You romanticize everything, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “And you strip meaning out of everything. That’s why we argue—you see the world’s machinery, I see its music.”

Jack: “And in Hollywood, the music is lip-synced.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But the feeling’s still real, even if the melody’s artificial.”

Host: A pause. The city below buzzed, alive and indifferent. Somewhere, a sirene wailed, blending into the hum of traffic. Jack took a slow sip of his drink, staring at the skyline—the world that had once promised him immortality.

Jack: “You know, Morgan Brittany’s right. They build you up just to knock you down. But maybe that’s not their cruelty—it’s their nature. Hollywood needs martyrs to stay alive.”

Jeeny: “Then don’t die for it. Transform because of it. The pedestal isn’t meant to hold you forever—it’s just a stage. Step off when the show’s over.”

Jack: “And go where?”

Jeeny: “Anywhere the applause can’t reach you.”

Host: The wind rose, lifting Jeeny’s hair, sending the city’s hum into a slow crescendo. She stood, her hand resting on Jack’s shoulder—a touch both grounding and forgiving.

Jeeny: “You don’t need the pedestal anymore, Jack. The world down there may forget your name, but your truth—your work—that’s what stays. Fame is loud, but legacy whispers.”

Jack: “And what if no one hears it?”

Jeeny: “Then it was meant for you.”

Host: The camera pulled back, revealing the two figures framed against the city’s expanse, their shadows long, their silence golden. The marquee behind them flickered once more, then went dark—letters fading, meaning dissolving—just light against night.

And in that moment, as the world below kept glittering with false promises, one truth stood quietly in the air between them:

that fame is a fragile architecture, built from desire and forgetfulness,
and when the crowd stops clapping,
the only applause that matters
is the one your soul gives—
for surviving the fall,
and daring to stay real.