I have no use for people who throw their weight around as

Host: The soundstage was almost empty now, a cathedral of quiet after a long day of noise. The floodlights had dimmed to a faint golden hum, casting long shadows across the scuffed concrete floor. The scent of paint, camera grease, and coffee still lingered — that unmistakable perfume of creation and exhaustion.

A single spotlight remained lit over a director’s chair in the middle of the space. Jack sat in it, coat slung over the back, a script resting loosely in his hand. Across from him, on a stack of cables, sat Jeeny, her legs crossed, holding a notepad and a pencil chewed to the core.

Between them lay a printed quote on a wrinkled call sheet, words from a man whose imagination had changed the world:

“I have no use for people who throw their weight around as celebrities, or for those who fawn over you just because you are famous.” — Walt Disney

Jeeny: (looking up from the paper) “It’s funny, isn’t it? The man who created a kingdom of stars, warning us not to worship them.”

Host: Her voice carried softly in the vast room, a tone of half-wonder, half-cynicism — the kind born from working too long behind the curtain of illusion.

Jack: (grinning) “He knew the difference between fame and magic. One fades under light; the other creates it.”

Jeeny: “And yet the world seems addicted to the first.”

Jack: “Yeah. Because fame’s easier to sell. Magic requires humility.”

Host: The overhead lights buzzed faintly. A soundstage door creaked open somewhere far away — a ghost of motion in a temple built for fantasy.

Jeeny: “You think Disney ever felt trapped by what he built? I mean, he turned imagination into industry. Fairytales became merchandise.”

Jack: “Of course he did. That’s why this quote hits so hard. He wasn’t mocking fame — he was mourning what it does to people.”

Jeeny: “The corruption of wonder.”

Jack: “Exactly. Fame makes people forget why they started. You begin by wanting to share, and end by wanting to be seen.”

Host: The light from the spotlight sharpened around them, cutting a small, intimate circle in the vast darkness — two silhouettes surrounded by the ghosts of applause.

Jeeny: “You’ve worked with enough stars, Jack. Tell me — what happens to them?”

Jack: (pausing) “At first, fame feels like sunlight. Warm. Invincible. But stay in it too long, and it burns the skin off your sincerity.”

Jeeny: “And they don’t even notice until it’s gone.”

Jack: “No. They only notice when the cameras stop flashing. When silence feels like exile.”

Host: A piece of dust drifted through the light, slowly falling — like a thought that had taken its time to land.

Jeeny: “You know what’s strange? We always think fame changes the famous. But it also changes everyone around them.”

Jack: “Yeah. Suddenly people stop speaking the truth and start auditioning for approval.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Disney meant — the fawning. The false love that fame manufactures.”

Jack: “Exactly. Because flattery isn’t affection — it’s commerce.”

Host: She tilted her head, studying him. The lines of fatigue and wisdom on his face caught the soft light, and for a moment, he looked older than the room — like a man who’d seen too many illusions unravel.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s been fawned over.”

Jack: (smirking) “A few times. It’s addictive — until you realize they’re not clapping for you, just the reflection they get from being near you.”

Jeeny: “Borrowed brightness.”

Jack: “Exactly. Fame’s a mirror — everyone looks into it and sees themselves.”

Host: Her pencil stopped tapping. The silence stretched, gentle but sharp, like breath held between questions.

Jeeny: “And yet people chase it — harder than ever. We’ve built a whole digital empire on being seen.”

Jack: “Yeah. Everyone’s their own press agent now. Fame without craft. Applause without achievement.”

Jeeny: “The illusion democratized.”

Jack: “The cheap version of immortality.”

Host: The light buzzed again. Somewhere outside, the sound of a generator winding down echoed through the corridors.

Jeeny: “You think there’s still room for humility in fame?”

Jack: “If you’re grounded enough to remember that fame isn’t a reward — it’s a side effect.”

Jeeny: “A dangerous one.”

Jack: “The most dangerous. Because it feeds the ego while starving the soul.”

Host: She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees.

Jeeny: “Then maybe Disney’s warning wasn’t just for celebrities. Maybe it’s for all of us — everyone who confuses visibility with value.”

Jack: “Yeah. The world doesn’t need more stars. It needs people who remember what light’s for.”

Jeeny: “To see, not to blind.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: The room had grown colder now, the kind of chill that seeps in when reflection turns honest.

Jeeny: “You know, I admire him for it. For knowing he was building an empire and still questioning its worship.”

Jack: “That’s what made him visionary. He understood that dreams belong to everyone — not just the ones who sell them.”

Jeeny: “And that fame without purpose is just noise.”

Jack: “And applause without integrity is just echo.”

Host: The faint light above flickered, and for a moment, the walls seemed to breathe — filled with the echoes of scenes, laughter, and songs that had once been performed there.

Jeeny: “You ever think fame could be cured?”

Jack: “Only by failure.”

Jeeny: “That’s bleak.”

Jack: “It’s the truth. Failure resets your perspective. It reminds you that applause is temporary, but effort is eternal.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “You almost sound like Disney himself.”

Jack: “No. He built worlds. I just comment on the ruins.”

Host: They both laughed quietly, the sound carrying through the vast emptiness of the soundstage — small, human, unpretentious.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why his words matter more now than ever. Because we’ve mistaken fame for substance. And in doing so, we’ve lost reverence for the ordinary.”

Jack: “And the ordinary is where all the real miracles live.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: She looked down at the quote one more time, her fingers brushing over the ink as though touching something delicate and alive.

Jeeny: “You know what I think he was really saying?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “That fame is hollow because it’s received, not given. The only power that lasts is the kind that creates.”

Jack: (nodding) “The builder’s faith over the believer’s flattery.”

Jeeny: “The giver over the gift.”

Host: The words hung there — quiet, complete.

Outside, the last of the lights went out. The city’s glow crept in through the high windows, painting the floor in fractured color — like a reflection of everything they’d been talking about: dazzling, fleeting, unreal.

And as they sat in the fading warmth of the studio’s last light, Walt Disney’s words seemed to echo through the silence, steady as truth itself:

that celebrity without character is just performance;
that fame without humility is a slow corruption of meaning;
and that the only applause worth keeping
comes not from adoration,
but from creation.

The spotlight dimmed,
the echoes died,
and two quiet souls sat beneath the vast ceiling of a dream factory —
content, perhaps, not to be stars,
but to stay human
in a world that keeps mistaking light for greatness.