I would be happy if they just gave out nominations and there

Host: The theater was empty, save for the faint hum of forgotten applause. Rows of red velvet seats stretched into shadow, and the spotlight hung suspended in the air — still warm, like a sun that hadn’t realized its audience had left. The air smelled of dust, stage paint, and the ghost of perfume that had once filled the space during a premiere.

Jack stood on the stage, his jacket draped carelessly over a folding chair, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. Jeeny entered through the side door, her heels clicking softly against the wood, carrying two cups of black coffee.

On the stage floor between them lay a printed sheet, marked in black ink:
“I would be happy if they just gave out nominations and there weren't any Oscars. But winning them is definitely an experience — to get up there and make a speech. Every film is hard work, and a few lucky people do get Oscars for what they do, and it's recognition for all that hard work on a certain level.” — Walter Murch.

Jeeny: “It’s funny, isn’t it? He makes it sound so simple — like the Oscar doesn’t matter, but the work does.”

Jack: “It’s not funny. It’s delusional. Everyone says awards don’t matter until they don’t win one.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, gravelly, filled with that bitter realism that comes from too many years of watching dreams turn into industries. The light from the projector above flickered faintly, painting them both in silver ghosts.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s true. But Murch wasn’t pretending. You can feel it in the way he says it — the recognition is nice, but it’s not the reason.”

Jack: “Recognition is always the reason. Don’t fool yourself, Jeeny. Nobody pours years into a film, a painting, a book, without wanting someone to see. It’s not ego. It’s validation.”

Jeeny: “Validation is just proof that someone’s listening. But it’s not the heartbeat of art. The work has to mean something before anyone claps.”

Host: She set the coffee down beside him. The smell of roasted beans filled the air, grounding the philosophy in something simple, tangible.

Jack: “You think that speech — that five minutes on stage — isn’t what people dream about? The applause, the lights, the immortality? Come on. That’s the drug that keeps the whole machine running.”

Jeeny: “And it’s poison too. For every winner, a hundred brilliant people go home wondering if their work even existed. Awards don’t measure art, Jack. They measure attention.”

Jack: “Attention is currency. Without it, art starves.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But art that exists only for attention dies the moment the spotlight fades.”

Host: The projector light blinked, and a reel began to turn — frames of old film, color washed and crackling. On the screen behind them, the faint outline of two dancers flickered — a forgotten movie looping without sound.

Jeeny watched it, her eyes soft with nostalgia.

Jeeny: “You ever think about how many people made that? The gaffer, the sound tech, the costume seamstress? None of them get Oscars. But the film doesn’t exist without them. That’s what Murch was talking about. The work is the award.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But try telling that to someone who’s been overlooked for twenty years.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the problem isn’t being overlooked — it’s looking for approval from the wrong place.”

Host: The reel clicked softly, its rhythm filling the quiet. The flickering light gave their faces a shifting glow — now bright, now dim, like fame itself.

Jack: “You know, I once saw a director throw a glass at the wall because his film didn’t get nominated. He said, ‘They’ll forget me in a week.’ And he was right. They did.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy of making art for the wrong god. The moment you serve the audience instead of the story, you lose both.”

Jack: “So what — we’re supposed to just make things in a vacuum? Pretend no one’s watching?”

Jeeny: “No. But we should make things as if no one’s judging. There’s a difference.”

Host: Jack took a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling upward like a question too weary for words.

Jack: “You sound idealistic. You think I make movies for the paycheck?”

Jeeny: “No. You make them to matter. You just forget that sometimes.”

Jack: “And what about you? You still think hard work speaks for itself? Tell that to the graveyard of geniuses no one remembers.”

Jeeny: “Maybe being remembered isn’t the goal. Maybe being true is.”

Host: The film reel jammed for a moment, the image on the screen freezing — the dancers paused mid-spin, suspended between movement and stillness.

Jack: “You know, I used to think winning meant permanence. Like if I could just get that one trophy, the world would stop forgetting me. But it doesn’t stop. It never does.”

Jeeny: “Of course not. Because memory fades, but meaning stays. You don’t need a golden statue to leave a mark, Jack. You just need honesty.”

Host: She stood, walking toward the screen, her hand brushing the light — her shadow merging with the flickering dancers.

Jeeny: “Every film is hard work. That’s what he said. The Oscar isn’t the validation — it’s a reminder of effort. But the real recognition happens here.”

Jack: “Where?”

Jeeny: “In the silence after the credits, when someone sits in the dark and feels less alone because of what you made.”

Host: The rain began again outside, steady, hypnotic. Jack stubbed out his cigarette, watching the ember die with a faint hiss.

Jack: “You know, for years I blamed the system. The awards, the critics, the festivals. I thought they were what broke artists. But maybe it’s us — chasing applause instead of presence.”

Jeeny: “That’s the paradox of creation. We make art to connect — but the moment we demand recognition, we disconnect from why we started.”

Host: The projector stopped. The room fell into darkness. Only the faint glow of the emergency exit sign lit their faces — red and fragile.

Jeeny: “Do you remember the first short film you made? The one in black and white, about the boy and the candle?”

Jack: “Yeah. I shot it on a borrowed camera. The audio was awful.”

Jeeny: “It made me cry.”

Jack: “You cried?”

Jeeny: “Because it was pure. Because you weren’t trying to impress anyone then. You were just… telling truth.”

Host: A long silence. Then — the faintest sound of thunder.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Murch was really saying. That the award isn’t a statue. It’s surviving the work — and still wanting to do it again.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The speech, the ceremony — they’re brief. But the process? That’s eternity.”

Host: Jeeny smiled — a small, knowing curve that seemed to dissolve the heaviness in the air.

Jeeny: “You don’t need an Oscar, Jack. You already have the only award that matters.”

Jack: “What’s that?”

Jeeny: “You still care.”

Host: The camera would fade back now — the empty theater, the two figures framed by faint light, surrounded by echoes of applause long gone.

Outside, the city shimmered in the rain, alive with millions of small, unseen acts of creation — scripts being written, stages rehearsed, music composed in apartments too small for dreams that big.

And above it all, the echo of Murch’s wisdom lingered —
that awards may recognize the few,
but effort defines the many.

Because in the end, it’s not the trophy that endures,
but the hands that built something worth finishing.