Hollywood's a very weird place. I think there's less of

Host: The scene opens on a Los Angeles rooftop at night — the kind that overlooks a thousand glittering lights pretending to be stars. The air hums with distant sirens, laughter from rooftop bars, and the low, endless rush of cars on the 101. A red neon sign from a nearby building flickers intermittently, spelling out half a word — “HO…LY…” — as if the city itself can’t quite decide what it believes in.

Jack leans against the railing, a half-empty bottle of something expensive dangling from his hand. His gray eyes catch the reflection of the skyline — sharp, jaded, hungry. Jeeny stands a few feet away, her dark hair stirred by the night breeze, her expression calm, but her gaze carries a quiet challenge.

Between them on a small metal table sits a folded newspaper. Its headline reads: “Hollywood Dreams, Empty Promises.” Scrawled on the margin in Jack’s handwriting is a quote — rough, ink bleeding slightly into the paper fibers:

“Hollywood’s a very weird place. I think there’s less of everything except for attitude.” — Dean Cain

Host: The camera pans slowly over the rooftop — champagne bottles, cigarette butts, discarded scripts, the remnants of a party that pretended to mean something. The silence now feels heavier than the noise before.

Jack: [grinning wryly] “Less of everything except attitude. Cain wasn’t wrong. This city runs on performance — even when the cameras aren’t rolling.”

Jeeny: [smiling faintly] “Maybe attitude’s all that keeps it alive. Confidence is the currency here. You fake it till the world believes you — and sometimes, that’s enough.”

Jack: [takes a drink, voice low] “Enough for who? The studios? The influencers? The critics who feed on both?”

Jeeny: [walking closer] “No, Jack. Enough for survival. You can’t breathe in this town if you don’t build an armor out of ego.”

Jack: [chuckles dryly] “Ego’s the smog here — it fills your lungs whether you want it or not. But Cain’s right — for all the noise, there’s less everything. Less soul, less art, less truth. Just more people trying to look like they have all three.”

Jeeny: [softly] “That’s what Hollywood has always been — illusion perfected. It’s not about truth; it’s about the performance of it.”

Host: The camera shifts, capturing the skyline behind them — a constellation of lights, each window glowing like a dream someone once sold to themselves.

Jack: [quietly] “You know, I used to come here thinking this was where everything happened — where meaning lived. But the longer I stay, the more I realize the real stories aren’t in the lights. They’re in the people trying to stay visible beneath them.”

Jeeny: [nodding] “Because the spotlight burns, Jack. It doesn’t illuminate. You think it’s warmth, but it’s really exposure.”

Jack: [looking at her] “So what keeps you here?”

Jeeny: [after a pause] “Hope. Maybe madness. Maybe both. I still believe there’s something sacred about pretending — if it’s done honestly. Actors, writers, artists — they all try to find truth through lies. That’s not evil. It’s human.”

Jack: [smirking slightly] “You always find poetry in the ruins.”

Jeeny: [smiling] “That’s where the poetry hides.”

Host: The wind picks up, tugging at the paper with Cain’s quote, flipping it slightly as if the city itself wants to read its reflection. A police helicopter passes overhead, its light cutting briefly across their faces — stark, revealing, momentary.

Jack: [watching it fade] “You know what bothers me most? How attitude replaced authenticity. It’s like this town decided sincerity doesn’t sell, so it reinvented arrogance as confidence.”

Jeeny: [gently] “You say that like the rest of the world isn’t doing the same.”

Jack: [pausing, then laughing softly] “Touché. Maybe Hollywood’s just an exaggerated mirror — the world’s ego on surround sound.”

Jeeny: [nodding] “Exactly. It amplifies what everyone’s already chasing — validation. Out here, it’s just louder, shinier, more desperate.”

Jack: [leaning on the railing again, gazing out] “But what about art, Jeeny? Real art. The kind that meant something before algorithms and image consultants. Where did that go?”

Jeeny: [after a long pause] “It didn’t go anywhere, Jack. It’s just quieter now. It whispers between the noise — in small films no one funds, in music no one hears, in stories that never trend. The art’s still here. It’s just shy.”

Jack: [his voice softens] “And the rest?”

Jeeny: [looking at the skyline] “The rest is theater. And every actor in this city is terrified the show will end before they find themselves.”

Host: The camera drifts — close-ups of posters peeling off brick walls, a broken Oscar figurine lying in an alley below, the shimmer of a billboard promising “The Next Big Thing.” The city looks beautiful and broken all at once — like a god still addicted to applause.

Jack: [quietly] “You ever think we’re all acting? Everywhere, not just here? Pretending to be certain, pretending to be happy — pretending to be okay?”

Jeeny: [softly] “Of course. But Hollywood just turned that human instinct into an industry.”

Jack: [smiling sadly] “Less of everything, huh? Less humility, less humanity — more attitude.”

Jeeny: [after a pause] “Maybe attitude’s just armor. You put it on to protect the fragile parts — the artist, the dreamer, the believer.”

Jack: [staring out at the city lights] “And what happens when the armor becomes the person?”

Jeeny: [turning toward him, voice low] “Then the world forgets it ever loved the truth behind the performance.”

Host: The city hums below, like a restless heartbeat. For a moment, the screen fills with light — the illusion of grandeur, the endless shimmer of success. Then the camera pans down — into alleys, studios, tiny apartments — where the real struggle continues quietly, unseen.

Jack: [after a long silence] “You know, I think Cain wasn’t bitter. Just honest. Hollywood’s weird because it reflects us — our ambition without balance, our hunger without gratitude. It’s not the city that’s broken. It’s the mirror.”

Jeeny: [softly, nodding] “And still — we can’t stop looking into it.”

Jack: [grins faintly] “Maybe that’s the weirdest thing of all.”

Host: The camera zooms out, capturing them in silhouette against the vast electric sprawl of Los Angeles — a city built on light and longing.

Host: Dean Cain’s words echo through the neon haze:

“Hollywood’s a very weird place. I think there’s less of everything except for attitude.”

Host: And beneath them lingers the quiet revelation —

That attitude without authenticity is hollow,
that dreams without humility turn into noise,
and that every artist, in every age, must decide —
whether to live for applause,
or for truth that doesn’t need an audience.

Host: The final shot:
Jack and Jeeny stand at the railing as dawn breaks over the city.
The neon fades, the sun rises, and for a fleeting second,
Hollywood looks almost human —
less glitter, more soul.

Fade to black.