I don't think people are fools, and I think they deserve a good

Host: The café was nearly empty, resting between the rushes of day and night. Outside, the streetlights hummed to life, throwing long shadows through the windows streaked with rain. The air smelled of coffee, ink, and late conversations — that strange perfume of intellect and fatigue.

Jack sat in the corner booth, notebook open, pen tapping, his grey eyes fixed somewhere beyond the page. Jeeny entered with her usual quiet grace, her black coat shimmering faintly with the drizzle. She ordered tea, then slid into the seat across from him.

On the table between them, a dog-eared page from a magazine lay open — the quote scrawled in Jack’s familiar, impatient handwriting:
“I don't think people are fools, and I think they deserve a good attitude and smart entertainment.” — Tatyana Tolstaya.

Jeeny: “You’ve been staring at that sentence all evening. What’s bothering you — the word ‘smart,’ or the word ‘deserve’?”

Jack: “Both. They don’t belong together anymore.”

Jeeny: “You don’t think people deserve smart entertainment?”

Jack: “I don’t think people want it. They say they do, but then they binge whatever numbs them fastest. Studios keep making the same stories because the audience keeps rewarding them. It’s a loop of mediocrity.”

Host: His tone was sharp, but beneath it was the weariness of a man who had once believed in something higher — and watched it dissolve in market trends.

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re not rewarding mediocrity. Maybe they’re rewarding comfort. You ever think of that?”

Jack: “Comfort is the enemy of thought. The moment art becomes easy, it stops mattering.”

Jeeny: “Not everyone wants to be challenged every time they open their eyes, Jack. Some people are just trying to get through the day. A laugh, a love story, a little hope — that’s not stupidity. That’s survival.”

Jack: “You’re defending laziness.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m defending humanity.”

Host: The rain began to thicken outside, a soft percussion on the windowpanes. The flicker of a neon sign — Open Late — bled into the room, painting them both in pulsing red light.

Jeeny: “What Tolstaya meant wasn’t that entertainment has to be academic. She meant it has to be respectful. To believe the audience isn’t stupid — to trust their curiosity instead of pandering to their lowest instincts.”

Jack: “And yet pandering is what pays the bills. That’s the problem. Smart entertainment doesn’t sell.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not at first. But it lasts. Look at ‘The Twilight Zone,’ or ‘Amélie,’ or Kubrick’s work. They weren’t made for algorithms — they were made for minds.”

Jack: “And yet they were misunderstood, criticized, even mocked when they came out. Visionaries don’t get applause until after they’re dead.”

Jeeny: “Then why are you still creating?”

Jack: “Because I’m stupid enough to hope someone’s still listening.”

Host: Jeeny smiled — the kind of smile that carried both sadness and pride. She reached for her cup, the steam rising like quiet resolve.

Jeeny: “That’s not stupidity, Jack. That’s faith. The same kind Tolstaya had when she said people deserve more. She believed that even if most don’t ask for substance, they still recognize it when they see it.”

Jack: “Maybe. But we live in a world that rewards reaction, not reflection. Nobody wants to think anymore — they just want to scroll, consume, move on.”

Jeeny: “Then give them something they can’t scroll past.”

Host: The lights dimmed slightly as the café’s old wiring hummed. Jack’s pen stilled. His eyes flickered with that old spark — not belief, not yet, but the ache of remembering what belief once felt like.

Jack: “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s harder than ever. But hard isn’t hopeless. The job of an artist isn’t to chase attention — it’s to earn it. To wake people up without shaming them for sleeping.”

Jack: “Wake them up to what?”

Jeeny: “To themselves.”

Host: She leaned forward, her voice lower, intimate, like the whisper of an idea forming.

Jeeny: “The best entertainment — the kind Tolstaya meant — doesn’t lecture. It mirrors. It says, ‘Look, this is you. This is us.’ And if you can do that with intelligence and heart, you’ve done something holy.”

Jack: “Holy? That’s a strong word for art.”

Jeeny: “Is it? What else do you call something that gives people back their capacity to feel?”

Host: The rain outside turned heavier, the rhythm deepening, merging with the pulse of their words. Jack closed his notebook, his fingers tapping lightly against the cover.

Jack: “You think smart entertainment can still survive? In a world drowning in noise?”

Jeeny: “It has to. Otherwise we forget what intelligence feels like.”

Jack: “And you think the audience will follow?”

Jeeny: “Not all. But enough. Enough always do.”

Host: Her voice carried a quiet conviction that stilled the air. For a moment, the café felt suspended — no time, no noise, just two people standing at the edge of belief and disillusionment.

Jack: “You know what I envy about you?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “You still trust people.”

Jeeny: “Because I talk to them. Outside of this industry bubble. Students, bakers, engineers, janitors. They’re not fools, Jack. They’re exhausted, not empty. You give them honesty, they’ll respond.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened — a slow thawing. He looked toward the rain-soaked window, where droplets refracted the light like miniature prisms.

Jack: “You think that’s what art should be — a conversation, not a performance.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The artist speaks. The audience answers. Both leave changed.”

Host: The clock on the café wall ticked softly — each second landing like a heartbeat. Jeeny finished her tea, set the cup down gently, and smiled.

Jeeny: “You know, Tolstaya wrote stories about ordinary people doing extraordinary thinking. That’s all she asked for — respect for human intelligence. The courage to assume someone’s paying attention.”

Jack: “And what if no one is?”

Jeeny: “Then speak anyway. Because silence teaches nothing.”

Host: Outside, the rain began to ease. The neon light flickered once, then steadied, bathing the table in a warm, stubborn glow.

Jack reached for his pen again, flipping open the notebook. His hand hovered for a moment, then began to move — words flowing with hesitant confidence.

Jeeny watched, her eyes soft but sure.

Jack: “You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe art isn’t about finding fools to entertain — it’s about finding minds to awaken.”

Jeeny: “And hearts to remind.”

Host: The camera lingered on the table — two cups, one empty, one half-full. The quote between them, rain-spotted but legible, glowed faintly in the lamplight.

“I don’t think people are fools.”

And perhaps that was the truest rebellion of all — not cynicism, not irony, but faith.
Faith that humanity still deserved intelligence.
Faith that creation could still be conscience.

As the screen dimmed, the café lights glowed against the rain-slick street — a small sanctuary for the dangerous act of believing people still cared.