I like every single actor or actress in the world, because we

Host: The theatre was dark except for the single bulb glowing center stage — a lonely light, humming softly like an old secret that refused to die. Dust floated in the beam like forgotten applause. Rows of empty seats stretched into the darkness, their silence both heavy and forgiving.

The faint smell of makeup, sawdust, and ambition hung in the air — the familiar scent of a place that had held too many dreams and swallowed just as many.

Jack sat on the edge of the stage, a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers, his reflection faint in the glossy wood beneath him. Jeeny leaned against a lighting rig nearby, her arms folded, her eyes wandering the stage with quiet affection — the way one looks at a battlefield after the war is done.

Jeeny: (reading softly from her notebook) “I like every single actor or actress in the world, because we never know what the conditions are like when they are working. I give everyone the benefit of the doubt and root for them like a psychotic sports fan.”

(She closes the notebook.) Judd Nelson.

Jack: (smirking) A Breakfast Club philosopher. Didn’t expect that kind of empathy from a guy who once smoked angst for breakfast.

Jeeny: (smiling) Maybe that’s why it’s real. The ones who bleed for art rarely mock the ones who try.

Jack: (leaning back) Huh. “Root for them like a psychotic sports fan.” I like that. The madness of compassion.

Jeeny: (nodding) Exactly. Imagine if the world treated artists like fans treat their teams — cheering for every attempt, every mistake, every miracle.

Jack: (grinning faintly) Instead of tearing them apart on social media between lunch breaks.

Jeeny: (softly) Yes. Instead of pretending judgment is a form of participation.

Host: The light flickered once, briefly dimming, as though the world were taking a breath. The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was full, like the pause between notes in a symphony.

Jack: (after a moment) You know, there’s something beautiful about that — the benefit of the doubt. Most people act like mercy’s a luxury.

Jeeny: (quietly) But it’s a necessity. Especially in art. You never really know what someone was given to work with — the script, the director, their own demons.

Jack: (smiling wryly) And yet we love to pretend we do. “Bad performance,” we say, as if the universe handed everyone the same conditions.

Jeeny: (softly) Exactly. That’s what I love about Nelson’s quote. He reminds us that creation isn’t a competition — it’s survival.

Host: Her voice carried the weight of reverence — not for fame, but for the human struggle beneath performance. The stage light caught her face, and for a moment she looked like an actress mid-monologue, her eyes reflecting both ache and admiration.

Jack: (after a pause) Maybe that’s why he compares it to sports. Acting’s got that same kind of madness — the crowd that loves you one week and forgets you the next.

Jeeny: (smiling) And yet the players keep showing up. The actors, too. Even when the script is bad, even when the crowd’s cruel.

Jack: (murmuring) Maybe that’s the real courage — to perform for a world that already thinks it knows your ending.

Jeeny: (softly) And to still give it your truth, one scene at a time.

Host: The light dimmed further now, leaving the stage half in shadow, as if the story itself was stepping into memory. Outside, the faint hum of the city — traffic, sirens, life — crept in through the side door left ajar.

Jack: (smiling faintly) You know, when I was younger, I used to sneer at bad performances. I thought it meant I had taste.

Jeeny: (raising an eyebrow) And now?

Jack: (softly) Now I think I just had arrogance. I didn’t understand what it costs a person to stand under the light and try.

Jeeny: (nodding) It costs everything. Every ounce of fear, pride, and childhood wound. Art is just trauma dressed in wardrobe.

Jack: (smirking) Spoken like a true empath.

Jeeny: (grinning) Spoken like someone who’s watched too many hearts break on cue.

Host: The spotlight flickered again, humming louder, as if the theatre itself was agreeing. Dust continued to swirl in slow spirals, timeless and delicate.

Jack: (murmuring) You ever notice that? The way people watch a movie — hoping to feel something, then getting angry when they do?

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) Because feeling makes us vulnerable, and vulnerability scares us more than bad art ever could.

Jack: (softly) So we hide behind critique. Safer that way.

Jeeny: (gently) But emptier.

Host: A faint echo carried through the hall — the kind that only old theatres know, the sound of memory whispering back applause.

Jack: (after a pause) Maybe we should all be psychotic fans of humanity. Cheering for every scene, every attempt, every terrible take.

Jeeny: (smiling warmly) Because at least they’re still trying. At least they’re still performing.

Jack: (quietly) And isn’t that what life is? One long performance without a script.

Jeeny: (softly) With an audience that forgets how hard it is to be honest under the lights.

Host: The light above them buzzed once more, then steadied, glowing soft and golden now — less spotlight, more sunrise. The theatre felt alive again, as if the spirits of every failed performance had decided, for once, to forgive themselves.

Jack: (after a long silence) You think anyone ever gets it perfect?

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) Perfection isn’t the point. The point is to keep showing up, flawed and fearless.

Jack: (nodding) And to clap for those who do.

Jeeny: (gently) Even when the lines fall flat. Especially then.

Host: She smiled, setting down her notebook beside him, and for a long moment, neither spoke. The silence became applause — invisible but felt. Outside, the faintest light of dawn began to rise, spilling through the cracks in the door like hope sneaking in uninvited.

Host (closing):
Because what Judd Nelson understood —
and what every artist, every soul who dares to be seen must remember —
is that empathy is the highest form of critique.
We never know the stage,
the weight of the costume,
the fear behind the smile.
So we cheer —
wildly, irrationally, lovingly —
for those who keep stepping into the light,
even when the world sits in the dark,
arms crossed, waiting to judge.