I suppose I'm really interested in theatre that provides an

Host: The theatre was nearly empty, its seats stretching into the darkness like rows of sleeping souls. The faint glow of the stage lights cut through the dust, illuminating a bare wooden floor and two figures standing at its center. Outside, the rain whispered against the windows of the old building, a kind of rhythm that felt rehearsed by time.

Jeeny stood in the dim light, her eyes wide, the warmth of the spotlight tracing her face like a memory from another life. Jack leaned against the edge of the stage, his arms crossed, a cigarette burning between his fingers, the smoke curling upward into the rafters.

The air was thick with the aftertaste of rehearsed words, unsaid meanings, and something heavier — the quiet ache of art itself.

Jeeny: “Simon McBurney once said he was interested in theatre that provides an intensity of experience on another level. Don’t you think that’s what we’re all looking for, Jack? That kind of raw connection that breaks through everything — logic, reason, even time?”

Jack: (dryly) “You mean escape. People don’t go to the theatre for truth. They go to forget it. They pay for a little piece of illusion that hurts just enough to feel real.”

Host: The light flickered, catching the edge of his face, half in shadow, half in firelight. The contrast made him look like a man split between two worlds — the skeptic and the believer, the cynic and the dreamer.

Jeeny: “You think art is just escape? Then why does it stay with us? Why do we walk out of a performance and still feel it the next morning? That’s not illusion, Jack. That’s transcendence.”

Jack: (shrugs) “Transcendence, illusion — same trick, different name. It’s still smoke and mirrors. The stage gives us emotions we can’t afford to feel in real life. That’s the whole point.”

Jeeny: “But what if that’s the only way some people can feel? What if the theatre is the one place where the masks come off?”

Jack: “No, Jeeny. The theatre is where we put them on. That’s what makes it powerful — not truth, but the performance of truth.”

Host: A single light bulb buzzed above them, its hum filling the long pauses between words. The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was full of unsaid thoughts, the kind that echo louder than sound.

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. Great theatre doesn’t hide. It reveals. Think of McBurney’s The Encounter. One man on stage, one microphone — yet an entire universe of sound and thought. He made the audience feel like they were inside someone else’s consciousness. Isn’t that more than illusion? Isn’t that… communion?”

Jack: “You call it communion. I call it manipulation. He played their senses like instruments — made them feel what he wanted them to feel. It’s brilliant, sure. But it’s still control.”

Jeeny: “Control in service of meaning. He wasn’t deceiving them — he was guiding them. Like all great artists do.”

Jack: “Meaning is subjective. You can’t guide someone to it. You can only sell them the suggestion.”

Jeeny: “Then what do you think art is for? Entertainment? Profit?”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s for survival. Maybe we tell stories so we don’t drown in silence.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, its rhythm syncing with the pulse of the conversation — an invisible metronome marking each emotional beat. Jeeny took a few steps forward, her footsteps hollow against the wooden floor, her voice lower now, almost trembling.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s stopped believing, Jack.”

Jack: “Belief is dangerous. Once you start believing in art too much, you forget it’s just a reflection. You start mistaking the mirror for the world.”

Jeeny: “And you’d rather live without mirrors at all?”

Jack: “Sometimes, yes. Reality may be dull, but at least it doesn’t pretend to understand you.”

Host: The light dimmed slightly, casting them both into a pool of half-light. The smell of dust, wood, and old velvet mixed with the faint scent of rain drifting in through a cracked window.

Jeeny sat on the edge of the stage, her hands pressed flat on the wood as if to feel its pulse.

Jeeny: “Do you know what intensity is, Jack? It’s not just volume or color or shock. It’s the moment when something inside you moves and you don’t even know why. When you feel seen by a stranger’s words. That’s not illusion — that’s transformation.”

Jack: “Transformation’s just another word for temporary emotion. You think you’ve changed, but it fades the moment the lights go out.”

Jeeny: “You’re confusing change with permanence. Some experiences don’t last — that’s what makes them sacred.”

Host: A sharp crack of thunder echoed through the space, the lights flickering again — a perfect, unscripted effect. The stage seemed alive now, as if reacting to their words.

Jack: “Sacred? Theatre?” (He laughs softly, bitterly.) “You’re romanticizing it, Jeeny. It’s not sacred — it’s sweat, rehearsal, artifice. Every line is memorized, every emotion choreographed.”

Jeeny: “And yet you’re still here, aren’t you?”

Jack: (pauses) “Habit.”

Jeeny: “No. You stay because, despite all your cynicism, you still believe in the possibility of something real — even if you’d rather call it false.”

Host: Jack didn’t answer. He just stared at the cigarette in his hand, its ash trembling, almost ready to fall.

Jeeny: “Remember when we saw The Encounter together? You didn’t say a word after it ended. You just sat there. Do you remember what you said finally?”

Jack: (quietly) “That it felt like dreaming with my eyes open.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what McBurney means by another level — not a higher one, not divine, but deeper. Inside. Theatre that doesn’t just perform for us, but with us. It’s not escape. It’s return.”

Jack: (long pause) “You think art brings us back to ourselves?”

Jeeny: “Yes. To the parts we silence every day.”

Jack: “Then why does it hurt so much?”

Jeeny: “Because truth always does.”

Host: Her words fell like small stones into a vast still lake. The ripples were invisible, but he felt them all the same.

Jack: “You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe theatre isn’t illusion. Maybe it’s confession — the only place left where people can still be honest without fear.”

Jeeny: “Now you’re getting it.”

Jack: “But that honesty comes at a cost. Every performance strips something away — from the actor, from the audience. It takes pieces of them.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But it gives something back too — awareness. Connection. Even healing.”

Jack: “Or exhaustion.”

Jeeny: “You can’t have one without the other.”

Host: The lights began to fade to black, leaving only the faint glow from the exit sign in the back of the theatre — a small, pulsing red like a distant heartbeat.

Jeeny rose slowly, standing in the last spotlight, her silhouette framed against the emptiness.

Jeeny: “Intensity isn’t about spectacle, Jack. It’s about presence — the courage to stand here, bare, before strangers, and say, This is me. This is what it means to feel. That’s what McBurney meant. That’s why we still need theatre.”

Jack: (softly, almost to himself) “To remind us we’re still alive.”

Host: The final light flickered, then went out. For a long moment, there was only darkness and the sound of rain, gentle now, like applause fading into silence.

Then Jack’s voice came quietly through the dark:

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe illusion is just another word for faith.”

Jeeny: (smiling in the dark) “And maybe faith is the greatest performance of all.”

Host: The rain stopped. A faint beam of dawn slipped through the window, landing softly on the empty stage. The theatre, though silent, felt alive — as if something unseen had just taken its final bow.