I do enjoy doing pantomime at Christmas. If I didn't do it, I'd

Host: The theater was empty now — seats like silent witnesses under the faint hum of the stage lights. Dust floated in gold halos, drifting lazily through the still air. The faint smell of greasepaint, pine, and old laughter lingered, that peculiar scent of stories long told and emotions long borrowed.

A few Christmas decorations remained on stage: tinsel hanging tiredly from a cardboard castle, a plastic star tilted at an awkward angle above a painted snowman.

At the edge of the stage sat Jack, his coat folded beside him, his hands resting loosely on his knees. Across from him, perched on the steps like a thoughtful child, was Jeeny, her eyes bright, alive — as if she could still see the magic that had filled this place hours ago.

Jeeny: (smiling) “Kenny Baker once said — ‘I do enjoy doing pantomime at Christmas. If I didn’t do it, I’d feel as though I was missing something.’”

Jack: (chuckling softly) “That’s the most honest kind of confession, isn’t it? Not about fame or fortune — just... the need to belong to a ritual.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The kind of ritual that’s half work, half wonder. Where performance becomes home.”

Jack: “Funny thing, though. He spent his life under masks and costumes — R2-D2, dwarves, jesters. And still, he talks about pantomime like it’s the one thing that made him himself.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Christmas pantomime does — it lets you be someone else until you recognize yourself again.”

Host: The sound of the wind slipped through the cracks of the old theater doors. Somewhere in the rafters, a bit of tinsel fluttered, catching the dim light like a flicker of leftover joy.

Jack: “You think that’s what he meant? That the act of pretending becomes a kind of truth?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Pretending doesn’t mean lying. Sometimes, pretending is how we find the courage to be honest. Pantomime is laughter built on sadness, joy built on longing. It’s the human condition — just dressed in sequins.”

Jack: (smiling) “So the fool becomes the philosopher.”

Jeeny: “And the stage becomes sanctuary.”

Host: A faint echo filled the hall — the kind of echo that carries not sound, but memory. The audience was gone, the applause was gone, but the feeling still lived — faint, warm, eternal.

Jack: “You know, people mock pantomime — say it’s old-fashioned, childish. But maybe that’s the point. Childhood isn’t something you grow out of; it’s something you grow back into.”

Jeeny: “Especially at Christmas. When the world remembers, just for a few days, how to believe in nonsense again.”

Jack: “Believing in nonsense. There’s a philosophy in that.”

Jeeny: “There’s humanity in that. Every time we laugh at a man in a silly hat, or boo the villain, or shout, ‘He’s behind you!’ — we’re doing something sacred. We’re choosing joy on purpose.”

Host: The lights above flickered, humming softly as if the theater itself was listening. The ghosts of Christmas performances past seemed to breathe through the boards beneath their feet — laughter, songs, forgotten lines.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why he said he’d feel like something was missing without it. Because some traditions aren’t about duty — they’re about wholeness. Doing them is what keeps the world from rusting.”

Jeeny: “Yes. We all need repetition. The comfort of return. The pantomime is silly, but it’s also stability. Every year, same story, same jokes — and yet, somehow, it feels new again.”

Jack: “Like life itself. Predictable, but never boring when you care enough to play your part.”

Jeeny: (gently) “And when you stop playing, that’s when you start fading.”

Host: Jack looked up at the stage — at the backdrop painted like a fantasy town, snow that would never melt, castles that never crumbled. The air smelled faintly of nostalgia, the kind that makes your chest ache in the best way.

Jack: “You know, I get it now. It’s not about theater, or Christmas. It’s about purpose. About needing something to keep you tethered to the world.”

Jeeny: “To feel like you belong to the season — not just watch it pass.”

Jack: “Yeah. To be part of the song instead of just the silence.”

Host: Outside, the church bells began to chime, their sound muffled by snow. Inside, the theater held its breath — the old boards creaking slightly as if remembering the rhythm of applause.

Jeeny: “It’s funny, isn’t it? People think Christmas is about receiving — gifts, attention, recognition. But for performers like Baker, it’s about giving. The laughter, the spectacle, the light.”

Jack: “And when you stop giving, something in you goes quiet.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why he’d feel like he was missing something. Because joy isn’t something you keep — it’s something you pass on.”

Host: The light from the exit sign glowed dimly red, casting long, theatrical shadows across the empty seats. Jack stood, stretching, his voice quieter now — reverent.

Jack: “You ever notice how the best performances happen when no one’s trying to be profound? Just present.”

Jeeny: “That’s the secret. Presence is the deepest art. It’s what pantomime teaches better than any sermon — that the simple act of showing up, of playing along, is what keeps life luminous.”

Host: She walked onto the stage then, her footsteps soft against the old boards. She turned, arms open, a mock bow.

Jeeny: (smiling) “Ladies and gentlemen — the curtain never really falls.”

Jack: (applauding softly) “Not if you still believe in the story.”

Host: The camera would pull back, rising slowly above the empty rows, past the soft shimmer of tinsel and the faint hum of the lights. Outside, snow continued to fall, turning the world into a stage of its own.

And through that still, glowing hush, Kenny Baker’s words lingered — not as nostalgia, but as a quiet promise:

That tradition isn’t obligation,
it’s a thread —
woven from laughter, rhythm, and ritual.

That the small, joyful acts
we repeat each year
are not frivolous —
they are how we stay human.

For the world may change,
the lights may dim,
but as long as we keep showing up —
to sing, to laugh, to play —

we will never truly
be missing something.